Music of the Heart

Part 1

Pure and clear as a crystal stream, the final high notes of the aria left her throat, bringing the opera to a finale of sheer perfection.

There was a moment of absolute silence as the echoes of her voice died away. She stood motionless, a vision of heartbreaking loveliness in the guise of the tragic young Marguerite, surrounded by a host of heavenly angels.

Then from that silence there erupted a great storm of applause as the audience went wild with delight. Surging to their feet, they applauded with boundless enthusiasm, clapping until their wrists ached, their "bravos" ringing out in excited homage as flowers were flung onto the stage, a veritable rainbow of colours raining down around the slender young girl at the centre of the stage.

Christine moved forward in a state of dazed wonder to take her bows. Rising from a graceful curtsey, she stood for a moment looking at the sea of cheering faces, hardly daring to believe that all this was happening. Again she sank into a low curtsey, her skirts billowing out around her. In the orchestra pit the musical director, M'sieur LeGrand, was beaming from ear to ear and nodding his congratulations to her.

She rose and turned slightly to her right, gazing up at a certain Box on the Grand Tier, her hands clasped beneath her chin. Then a radiant smile lit her lovely face as she saw, in the shadowy depths of the darkened Box, the luminous gleam of his dress shirt. Above this was another sliver of white that she knew was his mask. There was a glint of gold cufflinks as a well-shaped masculine hand threw a red rose onto the stage.

Stooping to retrieve it, she touched the velvet softness of the perfect bloom to her lips before laying it against her cheek. The adoring audience called out again and again their appreciation of both her angelic voice and her luminous beauty. Once more the young diva acknowledged the applause with charming bows, first to right of stage, then left, returning again to centre stage to bestow yet another graceful deference to the occupant of that particular Box. She then beckoned to the wings to call on the rest of the cast and the corps de ballet to join her in the continuing ovations for what had been a truly superb production of Gounod's Faust.

The little ballet girls skipped happily about, gathering up great armfuls of flowers that Christine insisted they keep for themselves. She had more than enough bouquets to fill her dressing room, but her red rose meant more to her than anything else. Eventually, after twenty-seven curtain calls, the final curtain came down and the audience filed out, chattering excitedly about the greatest interpretation of the rôle of Marguerite in Faust that they had ever seen. The exhausted but highly elated members of the cast finally left the stage to change and make their way to Le Bistro Maxime where they could relax and toast the evening's triumph with champagne.

Laden with flowers, Christine made her way down the corridor leading to her dressing room, her progress made slow by the company surrounding her and her ecstatic friends from the chorus who danced along beside her. They had all in turn bestowed an admiring kiss on her cheek, accompanied by an equally enthusiastic hug.

Reaching her room at last, she turned at the door and smiled her thanks for their praise and excited congratulations.

"I must bid you goodnight, mes chère amies, and I thank you all so very, very much for being here with me. Tonight has been the fulfilment of a dream. I am still hardly able to comprehend that it’s actually happened, just as Papa always hoped for me. I am so happy … and so tired! I hope you will excuse me from accompanying you to Maxime tonight ... I really am so tired I can hardly stand. But you must all go and celebrate our success, oui?"

There were cries of disappointment at this but Meg, glancing at Christine's face, quickly shooed everyone away. As the girlish high-pitched laughter and chatter faded down the corridor, Meg voiced an urgent entreaty.

"Go to him, Christine. I know you are longing to do so, and he must be desperate to be with you after your great triumph. Maman has told your dresser to go and join the others because she will attend you herself, and she also informed the managers that you will see no-one tonight. Just leave your costume for Maman to deal with. Goodnight, chérie, your voice was simply heavenly tonight."

Christine kissed Meg's cheek and held her in an affectionate embrace. The fair-haired little dancer smiled mistily and hurried away to join her mother. Christine turned to enter her dressing room and quickly locked the door.

Running over to the mirror, she pressed her hands on the frame and whispered closely against the glass.

"Erik, my darling love, I'm here."

The great mirror turned swiftly on its pivots to reveal the tall, slim figure of a man standing in the shadows of the dark corridor stretching out behind him. He wore an opera cloak over his dress suit and as he stepped into the room it swirled elegantly around him with each movement. He pulled Christine into his strong arms and buried his face into her springing dark curls. She sighed in utter contentment as she laid her cheek against his shoulder, the velvet folds of his cloak soft against her skin.

