In two short weeks, Erik and Christine tore down the lives they had built so carefully. Into hired wagons they loaded furniture, portraits, musical scores, and musical instruments. In a respectful silence, Christine helped Erik take apart, re-label and store his precious pipe organ. Next to its dismantled body, Christine laid her father's violin. Another wagon was devoted to the bundles containing Erik's wealth. A brief accounting by the ever-useful Mme. Giry revealed that it was indeed enough to satisfy their fancies for years to come.

Once their few belongings were safely stowed, Erik turned his mind to his traps. Phillippe had promised to send men into the foundations searching for him. If he left these traps in place, some of those men would lose their lives. The Erik of only a year before would have let the fools die in their unjust mission; now, he felt a need to protect their lives – if only to keep their blood from his hands. He had not been working long before he realized that he would never disable every trap before his time ran out. Instead, he began marking dangerous areas with red paint. It would have to suffice.

While Erik worked on his traps, Christine made one final trip up into the Opera Populaire. There were people to whom she needed to say good-bye. Though Mme Giry and Meg were tearful and saddened by her choice to leave, they knew she would keep in contact. There would be letters and visits. Meg embraced her friend tightly before arching a delicate eyebrow. "Mon amie, I do not pretend to understand your choice, but I wish you all the happiness in the world."

Christine returned the kisses and reassured her in a voice still sweet, but matured with care and pain. "For the first time in my life, I am happy- truly happy. You will understand someday, Meg. When we return to the opera, and you hear…you will understand."

The completely inconsolable one was M. Reyeurre. The rumor among patrons of the fine arts was that there was no soprano on the Continent the equal of La Daae. M Reyeurre knew the truth: there was no soprano in the known world whose voice even approached the young woman's perfect instrument. Further, he knew that there were no other divas whose teachers had so carefully cultivated a gentle nature and sweet disposition. Having been spoiled by working with the sweet-tempered girl and her gentle father, Reyeurre blanched at the prospect of returning to the run-of-the mill flock of temperamental Prima Donnas.

When Christine came to him and told him her intention to leave with the Opera Ghost, the poor man had to take a seat. No matter the managers' opinion of the Phantom, M Reyeurre loved him. The Ghost frequently enforced M. Reyeurre's preference regarding the hiring and firing of musicians. M. le Fantome had no politics – only a finely developed ear. The conductor was very aware of how much the Ghost's interference had improved his orchestra. Now, that protection would leave, along with the most beautiful coloratura voice he'd ever had the pleasure to hear.

Christine understood his dilemma and pitied the man. She patted his shoulder sympathetically and pulled a leather-bound notebook from her satchel.

"You may not keep this, but you may look through it. My fiancé, Erik, and I would like to make a gift to you of a performance of this work. You have always been kind to me, and he has admired you for many years." She smiled as he flushed with pleasure at the compliments. "We cannot do this for you now, but when we can, we will send word." She stood quietly to one side and watched him leaf through Erik's masterpiece.

Many minutes later, he looked up at her with shining eyes. "This will haunt me until I have heard from you; it will play in my dreams every night. Please send word soon."

Christine gently tugged the score from his resisting hands and nodded. "We are as eager as you are to see this performed. It will not be long." She turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. "Monsieur, when you hear Erik sing, I am afraid you will forget me." She curtsied and left before he could argue.

Christine and Erik fled Paris soon thereafter and bought an expanse of land in Arles where they could live in peace. With an almost unlimited supply of funds, Erik designed and built a home perfect for them. At Christine's demure request, he included additional bedrooms beside the acoustically perfect music room. No longer confined to a dungeon, he played freely with light and space. The result was a breathtaking work of art.

As Christine promised, their lives were very musical. Without access to the Opera Populaire's musical library and its frequent updates, it was all their own music. Christine bloomed in the rambling chateau in the countryside. She learned to transcribe the music in her head onto paper. She learned to play the piano and the violin. Erik found himself wincing less and smiling more often when she sat down to compose. Before long, they were both neglecting meals and sleep in favor of the music.

When the furor had died away and letters from les dames Giry indicated that the Phantom of the Opera was no longer a fashionable topic of gossip, Christine and Erik returned to the Opera Populaire as promised. The cast and staff whispered about the return of the Opera Ghost, but once it was made clear that any dissension would lead quickly to unemployment the whispers stopped. Erik kept to himself with the exception of rehearsals and private audiences with a star-struck Monsieur Reyeurre, who constantly grasped and shook his hand. He knew that his reputation preceded him and he had little desire to terrify anyone.

Because Erik was both directing and performing, he soon had every member of the cast and crew firmly in thrall. After driving them mercilessly for a month, his dream was realized. Le Prisonnier Libre dazzled international audiences for one full week. With Christine and Erik in the leads, there was little observers could do but sit quietly and breathe lightly. In newspaper reviews, there was no mention of a mask.

After the production, the triumphant couple returned to their villa. Some frigid hearts may insist that there are no happily-ever-afters. For those who have never lost everything only to find it again in the music of another, there may not be. For Erik and Christine, though, there was only perfect harmony.

You may have heard a different tale from the one I have told here; a story of jealousy, hate, death, and betrayal: a story which turns its face from true beauty to worship the glitz and glitter of surface appearance. It is a story more in keeping with the "realistic" expectations of a shallow world. It is a story that kept the prying public eye away from my great-grandparents for many golden years.

And yes, they did live happily ever after.