Midnight Stirs the Memory

By Busanda

Summary: Christine's attendance at her first bal masque (a year before the "strange events of the Phantom of the Opera") results in curious encounters and unexpected revelations, as her "Angel of Music" appoints himself her guardian angel for the night and, in the process, becomes something far more unbelievable—a man.

Setting: With a curtsey and wink to M. Leroux, this story is established around the premise set in the musical-movie version.

Historical Context: Though the building that we now know as the Opéra de Paris or Palais Garnier with its infamous underground lake did not open until 1875, I felt that it made a sumptuous and ideal backdrop for my story and chose to overlook that fact. Think of my building as a composite of the Palais Garnier and the Old Paris Opera, which, by all accounts, was a lovely building itself (and burned in a fire in 1873). Since my story is set at the end of 1869, unlike the movie, I have managed to avoid any historical conflicts with the socio-political realities of the time, i.e. the Franco-Prussian War and the ensuing chaos upon the abdication of Napoleon III.

Chapter 1

"Il était une fois…"

30 December 1869

Had anyone walked down the little-used hallway in the out-of-the-way corner towards the even-less-used chapel of the Paris Opera any night for the past eight years, they would have found Christine Daaé and heard the ethereal being for whom she sang. This night would be no exception, as Christine's sparkling voice reverberated and faded against the cold stone of the chapel walls at the end of yet another lesson. It was in this room shortly after being brought to train in the opera's famed ballet school as a young child that she first heard him speak to her from above, assuring her of her talent, asserting that she would see her dreams fulfilled, and, more importantly, comforting the grieving and lonely little girl that she had been.

Her teacher's voice, deep and resonant, filled the small chamber. "Remember, let the music flow through you as you sing. Feel it with every fiber before you release it." A satisfied sigh could be heard then, drifting through the air. "Your voice is becoming a thing of true beauty. Wait and see; we shall astonish Paris."

"Yes, Master," the young woman answered, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"That will be all for tonight, Christine. You did well, child."

"Thank you." She hesitated a moment. "Master?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes, Christine, what is it?" he responded patiently, his heavenly voice echoing throughout the room.

"The aria…from Lucia di Lammermoor…'Il dolce suono'…are you truly expecting me to be ready with it by next week?"

"Of course…is there a problem? Are you having difficulties with it?" he asked with some concern.

"It's just that it is so very hard…nothing like you've had me sing before. I'm afraid that it is beyond my ability…that I won't do it justice, and you'll be disappointed," she confessed.

"You could only disappoint me, Christine, by not attempting it. Your voice is showing growth every day; but if it is not challenged on occasion, it will never realize its full potential, which…as far as I am able to discern…is vast. You are young yet, I do not expect the aria to be perfect the first time you sing it for me. I ask only that you try.

"Will you do that for me, Christine?" he questioned tenderly.

"Yes…of course, I will." She smiled lovingly up at the painted angel in front of her, needing to focus on something tangible as she spoke with her incorporeal mentor. "And I'll finish the Voltaire that you asked me to read." The young woman picked up two books from the bench behind her.

"Good girl. We will discuss it at the end of our next lesson…is that Candide that you have?" he inquired.

"Yes, Angel," she answered.

"What is the other book, Christine?"

She blushed and seemed slightly embarrassed by the question. "It is nothing." She fidgeted nervously.

"What book do you have, Christine? Please tell me, I am curious."

"Oh, Angel, it is just a book of Monsieur Perrault's fairy tales. I know that I'm too old for them, but…I do still enjoy them. I think I always will."

He was familiar with the book in question as it had been a Christmas gift from him to her years before. At the time, she believed that it had come from Père Noël. For all he knew, she still believed that it had come from St. Nicholas. After all, the dear girl still believed in angels. Didn't she?

"Nonsense. Fairy tales were meant not only for children. I see nothing wrong with reading them and enjoying them for as long as you wish. Which is your favorite? Or, need I ask."