At last he spoke, his richly melodious voice shaking with emotion.

"Christine, my sweetest love, all the beauty in this world cannot compare with what I saw tonight, with what I heard tonight. You were truly an Angel of Music, surpassing everything you have ever done before."

His long fingers caressed her cheek, sending a shiver of delight down her spine.

"My love, you are the most exquisite jewel in the crown of my heart. Words ... I cannot find the words to express how I feel at this moment."

He fell to his knees and lifted the hem of her gown to his lips in simple reverence.

Christine's blue eyes brimmed with tears as she looked down at him. Yes, it was true. She had surpassed herself tonight, for although she had sung as Marguerite before to great acclaim, the remarkable performance she had given in Faust this evening had been for one person, and one alone - her husband, who was kneeling at her feet and whom she loved with all her heart and soul.

They had been married that very morning, and her happiness was such that it had lifted her performance to the utmost heights of operatic brilliance. Her bright, particular star shone high in the heavens on this night, and it was all because of this beloved man - her teacher and Angel - and now her husband, to love and to cherish forever.

Earlier that day, as the clocks struck noon throughout the city, Erik and his Christine had been married with due ceremony, conducted by the kindly priest of a small church situated on a quiet street in an area of Paris bordering the Bois de Boulogne. They had exchanged their vows before the altar, which had been decorated earlier that morning by Madame Giry. She had chosen delicate flowers - sweet peas in all their pastel hues, tall spires of delphiniums and larkspur in palest pink, mauve and blue, the vivid blue of cornflowers, and fragile creamy-white wild roses, all interspersed with fronds of greenery. Above the altar was a tall stained glass window through which flooded the midday sun, causing a kaleidoscope of colours to play each dancing shaft over the little congregation. The service was simple yet very moving, and several handkerchiefs were employed to wipe away tears that quite openly coursed down many a cheek.

Erik could hardly take his gaze away from Christine, for his bride looked radiantly beautiful in a gown of white silk and lace, her long dark curls covered by an exquisite lace veil, a family heirloom which had belonged to her mother. She wore a circlet of orange blossom on her head to hold the veil in place, while in her hands she held a small posy of the blossom mingled with some red roses and fern. Her eyes were shining like stars as Erik placed the ring upon her finger, and when Père Caminot pronounced them man and wife, she felt as though her heart would burst with the glory of it all.

Christine had asked the Daroga to give her away, a request to which he had gladly assented, whilst Meg was her one attendant. The guests were small in number, consisting of Meg's mother - Madame Violette Giry, Dr and Madame Picard, and Maestro LeGrand, the Opéra's musical director. M. LeGrand was a kind and benevolent mentor to the young soprano and ever since she had joined the company, he had recognised and encouraged her vocal talent.

The Maestro was also accompanied by his wife, a plump little lady with a motherly air whose heart had been captured by Erik on first being introduced to him. Madame had looked with approval at his tall, distinguished figure, for he was dressed in his usual immaculate fashion. He wore an elegant cloak draped about his shoulders, and his soft fedora hat was tipped at a dashing angle. Her gaze travelled from his highly polished black shoes and up the lean length of his body, clad in a superbly tailored suit, where she noted the deep red rose tucked in the buttonhole of the jacket. As her eyes came level with his face she suddenly met the quizzical gaze from behind the white mask, while the crooked lips tilted in an attractively wry smile.

She blushed rosily and laughed. "Forgive me, Erik, I did not mean to stare so! I was admiring your fine elegance and beautiful tailoring. It is highly pleasurable to look upon a man so refined in dress and appearance after living these many years with a husband who simply doesn't know the meaning of style - and he a supposedly modish Parisian born and bred - such infamy, to --to throw on his clothes so disgracefully!"

Madame LeGrand gazed at the masked features, noticing the brilliance of the eyes behind the white covering of the softest kid leather. He smiled his thanks for her praise as he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.

