Erik est Mort

Extract taken from the memoirs of he who was known as - The Persian
With hands that tremble slightly, I open the morning's copy of Époque, and search for the obituary columns listed towards the back of the newspaper.  My fingers grow clumsy as I turn the pages, and it seems to take an inordinately long time to find the item I seek

Then suddenly, it leaps out at me from the page.  In simple, stark black lettering and encased in a small printed box, are the words - "Erik est mort".

My shoulders slump;  my mouth feels dry and my heartbeat sluggish.  This is what I have been expecting to see - have been waiting for since Erik's last visit to my flat three weeks ago - but it is still a massive, terrible shock to the system.  I fumble for the coffee pot, pour out a cup and gulp down the scalding liquid, all the while staring at the small item of newsprint.
Erik est mort - just exactly as he said.

He is dead;  Erik, my strange, eccentric, pitiful friend;  erudite and ingenious, he of the incisive intellect and extraordinarily brilliant mind;  a genius in so many dimensions, yet unloved and unwanted by humankind. He lived in lonely isolation, but the rejection of his fellow men only served to make him utterly fearless.   He was audacious in his dealings with them, more so during his reign at the Opéra as the Phantom.Now, the brave heart that was my incomparable Erik is no more.

My eyes fill with a sudden rush of tears.  How sad and sorrowful I feel;  how bereft.  He whose life had been blighted by his horrifically deformed face has died a lonely, broken man, entombed in his bizarre home deep below the Paris Opéra.  Having sent away Mademoiselle Daaé to the arms of her young aristocrat, he had finally given up all hope, and simply waited for death to claim him.  Christine, his adored Angel of Music, had kissed him.  He had wanted to die with the memory of that kiss fresh on his lips and in his heart.

I, Suram Mehmet al Kamil, was once a policeman at the top of my profession.  Now I am an exile by choice, living on a modest pension in a small Parisian apartment.  I have known Erik for many years.  We met as young men when he came to live in my country, Persia, at the invitation of the Shah.

I knew that once his work as the Shah's chief architect was complete, it could be very dangerous for him to remain at court.  Erik had many enemies, and the Shah himself could turn against him on the merest whim.

I had helped him escape from certain death in Persia.  We had not seen each other since, until almost three years ago, when I found that he was here in Paris;  some while later, I also discovered that he was Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, the scourge of the management at the Paris Opéra.  I had been overjoyed to see him again after so many years, but horrified to learn that he had been living under the ground like some poor, lost creature.

My mind is in turmoil as I stumble over to the window and collapse on the seat, looking down on the familiar sight of Paris going about its daily business.  There is a cold wind blowing, with a hint of snow in the air and people are muffled up against the weather.

I decide to wait until the streets have cleared a little and then make my way to the Opéra.  I - his own dear Cyrano - had promised Erik to do certain things once I had seen that paragraph, and I will keep that pledge if it is the last thing I do.

I sit back on the seat and stare bleakly at my highly-polished shoes.  Jumbled thoughts and memories dart in and out of my mind on the friendship that had started many years ago in Persia, the country of my birth........

It had been the Shah himself who had assigned me, his kinsman - the Daroga of Mazenderan - to guard his new architect, albeit in as unobtrusive a manner as possible.  The new employee, known only as Erik, had been given the commission of designing yet another royal palace.   Why it had been decided that an architect needed protection I had yet to discover.

This, however, came to pass two days later, and I began to understand the reason for the Emperor's instructions.  There was an air of danger, a destructive contempt about this man. Yet I also sensed deeply suppressed emotions - anger, frustration, and yes, an almost unbearable sorrow.

Never would I forget that first meeting with Erik.  I had been summoned to attend the Shah's apartments early one morning.  On entering the opulent chambers, my eyes had been instantly drawn to the tall, slim figure of a man standing at the open window.  The sun had just risen on the new day, outlining the black-clad frame with a golden silhouette.

The Shah addressed the new member of his staff, bidding him meet the Chief of Police.  The figure turned from the window and, to my bewildered shock, I saw that the face beneath the debonair black fedora was covered almost entirely by a white mask.  Only the mouth and chin were visible;  the lips were disfigured above an almost skeletal jawline.

The man had been standing with his arms folded across his chest, regarding me thoughtfully. Then he held out a thin, yet elegant hand.  I moved forward to take it, and was a little surprised at the warmth and strength in the long fingers.  For some odd reason, I had imagined that hand would be cold to the touch.  As I murmured words of welcome, I looked up at the masked features and met a pair of utterly brilliant and dazzlingly blue eyes.  They seemed to hold the glow and iridescence of sparkling sapphires.

For a moment, I could only stare, mesmerised by those eyes.  Time stood still.  I forgot where I was;  I certainly forgot completely the exalted presence of the Shah, Emperor of Persia and ruler of my land.