"You know it's 'Cinderella,' Angel," she smiled.

"Why do you favor that one above all the others, Christine?"

"I don't know…I suppose it's because it's every girl's dream to be swept away from her ordinary life by a handsome prince." She giggled softly.

"Is it? Yes…well…it is perhaps a good thing that it is only a fairy tale, then," the voice said with a trace of resentment.

"Why, Angel? I sometimes dream that one day I'll meet a handsome prince…maybe not a real prince but a sweet and kind man, and he'll love me. And I'll love him. He'll take me to live in his beautiful castle far away. Only it wouldn't be a real castle, would it…but a lovely house just the same." Her face took on a dreamy, faraway look, but she was quickly brought back to reality.

"You would leave the opera house? You would leave your angel?" He sounded hurt and disappointed.

"Oh, no. I didn't mean that…I mean, you would come with me. You would follow me wherever I went, wouldn't you?" she asked.

There was silence, and Christine became uneasy with it.

"Angel? Are you still there?" she asked tensely.

"Yes, Christine." His voice suddenly seemed to have a resigned, tired sound to it.

"You are my angel. Surely, you would follow me," she persisted.

"It is not that simple, child. I was sent to watch over you for as long as you needed me…for as long as you needed my music. If you no longer lived in the opera house, you would have no further need of music—mine or anyone else's."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued, "You are gifted child—gifted with a great talent. And you please God and your father and your angel when you use your talent. You honor us when you sing. How sad we would be if you were to abandon it for an ordinary life…," his words dissolved into a low muttering, "with some undeserving…cur…selfish…needs..."

She caught only snippets of what he was saying. "Angel?" Christine asked hesitantly.

"I am sorry, Christine. It is just that I would hate to see you throw your musical gifts away. It would be the same as throwing away your angel. How that would hurt me, Christine…how that would hurt me," the celestial voice spoke forlornly.

"Oh, my angel, I would never actually leave. I could never leave…not you…not your music."

There was silence again, and Christine felt the tears gather in her eyes at the thought that she had distressed and hurt her devoted teacher—her angel. His voice remained silent, and her tears began to fall.

He let her weep. But finally, he consoled her, "Do not cry, child. Hush. Hushhh. Shhh, there, there. Dry your eyes…there's a good girl."

She began to dab at her cheeks and eyes, nodding her head and attempting to smile.

"We will speak no more of this. Now, think only happy thoughts of your angel, and we will meet again tomorrow."

"Ohhhh…" Christine's brow creased, and she began twisting her handkerchief nervously. A look of dread spread across her face at the thought of what she was about to tell him.

"Christine? You will come to your angel…here…tomorrow." His statement was emphatic.

"Oh, my angel…I…I…I cannot." She held her breathe and inwardly braced herself for what she knew would follow.

"YOU CANNOT?" he bellowed in anger, causing Christine to flinch and tuck her chin down to her chest.

"N…N…No, my angel." Her voice trembled as she cowered before the irascible presence that filled the entire room. "I'm going to the masquerade ball…it's New Year's Eve."

"The masquerade ball? The masquerade ball?" His voice had risen an octave.

"What nonsense is this…allowing a young lady of your tender age to attend a party well into all hours of the night? What is Gir…your guardian thinking?"

"Madame Giry gave us permission…that is, Meg and me, to go." As she continued, in an attempt to explain and forestall any further wrath, Christine's speech began to accelerate. "We're so looking forward to it. It will be the first adult party we've ever gone to. Meg's Aunt Céline works for Worth and Bobergh. She's head seamstress there. She's altering a couple of dresses from a few seasons ago for us to wear. She'll be in terrible trouble if Monsieur Worth finds out, even though the dresses aren't the latest and they've been in storage all this time. She's changing them ever so slightly to make them a little different, just in case, since he's very particular about who wears his designs—my goodness, the empress. And even though they're a little bit old, Meg and I think that they will still be far more fashionable than what most of the other ladies have. I haven't seen mine yet, but Meg…"

"Silence!" he said with a perceptible shudder.