"What a fascinating man he is, to be sure", she thought, her generous heart beating a little faster as his lips brushed her hand. She could smell the faint fragrance of his cologne as he straightened, and impulsively she reached up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"Dear Erik", she said, "I have heard much about you from my husband and how wonderfully you have tutored his little protégé. I am so glad that Christine has found such a fine man to take care of her and love her. She has been rather a lost little soul since her father died, and I love her dearly. I wish you both happiness from the bottom of my heart, indeed I do. When you are returned from your honeymoon, I should be delighted if you and your lovely wife would join Roland and I for dinner one evening."

"Chère Madame", Erik bowed gallantly, his deep velvety voice bringing another flush to the soft cheeks of the fluttering little lady, "My wife and I would be most honoured to dine with you, and I thank you most sincerely."

Erik bestowed his disarming smile once more upon Sabine LeGrand, lightly pressed her small plump fingers, and moved away to join his bride. He found her showing her beautiful new wedding ring to Madame Picard, Meg and her mother.

The ring had been made to Erik's own design, a wide circlet of purest gold etched with a design of marguerites. Meg was enchanted by such a wonderful idea, for it would always be a lovely reminder for them both of Christine's greatest singing triumph.

Christine had given Erik a ring also, a plain gold band which they had chosen to have engraved with their entwined initials - E & C.

The Picards had arranged a small wedding breakfast for the couple, so following the ceremony everyone climbed into the waiting carriages and were driven to the Picard residence, a tall house on the Rue de Provence. Dr Picard's medical practice covered the area in which the Opera House was situated and he attended the great house in his professional capacity quite regularly, for the stagehands and scene-shifters often suffered minor accidents with awkward props and carpentry tools. Then there were the sore throats, headaches and various ailments affecting the singers, or the muscular stresses and strains among the corps de ballet.

The doctor was well acquainted with Christine, having called upon the young soprano on the occasions when she had suffered a cough or cold, and when she had fainted after that memorable performance which had seen the Vicomte de Chagny reclaim the friendship of their childhood. The doctor had grown fond of the gentle young Swedish girl who seemed so alone in the world, for since the death of her beloved father it was clear she had no-one to turn to, at least not in France.

Finding her alone at the Opéra one evening he had invited her to dine with his wife and family. The doctor's wife had welcomed Christine with warm friendliness into her home, whereby the young soprano enjoyed a family life of sorts with Alexandre and Françoise Picard and their two young sons. In her turn Christine would play the piano and sing for them after dinner, and many a delightful evening was passed in their company. She had gone home to her little flat after these occasions and thought wistfully of her own long-dead parents.

She hoped fervently that one day God would perhaps send her a husband and children of her own, but meanwhile she must work very hard and try to do well at the Opéra, just as Papa had wished.

Dr Picard and his wife took the bride and groom in their carriage whilst Madame Giry and Meg travelled in the following carriage in the company of the Daroga, Maestro and Madame LeGrand. Meg sat close to her mother in a state of dreamy excitement as she savoured Christine's radiant happiness with her beloved Phantom. The little ballerina thought fleetingly of Raoul, the handsome young aristocrat who had tried to take Christine away from Erik, then dismissed him from her mind.

Meg was full of pride and admiration for her mother. Since she had first become aware some years ago of Erik's presence at the Opéra, not by a single word or gesture had she ever betrayed him. Indeed, she had always tried to protect him from those who wished him harm. It was only when in sheer desperation he had abducted Christine from the stage on that terrible evening that Madame Giry had reluctantly told the Vicomte of the house across the lake, and then only because she was trying to keep the vengeful mob away from Erik.

"I did this because I thought the Vicomte loved Christine, and I would have staked my life on the fact that Erik would not keep Christine with him against her will. And I was right, Meg. He sent her away with the Vicomte because he loved her too much to cause her pain. Her kiss had not only given him hope but also the liberation of his dark distorted soul."

Those at the Opéra knew Violette Giry as the stern and demanding ballet mistress who worked her pupils very hard, but Meg and her friends were well aware that this was a façade to hide a kind and generous nature. She had eventually told Meg all she knew of the haunted being who became known as the Phantom of the Opera and had long known of his existence since first coming across him many years ago as one of the more gruesome attractions with a travelling circus.