The jewel-like eyes gazed back at me with cool deliberation.  Then suddenly, the crooked lips parted in a smile, showing a row of gleaming white teeth.  Their owner spoke for the first time.  His voice, when it came, turned my heart over, momentarily causing me to think that I was in the presence of an angel; never had I heard such beauty in the spoken word and the timbre of a voice.
The words had been an ordinary, everyday greeting, but to me, it was as if I had been enveloped in the softest velvet and the sweetest roses.  As if  liquid gold had been poured over me.  As if the most tender colours of a rainbow had enshrined me in their precious hue.

That voice;  those beautiful eyes.  The mystery of the mask.  Who was this man?  Did he have this effect on everyone he met, or am I going slightly mad?   Stunned, I questioned my mind which was in no little turmoil.

Erik seemed to understand;  he gave my fingers, still clasped within his, a slight squeeze and then released them.  There was another glimpse of those even white teeth, which seemed oddly at variance with the deformed mouth;  Erik had smiled, saying with gentle irony how he was looking forward to the Daroga's company.

I look up as my manservant enters the room.  Darius sees at once that I have been weeping and quickly comes across to me.
"Master?" he queries in worried accents.
"Ah, Darius.  Do not be concerned.  It is just that I have received notificiation of the death of ..... of someone who meant ...... a great deal to me." "I am so sorry, Master.  May I be of help?"  Darius pours another cup of coffee and hands it to me.

"Yes, indeed you may.  I have to go out later.  Would you put out my overcoat, hat and gloves as necessary?  I will also need a cab to take me to the Opéra - in about one hour's time."
"Very good, Master.  May I ask ..... is it M'sieur Erik?"  Darius ventures quietly.

"Yes.  Erik is dead.  That poor, tortured soul is at rest now, Darius.  For this, we must praise Allah."
"He will be in my prayers, Master.  Can I be of further assistance in your sad duties?""It is possible that I may need your help later.  I have first to establish what is necessary to send Erik on his final journey.  Now I must write a note, and then I will be on my way.  Thank you, Darius."  The servant gathers up the breakfast tray and quietly leaves the room.  I go to my writing desk and prepare to write a short letter to Mademoiselle Daaé.

Riding through the Parisian streets later that morning, I think further of my friendship with the deceased.  I remember his architectural genius, his fantastical skills in the art of magic and ventriloquism.  How absorbed he was in the sciences.  How adept in languages - he spoke my own tongue as if born to it.  And of course, his absolute love of music.

I recall the fascinating attraction he had over my countrywomen and of his utter indifference to their charms.  How they had been inexorably drawn by the mysterious allure of the mask and the challenge of what lay beneath it.

But for all their feminine wiles, the flirtatious messages flashed from eyes beneath fluttering lashes, the shape of a delectable figure outlined by soft, clinging materials, Erik remained aloof and seemed entirely oblivious of his own sensuality.  For a man so incredibly gifted and intelligent, he did not ever seem aware of his own particular appeal - the enigmatic mystery of his mere presence.

If he was indeed attracted to the opposite sex, it was certainly not apparent from his demeanour.  He was courteous and polite in all his dealings with any woman, but it went no further than that.  I had witnessed many of the facets which made up his character - charm, intelligence, patience, a wonderful sense of the comical;  there was his darker side of course, where he could be cold and intolerant.  There could be that all-consuming rage which might erupt into fiery anger or lacerating contempt.

With women, I can only think that he was afraid of showing any emotion.  Too fearful to trust a woman with his heart.  He was essentially a proud man, and the thought of rejection and fear of his deformity would mortify him.  Of course, I know that eventually he did fall in love, but that was many years later.

And so the ladies of the court were disappointed.  Erik spent all his working hours at the building site, and all his leisure time in his own apartments.  I was the only person who was allowed access to his rooms.

I recall with a wry smile his mischievous name for me - Cyrano!  For the first few weeks of our acquaintance he had addressed me formally, in the French manner, as Monsieur le Daroga.  I had asked him to use my given name, but he had merely bowed and looked at me with a quizzical glint in those blue eyes from behind the mask.

Then came the day - oh, shall I ever forget the shame!  I had taken an ignominious tumble from my horse.  I had been riding into the stableyard at no more than a gentle trot when the animal's right foreleg hoof had slid on a wet cobblestone.  Before I could gain control, the reins had slipped from my hand and I had gone sailing over his lowered head.

Stable lads had come running to my assistance.  There was blood everywhere!  Luckily, my injuries were not serious.  Rather, my dignity was impaired more so than any limb.  What had happened, I discovered a little later, was that I had broken my nose.

As I was assisted to my feet, dazed and shaken, Erik had come striding into the stableyard to call for his own horse.  When he saw me with my dusty, dishevelled and torn riding habit, my hat all askew and my bloodied, rapidly-swelling nose, he stopped in his tracks.  His eyes widened behind the mask;  he turned away, and I could see his shoulders shaking.  Then the wretched fiend had burst out laughing!

I glared at him.  "Sir!", I spluttered, " have you no pity for my wounds?"
"Oh come now- the merest scratch, M'sieur!  I think your pride is hurt more!  But what a sorry sight, oh, a very sorry sight, to be sure.  It is too bad!"  "It hurts!"  I hunted frantically in my pockets for my handkerchief.