She stopped immediately, holding her breath, her eyes clenched shut, waiting for him to rail.

"Desist with your rambling, mademoiselle," he said with a tremendous sigh. "I am not angry with you."

Not this time, she thought. However, she had noticed the ever-more-frequent demonstrations of bad temper from him over the past six months or so. And while she had learned not to be surprised by them, she could not reconcile this new moodiness to the patient and gentle teacher that she had known since she was a small child. She often pondered her angel's ever-increasing spectrum of human emotion and wondered at the source of it. Surely, if he were a heavenly entity, as she had once forced herself to believe, he would have a mild, even temper and not be prone to the fits of anger that he frequently exhibited. What had changed? Had she done something to displease him?

She also noticed that he no longer told her he loved her as he had done when she was younger. Up until a year ago, it was common practice for her to tell him that she loved him at the conclusion of a lesson before going back to her room, to which he would respond, "And I love you, Christine." Before she had grown up, their relationship had seemed so steady; the slightest changes were perplexing to the young woman.

And then there was the nagging doubt that surfaced from time to time. Ever since the day, four years earlier, when she had broached the subject of the Angel of Music with her foster sister, Meg. Presenting it in a purely hypothetical manner, she asked her, "What would you think if you heard a man's voice from above, speaking to you, knowing your name? What if he told you that he was an angel sent from heaven?"

"I wouldn't necessarily think it was an angel, Christine," Meg responded promptly. "How would I know it wasn't the Opera Ghost playing a trick on me?"

Christine had put that unhappy thought immediately out of her mind. In the end, she reasoned that, angel or ghost, the being who taught her about music, as well as history and literature and philosophy and art and so many things she would otherwise never know, was a benevolent spirit of kindness. However, she had ceased envisioning him with the wings and halo of an angel.

She was brought out of her reverie by his then calm voice. "It is not your fault, child. How could you not be enticed by all the glitter that the ball promises? All the superficial beauty? Hhmm? No. I do not blame you for your enthusiasm or desire to attend. However, your guardian…"

"Oh, but, Angel, we begged her to let us go. We didn't leave it alone for months until she finally consented, so it was our fault. Please, don't be angry with her."

"No, I'm not, Christine." He sighed. "Go, and have a good time, my dear. Your angel is just a bit of an old curmudgeon, that's all," he stated despondently.

"All right. I'll speak with you in two night's time then."

"Yes. Adieu for now, Christine."

"Good-night, my angel…I love you."

As she expected, he did not respond, and so Christine turned and left.

It was only after she had gone that a quiet, hushed voice could be heard in the air above the opera house chapel as it whispered, "Good-night, my love."

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"What were you thinking, madame! Allowing innocent, young girls to attend the opera's yearly bacchanalia. It's positively irresponsible of you. You, who should be protecting them and watching over them, shielding their…," he was cut off.

"I will be watching over them. They are attending in my company. And you make it sound like I'm taking them to some drunken orgy. Really, Erik! It is a well-respected, much-anticipated social event, attended by persons of rank and refinement."

"Refinement!…my disembodied ass! I don't know about your Meg, but Christine is still a child…an impressionable one at that."

"For all intents and purposes, and in case you haven't noticed, Christine is now an adult…she turned sixteen last month," she stated.

"Oh, I've noticed. However, age means nothing when evaluating one's maturity," he argued.

"Oh, don't I know that." She looked up at him under a raised brow.

He overlooked her comment and continued, "Christine has led a very insulated life here. She doesn't understand how the world works. And I would not want her to make the wrong assumptions based on what she encounters at a loud, raucous event, with revelers making fools of themselves."