"My heart went out to him, Meg. I saw him crouching in a corner of that awful cage trying to hide himself away. He was imprisoned ... locked in that disgusting cage … like an animal. People spat at him … threw rotten fruit and jeered … called him a freak, a monster. I stared with the rest, unable to believe ... then he happened to look my way ... he gazed at me from those poor, sunken eyes in his terrible face … I was not frightened of him, no! He was a fellow human in the greatest distress imaginable and I desperately wanted to help him … but there was nothing I could do … apart from slip him some fresh food and milk at a time when that dreadful cage was blessedly free of stupid gawpers. Oh Meg, he thanked me in the tones of a true gentleman, and I was captivated by his voice! I went back next evening to see him again but the circus folk had been ordered away from the city. It was of course many years later that I realised the Phantom was my tragic confrere from so long ago."

Meg had listened with wide, sympathetic eyes. She asked many questions, trying to understand how and why such a terrible life had been inflicted upon a human being.

"Yes, my daughter, it is all too sad a story of rejection and despair. It is no wonder to me that Erik became so bitter and disillusioned."

The carriage in which they were travelling jolted over a stone and Violette's mind was jerked back to the present. She held her daughter's hand tightly within her own, her thoughts also on the bridal pair and the great love that had sustained and held them together during the past few months. Over the years she had prayed for Erik on so many occasions, and now at last it seemed her prayers were answered. He had found the love he had been looking for all his life and she could only give her heartfelt thanks to God.

As for Christine's progress as a singer, Madame Giry had at first watched with a kind of fearful interest, for she had guessed the identity of Christine's unknown tutor. The ballet mistress always knew the child's heart was not in the ballet, but rather in a career as a great soprano, as her father had wished for her. She was aware that Christine had studied at the Conservatoire, and although her voice held technical perfection, her singing was passionless, without soul or feeling. The poor child had missed her father so desperately and longed for his guidance. For three long years she had mourned his passing, drifting from day to day in a world of her own.

Violette recalled how Christine had confessed to Meg about the Angel of Music. How it had been on just such an evening of aching memories of her father and his last promise to send the Angel of Music to her. The child's despair about her voice and abilities to become a great singer had overcome her to such an extent that she had fled from a rehearsal in tears. In her dressing room she had flung herself onto a chair, covered her face with her hands and wept as if her heart would break.

It was then he had whispered her name. The Angel of Music had come to her at last ...

Madame Giry had noted the great changes in Christine's voice almost immediately, for indeed she sang like an angel. Such perfect pitch, such crystal clarity of diction and tone. Truly bel canto at its most heavenly. The young soprano had confided in Meg the secret of her mysterious tutor and in turn, Meg had told her mother. The ballerina had been more than a little worried about Christine, for her friend had such a bemused and faraway look in her eyes when she spoke of her Angel of Music. Meg began to fear the hold this strange Angel seemed to exert over Christine.

Having surmised the identity of Christine's unseen teacher, Violette Giry was able to reassure her daughter, but made it her duty to watch carefully over Christine. Of course no harm had come to the child. She knew Erik would never harm Christine for it was quite obvious to her that he loved the girl with all his heart and would lay down his very life for her. Madame had relaxed her vigil but continued to keep a watchful eye on Christine.

Came that memorable Gala Night when the two new managers of the Opera had despaired of replacing Madame Carlotta. The leading soprano had stormed out of rehearsals in a fit of bad temper, vowing never to return. Everyone had been shocked and wondered what to do next when up jumped Meg to propose to the managers that Christine should take Carlotta's place. The ballet mistress had supported her daughter, telling the managers that Christine had been well taught.

Again Violette's thoughts returned from the recent extraordinary events at the Opéra to the joyous present. Turning her head slightly from its comfortable position on the upholstered backrest of the carriage, the ballet mistress smiled lovingly at her daughter.

On the seat opposite, the Daroga looked upon mother and daughter and rejoiced in their affection for each other.

The Daroga of Mazendaran and the bridegroom had known each other for many years, having first met when Erik had been engaged by the Shah of Persia as his new architectural designer. As chief of police, the Daroga had been warned to keep an eye on the new employee, for there were many who feared the mask and the brilliant but unyielding gaze behind it, and who were jealous and resentful of his position in having the ear of the Shah.