He handed me his own.  "Come with me and I will clean you up.  Let me attend to your poor old proboscis!"  Again he roared with laughter.  Then slyly - "By Heavens - you look just like that fellow, Cyrano de Bergerac.  Now there's a thought ... I think, I really do think that I should call you that, my hapless horseman!  So - come, good Cyrano, and let me attend to your hurts!"
Holding the handkerchief to my throbbing nose, I reluctantly began to smile.  His laughter was not cruelly intended, I knew that, and was so infectious that even the stablelads had to turn away in order to hide their own grinning faces.

I had followed him to his apartments where he made me lie upon his couch, after removing my muddied clothing.  I was clad in one of his own robes, which bore the faint scent of his cologne.  Erik's administrations were deft, yet gentle.  He cleansed my face of dried blood and debris with a liquid which smelled quite deliciously of herbs, yet was astringent and purifying.  He applied a cool, soothing ointment to the area around my nose.  Instantly, it provided a welcome relief  to the throbbing pain in my face.

Then he mixed up what looked to be a stiff paste, and after carefully feeling around the bridge of my nose, applied the paste on and around the organ.  He told me it would harden, and in so doing would protect my nose as the broken bone healed.  I must keep the shield on for a few days.
"Your nose may heal to its former state;  I am quite hopeful that it will, but there is the possibility that the bone could mend in the shape of the break and will therefore be  somewhat crooked.  But - I doubt it will detract from your good looks, my friend."  Erik paused, and then added, "And at least you have a nose."

Something in the tone of his voice made me look up at him.  "Why do you say that, Erik? Everyone has a nose, surely!  Or don't you?"  I asked, half-jokingly as I gingerly touched my sore forehead.
"No", he said baldly.

I shot upright from my prone position.  "Wh--what?" I gasped.  "Erik - what do you mean .....no?"
He gently pushed me back onto the velvet cushions."Why, exactly what I say.  Whereas you have a fine specimen, Daroga - although perhaps Cyrano is a more apt name at present - do you mind the sobriquet? - I unfortunately do not have a nose and never have.  I was born that way."
I could not help staring.  "Then.... is that why you wear ..... the mask?" I ventured somewhat timidly.
"That is correct", he said, gathering up his articles of medication.

"But surely you do not need to...... I mean, could you not fashion a false nose?   Something like this, perhaps?"  I pointed to the paste he had spread on my own nose."I could...... if there was something to which it would adhere."

"Erik - I do not understand what you are saying."  Puzzled, I looked up at him. "My dear Daroga, not only do I not have a nose...... I do not even have a face ..... only the semblance of a face.  Hence the mask.   Now do you understand?""I.... I .....  Erik, I.....", I stammered helplessly."Quite."  He stood looking down at me.  That one mocking little word could not completely hide the sudden flash of pain in his eyes.

"Do not be concerned, Cyrano.  It is something I have to live with - something I have lived with since the day I was born.  My mother, you see, could not bear the thought that people would run in mortal fear from her infant son's incredible ugliness.  I have no doubt she had a beautiful layette of baby clothes lovingly gathered for me, her first - and understandably only – child".

He paused for a moment, lost in thought.  Then smiling briefly, said, "But I would imagine that a mask was fashioned as quickly as her trembling fingers would allow in order to hide my poor, hideous little face."

"Erik, I beg you to forgive my ignorance.  I did not mean to pry, believe me.  Please do not speak of it - I can see it is upsetting for you to speak of these things."  I grasped his hand, willing him to see that I understood his inner anguish.

He returned the grip of my fingers with slight pressure.  "You are a good man, Daroga.  A kind man.  Unusual in a policeman, I think?"  He spoke lightly, trying to lessen my anxiety a little.  He drew forward a chair.  "Don't try to sit up, there's a good fellow", he said as he seated himself.  "You've had a nasty tumble and should rest."

"Erik, I am fine, save for my wounded dignity.  My nose should soon heal because of your excellent administrations.  I do not even have a headache."

I looked at him, and then said a little diffidently, "Erik, as a policeman, I have seen many dreadful injuries, many savagely wounded casualties of thieves and murderers.  There have been times when some poor wretch has been so badly disfigured by thugs that he's hardly been recognisable."
My hesitant remark hung in the air between us.  After a long moment, he answered quietly, "You are asking, are you not, to see my face?  To see what I must keep hidden behind this mask?"
"Erik, I am your friend.  I can only ask you to trust me when I say that your face would hold no more dismay for me than any murder victim I have looked upon."

"You are so sure of that, M'sieur?  You are so hardened to horror that you could look upon a living corpse and stay calm;  stay sane, even?""Please trust me, Erik."  I touched his hand again.  "Please."
He looked at me steadily, his blue gaze never leaving my face.  Then he reached up, his hands in the dark, reddish-brown hair at the back of his head, and untied the cords of the mask.  He let it fall to the floor and sat with shoulders braced as if in readiness to bear my gasp of fear.