"True, she has led a very sheltered life. But I am constantly amazed by her insights and thoughts on things. I think that she may have you to thank for much of it; you've taught her more than music. She is very mature for a girl of her age. She is very astute; I am astounded that she has not figured out your deception yet…'Angel of Music,' bah!"

His eyes began to blaze and his jaw became rigid as he hissed, "You forget yourself. I would remind you, madame, to mind your words."

She straightened, raised her chin, and looked him squarely in the face. "I am not scared of you. I still remember, all too clearly, that frightened little boy with the bag over his head."

"I'm not that little boy anymore," he snarled.

"No?"

"You try my patience," he ground out.

"This conversation will lead us nowhere." She paused, looking around the little-used practice room lit by the single oil lamp that she had brought with her. "What would you have me do? Keep Christine locked up in her room for the rest of her life only to be allowed out to perform or attend her nightly lessons with you? Do you truly think that will make her happy? Do you honestly believe that would be enough for her? You might as well take her down to that cave of yours and never let her see the sunlight again or hear the birds sing…"

He moaned faintly and hung his head.

"I'm sorry, Erik." Her tone becoming gentle. "I know you care about her, but Christine is not like you as much as you want to believe."

His head snapped up, and he glared at her. "What the devil is that supposed to mean? As if that glorious creature of beauty and light, that scion of sweetness and purity, could ever be like me. She is the angel. Don't you think I know all too well that she is nothing like me? Nor could she ever care for me if she knew what I truly was. No, madame, I am not an angel, and I am brutally aware of it. I am the farthest thing from an angel, which is why she must never discover the truth.

"I couldn't bear it," he added softly, deflated from his tirade.

"Erik, if I did not know better, I'd think you were in love with her," she said pointedly.

"Of course, I love Christine. I've loved her since the moment I first heard her sing."

"No, Erik. I said, 'in love with her.'"

He looked at her, dismayed.

"How could you imply something like that, madame? It is not only ridiculous, it is obscene. Never mind my horrific face, but I've known the girl since she was a small child; I'm her teacher—I'm practically old enough to be her father."

"So, you have given it some thought, then." Her eyebrow raised as she appraised his reaction.

He turned away from her slightly to face the dark corner of the already dark room.

"You know, Erik, it is not uncommon for a young woman to fancy an older man especially one that she has already come to care for. And besides, you're hardly decrepit."

At that, he turned his face, a knotted crease at his forehead, his eyes wide in consternation—incredulous did not describe the look he cast her way. "Are you actually encouraging me? That you, as her guardian, would actually promote such a union is beyond belief—your senses have left you, madame. Perhaps you need a vacation.

"Besides! What about my wretched face?" He scowled.

"If she loved you, your face would not matter. Christine is not a superficial person. She has…"

"Ah! Right now, the young lady in question sits by a lamp somewhere reading a fairy tale. Do you know which fairy tale, madame? 'Cinderella.' That's which fairy tale. A tale of a beautiful, yet poor and unloved girl, whisked away by a handsome prince…a handsome prince! Not some deformed freak whose effigy is most likely to be found at the corner of a tall building with a gutter spout through his mouth."

"Erik, you're being too hard on yourself. Your face is not…," she attempted to interject, but he was not listening.

"She dreams of such things. Of handsome men and happy futures and lovely houses filled with sunshine and light. And why shouldn't she? She deserves such things…she deserves everything that I cannot give her." He paused for a moment; Madame Giry was silenced at last.

"My face and age aside, she deserves a man that she can respect. Our entire relationship up to this point is based upon a myth. I have perpetuated this lie and stoked its continued existence with the best of intentions, but no matter the intent, a lie it is and will always remain. Oh, she loves her Angel of Music, of that I have no doubt. However, if she were to discover the truth of it, the truth of who I am, I do not believe even a heart as sweet and generous as Christine Daaé's could ever forgive."

"Oh, Erik. You do not know the girl as well as you claim then," she said faintly, almost to herself.