The Daroga had come to admire Erik's many talents and watched in awe as the masked man's designs culminated in the magnificent mansions which were all constructed under his critical eye. The Daroga noted how quickly Erik would pounce on the smallest mistake, demanding immediate rectification. He expected nothing less than perfection and if it was not forthcoming his anger was terrifying to behold. The workers feared not just his fiery, explosive temper when he would spit and snarl with rage at what he called their tiresome stupidity, but were equally unnerved when his displeasure was indicated by the icy contempt contained in the twin swordthrusts of those chilling grey eyes from behind the mask. At such times his tongue would drip with a frigid venom that all but curled the spines of the men who quaked before him.

Yet those same men respected him, for he was fair in all his dealings with them and gave praise where he considered it due. He made absolutely certain they received their weekly wages, often paying from his own pocket for any extra work he required of them. He knew that many of them had several children to support, and without this regular income those innocent children would starve.

The Persian had observed the darkly complex nature of the man, the many contradictions of his character, for he was first and foremost the most gentle and tender of men, kind, thoughtful and concerned. It seemed to the Daroga that Erik's temper would flare through sheer frustration at lesser intelligence than his own, while the contemptuous hostility and biting scorn was directed at those who sought to ridicule his appearance or sneer at the mask. Why would a grown man hide his features unless he was hideous? They sniggered and scoffed among themselves but were very careful to keep their distance.

"I despise them all, Daroga. They are as dirt beneath my boots. I could grind them all to dust if I so choose." Erik's haughty disdain was clear and proud.

The policeman felt great compassion for Erik, for he now understood why those dark rages of despair would consume him so absolutely. And yet despite the burden of these tribulations, he discovered that the masked man was possessed of a wicked wit and a lively sense of humour, taking it upon himself to tease the Daroga mercilessly for his sober, lawful stance. Gradually, a strong enduring friendship had grown between the two men.

The Persian had a perfectly respectable name but Erik seldom used it, preferring instead to address him as something else entirely. Another result of his affectionate teasing was the choice of the nonsensical name of Kepi. This came about because apparently, on being introduced to the Daroga, Erik had been somewhat overwhelmed by the policeman's smartly embellished dress uniform. This style of dress was supposedly worn only on ceremonial occasions, but as the Emperor enjoyed pomp and ceremony and liked those who served him to be splendidly arrayed, lavish uniforms were seen everywhere.

The Daroga well remembered how Erik's eyes had lit with laughter. The glow within those magnificent eyes had turned them the colour of sun-warmed slate as they came to rest amusedly on the peaked cap of the uniform. This was a handsome piece of headgear called a képi, trimmed with much gold braid and hung with a long golden tassel.

Erik had stared at the képi, his malformed lips twitching with barely controlled mirth. Somehow he had managed to shake hands with due formality and express his pleasure on meeting the esteemed Chief of Police before turning away, but not before the Daroga had noticed how those muscular shoulders had shaken with suppressed laughter.

Indeed, he could not help grinning himself, for he knew how the gaudy uniforms must have looked to a man of such understated elegance. It was from that very meeting that he had become known to his mischievous friend as Monsieur Képi, a title which soon became abbreviated to an affectionate 'Kepi'.

In the months that followed, the Daroga gave Erik several warnings of the petty jealousies and gnawing envy of the sycophants who surrounded the Shah, emphasising that he should always be on guard. Erik was well aware of his enemies and despised them all, but was gratified and gladdened by the fact that the Daroga cared enough to think of him and alert him to these dangers.

The Daroga's memories were brought to a halt as the carriage rolled over a stone. He chuckled suddenly at the recollection of his nickname, causing the other occupants to smile at the jovial sound.

It was to be many years later before the two men found each other again.

Erik had built himself a home far beneath the imposing Grand Staircase of the beautiful new Opéra Garnier in Paris. He had lived beneath the magnificent edifice for some years, and had found a kind of peaceful contentment within this shrine to his beloved music. Keeping to the shadows, he moved about the place at will, delighting in the glorious structure.