I looked upon that face and my heart bled for him.  It was like nothing I could ever have imagined.  The hollow eye sockets, so deeply etched that they appeared black;  the parchment colour of the skin stretched tight over the bony skull.  The distorted mouth pulled into a snarl by the gaping hole of the malformed nose.  The gaunt bones which stood out over sunken cheeks.  Only his teeth were fine, evenly shaped and white as pearls.

It was a dead face, and yet the eyes within those tragic features blazed with an inner fire.  Deeply blue and truly beautiful, his eyes were the mirror of his soul.

"Have you gazed your fill, Cyrano?"  The words were harsh, yet so full of pain.
"Erik - for your great trust in me, I thank you with all my heart."  I spoke simply, yet with a deep warmth and true feeling.  He sensed the sincerity of my statement and his shoulders sagged a little.
"You are not repulsed?  Shocked or horrified?  I cannot believe there is no reaction of  fear, or affront to your senses."

"It does not matter to me what your face looks like."  My voice trembled with emotion.  "You have my friendship, for what it is worth, for as long as you so choose.  I hope it will be for life."
Silence.  Then poignantly, he began to weep.

"Oh Daroga, Daroga."  Tears filled his eyes and began to trickle down his cheeks.  He fell to his knees in front of me, groping for the mask.  He looked at it for a moment, and said, "This has been my only friend through life.  A cold, inanimate object."  He choked on a sob, whispering, "And Nature and her animal kingdom have always been kind to me.  She has given me shelter and kept me from harm.  But now it seems.... the impossible dream ..... it...I...I have a living, human friend.  Thank you, Daroga, thank you."

I got to my feet somewhat unsteadily, and reached down to pull him from his knees.  "Erik", I murmured from a throat that was choked with tears, "Erik - I am proud to have you as my friend, believe me".

He rose, towering above me.  I am not a short individual, but Erik was tall and broad-shouldered;  he made other men seem as dwarfs.  He proffered his hand - a hand that shook as he offered it to me.

I took it warmly between both my own.  I could see that he was as deeply moved as I was myself. In the hope of making him smile, I said, "Friends for life, Erik?" in my truly abominable French.
He replied, straight of face, "Friends for life, Cyrano!" in absolutely faultless Persian.  Then, "I rather think we should resume your French lessons, my friend.  I'd say the sooner, most certainly the better!".

With that, we both started to laugh.   I record here and now that to me, his ravaged face was transformed by his smile into what I can only describe as the very essence of humanity.

Erik let go of my hand and then placed his own upon my shoulders, looking at me with almost grateful acknowledgement. He replaced the mask, and lowered me gently back on the couch.  He sat down beside me, telling me to lie back and rest. "Are you going to stay with me a while?  Good!  Tell me of your adventures before you came to Persia", I invited.

For the next hour or so, he regaled me with tales of his travels, of the places he had seen and the work he had completed on various projects in different countries.  He possessed a wry, self-deprecating sense of humour, a well-developed sense of the absurd and a devastating wit, which had me laughing over and over again.

There were a few long pauses in his narrative where I sensed that his memories were too painful.  He did not say anything, but I knew by the clenching and unclenching of his hands that his mind carried many mental scars.

I was aware that his body bore the marks of old weals and wounds caused by the cruel beatings he had received from the whips and sticks used so viciously by his former hated gypsy masters.  Early one morning, I had gone to his apartment. He had entrusted me with a key to the main door, and so after his call bade me enter, I walked inside to find him sitting on the marble balcony, clad only in a towel draped around his lower body.  The balcony was entirely private and was not overlooked in any way, and Erik had taken to sitting in the early morning sun after he had bathed.

His lean, muscular body had gained a healthy glow from the sun, but I could see the faint scars criss-crossing his back.  I had been consumed with silent anger at the sight of his past sufferings, but I tried not to let it show.  He had greeted me cheerily, his sapphire eyes sparkling behind the mask   His newly washed coppery hair had gleamed in the sunshine as he sketched rapidly on a large sheet of thick paper.  I had looked over his shoulder at his drawing and asked him about it.  He had replied dreamily that one day, he wanted to build something utterly beautiful and dedicate it to music.  An opera house, perhaps.

Again and again I had wondered why the fates had decreed that this unique and fascinating man should have been born with such a heavy burden to bear.  I had grown to know with genuine affection the man behind the mask, but it seemed I was in the majority of one. Why was I alone in the ability to discern the real man beyond the unreal face?

Perhaps honesty forces me to admit that many would flinch or shrink from first sight of Erik's poor travesty of a face, but if only they had only paused a moment longer.  Long enough to experience his smile, to learn of his wonderful abilities, to reach out for and touch his great heart.

I could only hope that one day, he would meet an equally singular young woman who would also see beyond the mask, and love him for himself.

He made me some of the thick, sweet coffee he knew I liked.  He drank lemon tea.  I asked him about his own country, France, and begged to know more about Paris.  He answered in patient detail, and I built up a word picture of that beautiful city.  One day, I told him, I would visit Paris.  It was my dream to see Rome, Madrid, Lisbon, Copenhagen, London and all the capital cities of western Europe.