They stood in silence until finally, he broke it and, in a calm and even voice, as if the previous discussion had not happened, said, "I am still concerned, however, about Christine being allowed to attend that party. I don't want her to meet the wrong kind of people."

"Wrong kind of people?" she repeated.

"Yes. Roués and cads. Handsome faces spouting sweet talk with no more concern for her honor or reputation than if she plied the trade in some alley in Montmartre."

"If you're so concerned, my friend, and so convinced of my inability to take care of my girls, why don't you attend? You could keep a close eye on Christine—maybe even ask her to dance." Madame Giry clucked softly, tossing her long, auburn braid over her shoulder.

"I do not appreciate your humor, madame. Are you determined to have your neck snapped this evening, or are you just tempting fate?"

"I'm not being funny, Erik. I seem to recollect, years ago, you attended the masquerade…I think you actually enjoyed it."

"I do not recall ever attending the masquerade ball," he stated defiantly.

"I do. You asked me to dance with you. Remember? It was the last time I saw you truly smile…I think it was a waltz, and your eyes sparkled in the light."

"You are mistaken."

"No. You were there, and so was I…I remember it clearly. A handsome, young man in evening dress appeared before me. He was tall and lean, with hair of dark waves and eyes the color of the sea after a storm…listen to me…I've become poetic." Madame Giry had drifted off for a moment, staring straight ahead, as she recalled her girlhood memory. A tiny, wistful smile graced her customarily serious face. She gave a short laugh and looked to her companion, who then appeared deeply lost in thought himself as he stared out into the dark corner before him.

"It was a waltz; the 'Lorelei,' I believe. The second viola was out of tune," he added quietly.

"You do remember," she said with restrained elation.

"You ran away soon after that...with that man," he added bitterly.

"You ran away too…and stayed gone far longer," she responded.

An uneasy silence was broken as she continued, "I worried about you all those years. No word. Wondering where you had gone…if you were all right. Wondering what you were doing…what was being done to you."

"You never worried about me. You had your child. You had the ballet. Since when was I your concern?" he spit out.

"Since the night I opened that cage," she answered plainly.

"You never cared about me. You led me down to those cellars and left me there with the rats, where I belonged. You only ever worried that I'd be caught, and you'd be held responsible," he replied with contempt.

"That's not true, Erik. I was always concerned for your well-being. But it wasn't long after you came here that I realized that I simply couldn't control you. I was just a child myself, Erik. A foolish, frightened child, who, yes, didn't want to be responsible for the actions of a precocious, unhappy boy." She grabbed a steadying breath.

He remained silent, yet the fumes of tension in the little room were nearly combustible.

She continued in a pleading tone, "I thought you could take care of yourself. You were always so self-reliant. You never said anything then…you never asked for anything…oh, Erik, what did you want from me?" Her voice had risen increasingly in frustration.

After a quiet moment of reflection, he answered flatly, "Nothing…nothing that you could give me."

She sighed, "I've tried to make it up to you since then, haven't I? I've put myself and my daughter in a precarious position by being your harbinger…by being your friend."

"Are we friends? I have no friends, madame. An acquaintance perhaps, but not a friend. If you count me amongst your circle, I pity you," he said with contempt.

She threw her hands up into the air and slapped them back down on her thighs. "I give up."

He raised his eyebrow knowingly, but said nothing.

"I have to go check on the girls. Make certain they're all getting ready for bed."

She turned to leave but stopped and looked back at him as he faced the far wall. "I've always wondered something…where were you all those years? You never did say."

After a contemplative moment, he answered, "Building an opulent, pleasure palace for the shah of Persia."

She rolled her eyes and snorted. "Of course, you were…forget I asked."

And with that she walked out, taking the lamp with her, leaving him lost in his thoughts, as dark as the walls around him.