Months later, he discovered that the ballet mistress was none other than the young woman who had shown him sympathy when he had been a captive of his gypsy masters. He learned that her name was Violette Giry and she was a widow with a young daughter, Meg. He had never forgotten her kindness and tried to repay her by helping to promote her daughter. She had kept his secret and would leave him any warnings by way of hidden notes in Box 5. It had been after a performance one night that his silhouette had been thrown against a wall by means of Joseph Buquet's carelessness with a gaslamp. The old fellow had accidently broken the casing around the flare, and in the sudden bright light the spectral shape of a figure in cloak and hat had been spotted by a group of ballet girls. They had all ran screaming from the scene, shrieking that they had seen a ghost. From that moment sprang the legend of the Opera Ghost.

The years passed until late one evening, in a dark passageway behind the stage, Erik had caught sight of a figure prowling around the area, apparently looking for something ... or someone. He paused to watch the antics of the unwanted guest, one hand curled around the lasso in his pocket should the intruder try to attack, when he suddenly realised just who the person was.

A soundless laugh consumed him. Good God, it was Kepi! A Kepi who had become a little portly, but nevertheless it most certainly was the man he had once known as the Daroga of Mazenderan.

So he had left Persia, just as he'd vowed to do all those years ago. Retired as Chief of Police of course, but from his present actions it appeared he was unable to stop playing the detective. Now it seemed he was in the employ of the managers of the Opéra, and it was not hard to guess the reasons why! Still and silent as a shadow, Erik watched his old friend as he snooped about the backstage area, prodding tentatively at props and coughing as the dust flew up and caught his throat. Erik shook with silent laughter as he enjoyed the spectacle.

Oh, Daroga - here to find the Opera Ghost, are you? The Phantom's mouth turned up in a grin as he decided to have a little mischievous fun with the Persian. Using his skills of ventriloquism, he threw his voice just beyond the Daroga, who was standing beside a stage prop of a rather enigmatic-looking sphinx. Pitching his voice into a low growl, Erik caused the sphinx to appear as if it suddenly uttered in sepulchral tones: "Bonsoir, mon vieux. Comment allez-vous?"

The Daroga jumped away from the prop, letting out a yelp of fear. He raised his lantern above his head with an arm that visibly trembled and looked around with apprehensive eyes. The back of his neck suddenly prickled, a shaft of ice shivered up his spine - there was someone behind him! Was it the Ghost?

He spun round on his heel and peered into the shadows. A moment or two later he heard the sound of an unmistakable chuckle, deep and throaty. The Daroga sagged with relief. A wide grin flickered across his face as he espied a dark figure lurking in the shadow of a cardboard bush. Exhaling a gusty breath, he schooled his features to that of the stern policeman, drew himself up to full height and called out in firm tones … "Erik, I know it is you - come here and show yourself to me!"

The figure laughed and detached itself from the bush, striding forward with oustretched hands. Those well-remembered hands with their long tapering fingers. The Daroga clasped them eagerly within his own and drew Erik towards him, a smile of welcome breaking across his hitherto austere features. The two men clapped each other on the shoulder. Erik, his sense of mischief to the fore, asked, "Well, old friend, I trust you've found what you are looking for!"

"Indeed I have, Erik. The Opéra Ghost has just walked straight into my arms, as it were. What are all these tales I have been hearing of strange and spectral sightings here - this Phantom? Are you up to your old tricks, heh?"

Erik shook his head, laughing. Pleased and highly delighted at meeting his dear Kepi again, and trusting him implicitly, he had taken him down to his lair underneath the Opéra House. Over a bottle of the finest claret and a simple repast of bread, thick slices of ham and a platter of cheeses, they had filled in on the missing years in their friendship.

The Daroga told of how, following Erik's escape from Persia, he had been imprisoned for many years. On his release he had left the country of his birth and had come to live in Paris. He existed on his savings and a meagre pension in a small apartment on the Rue de Rivili, together with his faithful servant Darius. He was appalled to find that his old friend had been forced to live under the ground, just as Erik was truly horrified to hear of the Daroga's long incarceration in a Mazenderan jail.

"And you my friend, tell me how you came to be here. I think I can guess why you are hidden away, but how did you build this place? Although I must say that you have made your surroundings very comfortable."