Erik had already lived in many of these places and told me something about them.  How he had loved Rome, The Eternal City.  The art treasures of Madrid and Lisbon and all the great historic monuments of the other cities.  London was very dear to his heart.  He told me how, early one misty morning, he had stood upon Westminster Bridge and viewed the majestic panorama as the River Thames flowed through the heart of the city.  He had thought on the words of the poet Wordsworth;  "Earth has not anything to show more fair.  Dull would he be of soul who could pass by a sight so touching in its majesty.  This city now doth like a garment wear the beauty of the morning....

I listened, absorbed in all he had to say.  He smiled at my intent face;  I was oblivious to the fact that my bruises had begun to turn purple and black.  He said that he hoped my wishes would all come true.  I told him that when I retired, I intended to leave Persia and travel.  Perhaps I could visit him at his home in France one day?

"I am sure that we will meet again one day, Cyrano."  He finished his second lemon tea and set down the cup.  I studied him for a moment;  he moved with a grace that was entirely masculine.  His sleek hair shone like a polished chestnut.  The suit he was wearing was his usual elegant black, cut by the hand of a master tailor.  The white mask came back to full view as he sensed my scrutiny.  His azure gaze held mine.  Almost shyly, I asked him if he had any hopes and dreams to fulfil, aside from his ambition of seeing all the beautiful places in the world."To be loved," he said simply.

With that honest little statement, I began to understand how lonely and desolate his life must have been without any kind of close companionship.  The more I knew of him, the more I thought on the crass stupidity of my fellow men.  I grew to love him as a brother, and I know that my friendship meant a great deal to him.  I think - I hope - that he grew as fond of me.

I remember how his outrageously scathing comments about the Shah's courtiers used to make me laugh.  How he would mimic the foppish dandies and the brainless fools who would bow and scrape to the Emperor, hanging on to his every word with fatuous deference in the hope of currying favour.  Erik viewed this behaviour with barely concealed derision;  he spoke to the Shah in exactly the same way that he spoke to everyone else, with Gallic charm and innate courtesy.

Of course he was well aware of his many enemies at court.  Those who feared him and wished him harm;  who were jealous of his high position and the Shah's favour.   Who were sick with envy of the acclaim he received by way of his fantastic performances of magic and mystery before the court, and of his enchanting singing voice.  All who attended the Shah's soirees in which Erik sang were held in a hypnotic spell by the richness and beauty of that voice.

I had warned my masked friend about the very real dangers to his life.  He was indeed conscious of the fact that the Emperor or any of those in high places at the court could, on the slightest pretext, have him thrown in prison to rot the rest of his life away.  Even worse was the threat of assassination because the Shah might suddenly fear that Erik knew too much.

We had talked about this.  I assured him that when - and it would surely be when rather than if -such time came, I would make sure of his escape.  I would make every effort to ensure that his life was spared, that I myself would ride with him and show him a safe route out of the country.  Erik argued that my own life would be in jeopardy, and would not hear of this.

He said that there had been so many times in the past when he had been forced to flee that it would be nothing new to him.  He would be well able to deal with the Shah's thugs, he stated, contempt obvious in his voice.  I said nothing further, but my resolution remained unchanged.

Recalling the name he had bestowed upon me at the time I sported a hugely swollen nose, I chuckle to myself.  The nickname had stuck.  For ever after, I was known as Cyrano to my mischievous friend.  Often, he would shorten it to Rano.  Sometimes, in one of his more skittish moods, he would fall on one knee and dramatically recite a stanza from one of Shakespeare's plays, substituting the name Cyrano for that of whichever hero's name happened to be in the text.

On a number of occasions, he would sing an aria from some Italian opera, and then I would become Cyranello.  What made this even more comical was the way he would sing it completely and utterly out of tune.  His voice would rise to the highest falsetto and swoop down to the lowest and most booming bass, hitting with impeccable ease every hilariously wrong note.  Tears of mirth would run down my cheeks and I would be helpless with laughter.

With deep and humble gratitude, I remember how he had helped me through the terrible time of mourning the early death of my young wife.  We had been married for only two short years when she died in childbirth.  My infant son was born dead.  Erik had been my rock and my salvation.  I had prayed to Allah for the souls of my loved ones, but it was Erik to whom I turned when my grief became too much to bear alone.   These were such times when he would sing to me with all the glorious beauty of his lyrical voice, and I would gain comfort, solace and peace from the music that was his soul.

It is only when I look back that I think of how deeply he had buried his own pain.  Beneath his cool facade of detachment, his apparent indifference to life in general, I know how he yearned for the grace of human kindness.  How silently and in aching despair, he cried out for understanding.  Oh, I appreciate that his behaviour had been infamous at times, especially during his tenure at the Opéra, but I know that the basis of his mutiny and provocation had been his truly piteous cry for help, for compassion, and the desperate need for love.