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"Then, dressed in splendor, she was taken to the prince. He thought she was more beautiful than ever and married her a few days later. Cinderella, who was as good as she was beautiful, took her sisters to live in the palace and arranged for both of them to be married, on the same day, to great lords."

"The end." Christine closed her book of fairy tales. "Now everybody goes to sleep. Pauline, Jammes, Mimi, get into your beds. Madame will be up shortly." With that threat, the reluctant little ballerinas scrambled off Christine's bed to their own.

"Oh, Christine, when you marry the prince, will you arrange to have us all married off to great lords too," Pauline, a tiny, little redhead, asked her in a sweet voice.

"Of course, dear, when I marry the prince." Christine could not help smiling.

"Is everybody ready for the lamps to go out?" Meg asked.

"Yes," the girls in the room murmured in unison.

"Christine, not the candle," Jammes chirped in.

"No, of course not," Christine responded. Ever since Jammes had arrived several years before, she had to have a candle burning in the sconce by the door, or she would never allow herself to doze off. It had become a custom in the dormitory for the older girls to turn down the lamps but leave little Jammes' candle burning after receiving their nightly reminder. No one really minded as they all secretly believed that it would keep the Opera Ghost at bay.

Shortly after they all lay down, the door quietly opened, signaling the arrival of Madame Giry for her final inspection of the dormitory. After a stroll around the room, she silently walked over to the little alcove that held the beds of Meg and Christine. "Good-night, my dears," she said softly as she bent first over Meg to place a gentle kiss on her forehead, and then Christine.

"Good-night, Mamma," Meg whispered to her.

"Good-night, Madame," Christine whispered in turn.

After she had gone and the door was closed, Meg turned to Christine and whispered, "Christine, do you think we'll meet our princes tomorrow at the ball?"

"I don't know, Meg. I rather doubt it, but it's fun to consider, isn't it?"

"I can't wait," Meg suppressed a squeal. "I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight."

"I know it's hard," Christine replied, "but you'd better, or you'll have bags under your eyes. And no one will want to dance with you."

"Do you feel like Cinderella?" Meg asked. "I feel like Cinderella."

"Yes, Meg. I feel like Cinderella," Christine replied.

"Well then, Sorelli and Carlotta are the nasty stepsisters."

Christine giggled.

After a moment, Meg added, "But I'll be damned before I help them marry any great lords. I'm not that good."

"SHHSHH!" came from somewhere in the darkened room. And with that, the girls ceased their conversation and quickly drifted off to sleep.

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As he made his way down to his lair deep beneath the opera house, Erik became increasingly agitated by the conversation that he had had with Madame Giry.

"The impertinence of that woman," he exclaimed aloud as he neared the shore of the underground lake. "How dare she suggest that I am in love with Christine!" His voice boomed and echoed off the cavernous walls around him, sending his words, "in love with Christine," bouncing throughout the cellars and fading finally to a faint whisper off in the distance, taunting him.

He reached the shore, grabbed his pole, and quickly pushed off from the little dock. "In love with Christine," he grumbled as he punted his ornate, little boat quickly through the murky, green water. "I am not in love with Christine," he uttered, dejectedly. Quite suddenly, he stopped his punting, threw the pole forward into the boat, and sank down until he sat at the stern, his head in his hands.

The little boat drifted as Erik's mournful sobs floated out over the still water.

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Note: "Cinderella" by Charles Perrault

"Cendrillon ou La Petite Pantoufle de Verre" or "Cinderella or the Little Glass Slipper" was one of many famous stories written by the father of the modern fairy tale, Charles Perrault, who lived from 1628-1703. His other well-known stories, which he adapted from old French folktales, include, "Little Red Riding Hood," "Sleeping Beauty," and "Puss in Boots." Perrault, a member of the Académie française and a leading intellectual of his time, could have never imagined the continued popularity of his simple, children's morality tales, which first appeared in print in 1697 as Tales and Stories of the Past with Morales or Tales of My Mother Goose.