The Daroga glanced around, noting the fine furnishings, the Persian rugs on the floor, the damask wallpaper of crimson and gold. Erik told his friend that on his escape from Persia, he had travelled to India. When he had decided to return home, he made his way back to France over further travel which took several more years before he had finally come to rest in Paris. This choice was made solely because he had heard there was to be a new opera house built in the heart of the city, a project he wanted desperately to be part of.

During the construction of the Opera, much delayed by war, uprisings and the government's interference, he had the notion of building himself a home beneath the Garnier's magnificent edifice. In that way he could be free of the daily gauntlet of hatred he was forced to run by his fellow men, and make a life for himself within this palace dedicated to music. He went on to relate to the Daroga that, on being seen in the shadows around the Opéra by the impressionable young ballet girls, he had gained a title. The silly little creatures had excitedly told everyone there was a phantom figure haunting the Opéra.

On reflection, Erik said, he had been happy to accept the identity of The Phantom of the Opera, for it helped to protect his presence. Not only that, he took great delight in "haunting" the place - it gave him another occupation!

Erik assured his friend it had been his choice to live under the ground for his safety's sake, and he was quite content in his strange surroundings. He had his books and scientific apparatus, his experiments with the healing properties of plants and herbs; he listened to all the operas performed upstairs in his own personal box and made many suggestions to the management by way of mysterious notes. Lastly, of course, he had his music to play and compose.

The Daroga was proudly invited to inspect the magnificent organ which took up the whole of one wall. An equally beautiful grand piano stood in the opposite corner; he showed him an exquisite violin made by an Italian master and pointed out the large number of musical manuscripts which were all his own composition.

Erik and his dear old Kepi talked long into the night until eventually tiredness overcame them and Erik offered his friend a room in which to sleep. He accepted with thanks, but left the house by the lake long before the cleaners and maintenance staff arrived at the Opéra at seven o'clock on the following morning.

The Persian had given Erik his solemn vow never to disclose the whereabouts of his hidden domain, and indeed he never would. The masked man had haltingly confided his love for Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, and how he had become her teacher and guardian.

The Daroga had departed from Erik and his underground home, resolving to do all he could to help his old friend, but without any interference in the Opéra Ghost's progressions around the Opéra.

Long ago, the Daroga had asked for Erik's promise that he would not deliberately hurt anyone, and Erik had given his word. The Daroga had implicit faith in that vow, but he was well aware that the masked man had to protect himself and his domain.

Therefore, it befell the Daroga to report back to the managers at the Opéra and swear that he had found nothing whatsoever to support the tales of a cloaked and masked phantom who supposedly haunted the Opéra.

And now among these cherished friends, Erik and Christine sat together for the first time as man and wife. After a delicious meal consumed with much conviviality, Maestro Roland LeGrand rose from his chair in order to propose a toast to the newly married couple. Raising his glass of champagne, Roland looked round the table at the assembled guests and spoke words straight from his heart.

"My dear friends, I am sure you will agree with me when I say that for those of us here today, this is a very special occasion indeed. Not only are we celebrating a wedding, but surely we are witnesses to the joining of two hearts, two minds and two souls in this, the marriage of two exceptional and talented people."

A spontaneous burst of applause greeted this statement. Roland continued.

"It is our great honour to know their incredible story, the truly remarkable romance that has concluded in these joyous celebrations today. We know that our beautiful young prima donna has chosen a unique man of uncommon distinction to be her husband, and I predict that their combined musical talents will give to the world of opera the kind of artistic gifts which occur rarely in one's own lifetime. We fortunate few gathered here today are proud and privileged to have played a small part in the commencement of this duet par excellence!"

"My friends, please join me in drinking a toast to the health and happiness of Erik and Christine, and may they have a long and happy life together."

The guests rose from their seats and raised their glasses. With affectionate smiles of warm regard they toasted the health and happiness of the young bride and her proud husband

Erik rose slowly to his feet and stood before the wedding party, his gaze going round the table. The eyes behind the mask gazed steadily at each and every one seated there, and all he could see in their faces was open and honest admiration. Then his eyes met those of his wife. She looked up at him and all the love in her heart was clearly there for him to see within her soft eyes. Her lips parted in a sweet smile as she reached for his hand. Pulling her gently to her feet, he raised both her little hands to his mouth and kissed them, retaining them in his strong clasp as he faced the guests again.