Arriving at the Opéra, I enter and make my way up the Grand Staircase.  No-one bothers me or tries to stop me wandering where I choose.  The staff all know me as a slightly odd but harmless character, always prowling around the Opéra.  I am known to them only as - The Persian.
When I am certain that I am unobserved, I slip down a back stair and thence make my way to the cellars.

Christine has received my note and is there before me;  she is sitting beside the still, serene figure on the bed.  The reflection from the crimson silk draperies around the magnificent bed gives a soft glow to the skeletal features, eradicating the waxen pallor.  The beautiful girl looks up at the sound of my footstep, her glowing eyes almost that same deep blue as Erik's.  They are red-rimmed from weeping, but she possesses a tranquil composure, a new maturity.   Her young face is now that of a woman, rather than a shy young girl.

She is holding a red rose in her little hands, around the stem of which she has tied a white ribbon.  As I watch, she tucks the rose into Erik's long musicians's fingers.  Her lustrous hair falls forward as she bends over him.  I hear her whisper words of love.

She kisses his forehead and then lays her lips tenderly against his misshapen mouth.  "Goodbye, my own dear love, my darling Angel of Music.  Until we meet again.  Rest in peace, my beloved.  Sleep with the angels to guard you.  Until..... we meet.....again.  I love you so much."  Between each murmured little sentence, she kisses him - oh, so many times.

She straightens;  slips to her feet and stands for a long moment gazing down at him, then she turns and smiles tremulously at me.  "Dear M'sieur le Daroga, thank you for your letter.  I am so glad you are here.  My Angel told me how much your friendship meant to him."

She looks at me full-square, so slender and lovely in her dress of soft blue velvet.  "There is something I would like you to hear.  Something that only you and I must know.  I want you to stand as my witness for what I am about to tell my Angel, which I do now before God and before you."  Again she looks at Erik, then reaches out and puts her hand over his.

"My darling, it is true.  I am to bear our child."  Her voice is soft, yet clear and strong and proud.
She turns again towards me as I take a glad step towards her.  "Yes, M'sieur.  I am carrying Erik's child.  A child conceived of love.  Here in this labyrinth.  I have been here every night for the past two weeks.  Raoul does not know, nor will he ever."

Her face lights with a radiant smile.  Still with her hand resting on that of the dead Erik, she tells me, "I loved him, you see.  It was only when I ran away from him, with Raoul, that I came to understand my true feelings.  To know my own heart and the love that lay therein - for him."

"I went back to the Opéra the next evening, when Raoul had gone out to see his brother.  I ran and ran down the corridors and passages.  I could not wait to see him;  to tell him of my love and to beg his forgiveness.  I thought he would hate me for what I did, but he loved me still."  Tears glimmer in her eyes as she says softly, "I found him still laying on the floor, next to the monkey music box.  Still murmuring brokenly the monkey's song.  Oh, but my heart broke at the sight."

"He must have heard my footstep.  He became very still.  I whispered his name.  Slowly, he turned his head.  He saw me, and the look on his face was of such incredulous joy ..... and hope.... that I started to cry.  I flung myself down on the floor beside him, weeping and pleading with him to forgive me."

"Ah, M'sieur le Daroga.  If you could have seen his dear face.   He looked as if suddenly he had found Paradise and could not believe his eyes and ears.  He tried to speak but the words would not come.  Then..... then he pushed himself up on one elbow, reached out and with gentle fingers slowly, oh so slowly, touched my cheek.  I turned my head to kiss those fingers, and.... and he s..said again - 'Christine, I love you'."

"My tears came afresh.  They streamed down my face.  I could not stop them.  He touched my tears with wondering fingers.  For he knew then how deeply I loved him in return.  He sat up, and gathered me in his arms, letting me cry out my grief and anguish."  Christine stops for a moment, the memory of that time of reconciliation so fresh and poignant to her.

I hold out my hand to steady her, placing it under her elbow. Instantly, she lays her own small hand over mine.  With a pretty lace handkerchief she wipes away two large tears which have spilled onto her cheeks.

"When my crying was spent and my body exhausted with emotional turmoil, Erik took me to my room.  Gently, he laid me on the bed and covered me with the quilt.  He turned to go, but I begged him not to leave me.  I wanted him to stay with me all that night.  I wanted him close to me, as close as any two people in love can be.  And he did, M'sieur le Daroga.  He held me while I slept, and when I woke, he held me while we loved."

"Oh, how we loved.  Never have I known such tenderness, such bliss, such joy in giving.  For the rest of that wondrous night we loved each other in mind, body and soul.  I conceived his child in the beauty of our love."

"I wanted to stay with him forever, M'sieur.  I did not want to leave him, for I loved him so much.  I went back every night until he sent me away, back to Raoul.  M'sieur, Erik knew he was dying;  he knew he had not much longer for this world - maybe only a matter of days, even hours - and he did not want me to be there when ....", her voice falters slightly.

"But how could I stay away?  We were so happy together for that short, sweet time.  I could not leave him to d.. die alone.  And so I went back to my Angel.  I lay with him on his bed, my arms around him as he breathed his last.  I am so glad that I was with him.  I told him that I was sure we were to have a child.  The expression on his face was so very beautiful at my words. He whispered that he was the most blessed man in the world, and then he died.  My darling Erik died with my name on his lips, M'sieur, and I kissed those lips as his last breath issued from them."

She smiles lovingly down at Erik.  "Our child - it is a son, of that I am certain - will inherit your gift of music, my darling.  He will bring so much pleasure to the world with the talent you have bestowed upon him.  I will name him for you,  his father - André."

She sways a little and I tighten my hold on her arm.  "Will you not sit down and rest for a little while, Mademoiselle Christine?  The delicacy of your condition....?""Thank you, yes.  But M'sieur le Daroga, you may address me as Madame.""As you wish, Mademoiselle.  I understand."

"No....no.  Truly, I am now Madame von Weber.  I am his true wife.  We were married, you see."
I gasp.  Married!  My face lights up with such a joyous smile of delight that she laughs.  We sit on the comfortable couch in Erik's drawing room and she tells me of this wonderful development.
"When I awoke after the time of our first beautiful union, Erik was sitting on the bed beside me.  He handed me the most exquisite bouquet of roses;  roses of every different colour, whose perfume filled the air around us.  He had slipped out very early to purchase them for me at the flower market.  When I had buried my face in them time and time again, laughing and crying at the same time for his dear thoughtfulness, he gently put them to one side.  Then he drew me out of the bed and gathered me in his arms.  We kissed and I told him that I loved him so much.  He fell to his knees and kissed the hem of my robe, then took my hands in his and said, 'Christine, my Angel, I love you more than life itself.  Will you marry me?'"

"Oh, Daroga, you can imagine how happy I was!  I flung my arms around his neck and told him that I wanted to be his wife more than anything in this world.  Later, I took Erik to see the priest of the little church where I worship.  Father Dominic is a very kind, benevolent man;  a true man of God.  We were with him for three hours, where we discussed many things, especially he and Erik.  My Angel spoke of you often, M'sieur.  He wished very much that you could have been with us as our witness and at his side.  The priest told us that our love was a joy to behold, and agreed to marry us that very night!"

Christine smiles, her eyes misty.  "We were married at midnight, M'sieur le Daroga. Father Dominic had brought his trusted secretary and his housekeeper to be our witnesses.  I became Madame von Weber and vowed to love and cherish my adored Erik for as long as we both shall live.  Ah, M'sieur, if only we could have had longer together.  But God was good in letting me have my beloved husband for that precious time together."

She opens her reticule and draws forth a folded piece of paper.  As she hands it to me, I see the golden wedding band on her finger.  I open the paper to see that it is indeed a marriage certificate, recording the nuptials between Mademoiselle Christine Anetha Daaé and Monsieur André Lluc von Weber.

"Erik told you of his family history, Christine?"  I asked, giving the certificate back to her.
"Yes, M'sieur.  He told me everything of his past life.  Of his childhood, hidden away from those of his aristocratic family who might have had him committed to an institution in order not to sully the family name.  He told me that his great-grandfather had been an Austrian Count - one Johannes von Weber.  Herr von Weber had travelled to France as a young man and had settled there, after his marriage to a French girl whom his family considered unworthy.  Thereafter, his descendants remained in France."

"The great-grandfather had lost his inheritance when he married, and so when Erik was born, there was not a great deal of money in the family.  His own father was a master mason.  Because of my Angel's deformity, his parents thought it best to move to a small and rather isolated village in the French countryside, where their little boy could at least have a peaceful childhood, away from prying eyes.  His mother made him wear a mask if there were people around so that the child Erik would not suffer the jeers and taunts of ignorant folk.  You know Erik's story, do you not, M'sieur?"

"Yes, child.  He told me how he was kidnapped by a gang of brutal gypsies and thereafter lived as a caged freak until he managed to escape.  He had a dreadful existence during those years.  And even after gaining his freedom, his life was difficult enough.  He told me how he took the name of Erik - no more, no less - in order to protect his family.  I am so glad that I met him;  he became my dearest friend and brother."

I wipe moisture from my eyes with the back of my hand.  Christine smiles tremulously and says, "He will live in my heart forever.  I will cherish always the time we had together."
"As I will also." I agreed.  "And now, child, what will you do?  All that Erik had is yours.  I will see that his possessions are sent to you.  There was also a good deal of money, and precious gems, honestly come by from his work in the past.  I would also like to help you in any way that I can, if you will allow me to do so."

Christine nods her thanks.  "You are very good.  I would so much appreciate your help, M'sieur.  One thing - I will certainly not marry Raoul, you know.  Not now.  Not ever. Even though he could give me everything that money can buy.  I do not want his wealth.  The Comte de Chagny will at least be pleased with my decision.  He did not approve of Raoul's impetuosity in becoming engaged to me."

She looks at her wedding ring  and gently twists it on her finger, saying, "I was at fault also.  I played too much upon our childhood friendship, thinking that my fondness for the young boy was love for the grown man.  I was flattered by his charm and dashing good looks, and my head was turned by his declarations of love.  But there!  I was a young and foolish girl and did not recognise that we were only playing at love.  I did not know what love is until I realised how much I loved Erik."
Her wide-eyed gaze is once more directed at me.  "M'sieur, I have decided to go to London. I will bring up my son with the guidance of my beloved Angel of Music - from his starry opera house in Heaven!"  She laughs through her tears, and I smile fondly and say that Erik would have approved of her decision.

"Yes, as my teacher his approval meant everything to me.  Now he is the father of my child and the memory of his love is all I need to guide and guard me through life.  And one day, we shall be together again.  Until then, well, I am no longer a silly little girl.  I am a woman and I am strong because of my Angel's love."

"I am sure of it, my dear.  And bless your sweet, good heart for loving my Erik, for giving him such true happiness.  I cannot tell you how glad I am that he was not alone at his end.  I have said - he was my dearest friend and brother.  I loved him, too.  I shall miss him with every day that passes."
She reaches up and kisses my cheek.  I tell her that I will escort her to the Rotunda entrance, where a cab can be hired to take her home, and that I will return tonight to carry out Erik's last instructions.  We look once more upon that macabre, ravaged but beloved visage, and we whisper our goodbyes.
Christine tucks his mask in her fur muff, smiles at me and we leave the Phantom's domain together.

I put Christine into a cab and tell her that I will call upon her the following day.  She acknowledges with a wave of her hand and the horse-drawn cab drives off.  She has also promised to keep in touch when she moves from Paris.

I cross the road and head for the Avenue de l'Opéra.  Turning back, I look at the magnificent building that Erik loved so much.  I think of his home, far below the Opéra, now his tomb.  I think of his time there as the Opéra Ghost and I chuckle to myself at his brazenly mocking escapades.
My gaze travels up to the roof.  A weak sun has penetrated the grey clouds.  Suddenly, my heart turns over in my breast.  There is a figure up there on the statue of Apollo.  No, it cannot be!  My imagination is playing tricks.  I blink several times and shake my head a little before I look again.  This time, a hand is raised in recognition.  Next, an impudent kiss is blown in my direction!  The cloak blows in the breeze.  The hat is lifted off and waved several times before being put back at a rakish tilt on that sleek head.

Oh Erik, my ghostly friend, my dear Phantom!  Your mortal remains may lie underneath your beloved Opéra, but as long as that great house stands, you will be there, your very essence, your soul undimmed.  Your indomitable, invincible spirit and your mighty heart will live on forever.
Erik, you taught me everything and more about life.  I was so proud to have you as my friend.   My dearest companion, I - your Cyrano - salute you!

Post Script.
Christine kept her word and wrote to me from England.  She found a position with a small, but excellent opera company in London.  She stayed with the company until the birth of her son - André Lluc - and for some years afterwards.  Then, as her beloved Erik had done for her, she became a tutor of voice.  The boy - I have the honour to be his guardian until he attains his majority - is tall, handsome and broad-shouldered.  He is also charming, open-hearted, exceedingly talented and musical.  His laughing eyes are as blue as the sea.  He is Christine's pride and joy and the son I might have had.

I am an old man now, and quite infirm.  My faithful Darius is still here with me.  The most cherished times are those I spend with Christine and my ward.  I am now too crippled to travel to England, but I have recently had some wonderful news.  André has won a scholarship to study music here in Paris, and will shortly be coming to make his home here.  Christine will follow as soon as her commitments to her pupils allow her to do so.

While in England, Christine has anglicised her name to Madame Webb;  André is known as Andrew Webb.  Christine has long ago dropped the "von" from her married name.  She wanted to protect Erik at every possibility and keep his memory safe.  Only she and I knew of him, and when she had considered her son old enough, she had told him of his father's life.  She had also thought his illustrious, distant Austrian relatives could be caused discomfiture, but I told her that I doubted any of the present family even knew about Erik.

Erik's own parents had considered themselves entirely French.  Of Christine's family in Sweden, there was one remaining cousin, but he has since died.

As a professional singer in England, she performed under the name of Christine Webb;  she had not wanted de Chagny to seek her out.  Later, to her pupils, she was known as Madame Daaé-Webb.
My dear Erik - you can be proud of your son, and of your wife, who has brought him up to be a fine young man.  Christine, still a beautiful woman, has had many admirers but has always been true to you.  She is contented and happy with her Angel's child, and her music.
When my time comes -  and surely I can only expect two or three years at most - then we will meet again.  Until then, I treasure the company of your beloved wife and son - they are as dear to me as if they were my own family.

I will end this post script to my memoirs now, for I grow weary and need to take a nap, as old people do.  Perhaps I will add more tomorrow, perhaps not.  For now, I can settle back in my chair, close my tired eyes and sink into my dreams and my precious, precious memories of a unique man and cherished companion.  Not André Lluc von Weber, M'sieur le Baron from a noble family, but Erik, M'sieur le Fantôme of the Paris Opéra!