He began to speak.

"I … I w--would ..."

He found he had to stop and catch his breath, for suddenly he was very close to tears. Christine's fingers moved within his, their tender pressure steadying him.

"My friends", he said quietly. "Let me tell you that just to say - my friends - means more to me than I could ever say."

This simple statement went straight to the hearts of the attentive listeners, for they knew that this man was not merely trying to gain their sympathy. He had a proud dignity which would not have countenanced pity. No, it was a plain statement of fact, and they truly felt the sorrow of his hitherto lonely, forsaken and bleak existence.

"May I thank you all for being here today … for being with my Angel and I … for--for me."

His voice broke momentarily, but then he continued strongly.

"Thank you for making this the happiest day of my life. I will not speak of the past, for although it will always be with me, today is the beginning of my life. I look forward now only to the future, a future I shall share with my wife, my Angel of Music, my sweetest love Christine."

His voice trembled again as he said her name, and he brought her hands up to his quivering mouth to hide it from those who sat still and silent in their chairs. Their hearts were moved beyond words for this honourable man as his young bride reached up a hand to caress away a tear which had fallen from beneath the mask and down his cheek.

Erik cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders and drew a deep, steadying breath.

"Forgive me. I seem to have joined the ladies in their prerogative of shedding tears at a wedding - and this, my own wedding!"

There was laughter at this, and the poignancy of the moment was lightened.

"Dear friends", he continued, "I cannot put into mere words the happiness that is in my heart today. I will remember this day and your kindness towards me for as long as I live. Now, as a married man, may I say that my wife and I look forward to welcoming you all to our home."

Came an afterthought.

"And dare I say that in time we hope you will all stand as godparents to our many children!"

Erik's glinting smile caused Christine to blush rosily. He reached for her, pulled her up into his arms and kissed her, to the great delight of their friends as they shouted ... Bravo! Bravo!

Then little Meg jumped to her feet and cried out a request.

"Please, please, my dear ones, would you sing for us? Let us be the first to hear you sing together as Monsieur and Madame d'Arcy. Would you do that for us?"

Erik looked at Christine and grinned. Her heart raced at the wicked twinkle in his eyes as he replied.

"Yes, it will be our pleasure, but Christine must not tire herself unduly. She has a … most important performance ahead of her tonight!"

Christine's blush grew deeper, but she put a little fist under his chin in a playful punch and riposted gleefully.

"It is true - of course I shall … but Erik is just going to … sit through it all as I ... perform with Messieurs Faust and Mephisto!"

There was a burst of laughter at this impishly light-hearted banter, and the spirits of all those present lifted as they witnessed once again the love that shone between these two.

Françoise led the guests into the drawing room; Erik took Christine's hand as they moved towards the grand piano which stood in front of the long open windows leading out onto a small patio adorned with terracotta pots of bright flowers. Voile curtains lifted in the gentle breeze.

Erik did not need any music for the particular song that Christine was to sing. The words and music were entrenched in their souls. He played in the introduction, and then Christine's bell-like voice held everyone captivated as she sang the song Erik had written especially for her ...

"… help me make the music of the night ..."

Then his voice joined hers, and the small audience was held in a spell of perfect beauty until the last note had died away. There was a moment of complete silence, and then came much enthusiastic applause as their friends called out their appreciation. Christine dropped a deep curtsey, the skirts of her beautiful wedding gown spreading around her in falls of snowy-white lace.

She looked up at her husband and smiled lovingly. Today was their day of days, when all dreams came true. The evening was to be hers, when she would sing Marguerite to a house that had sold all tickets for the performance on the day they were issued. And the night ... ah!, the night that was to come after this wondrous day was a joy they were both holding in their hearts. Erik trembled with bliss when he thought that this beautiful girl would come to him and give herself to him as his wife, and Christine thought only of the time when she could hold Erik close to her as their bodies entwined in love.

She reached down and untied the cords of the mask, lifting it gently from his face. Looking down into his flawed, imperfect features and loving him more with every second that passed, she whispered, "Kiss me, my darling." Erik rose and took her in his arms. His eyes held one last, lingering doubt. She reached up and took his face in her hands, saying, "Erik, mon âme, I love you with all my heart."

The breath which had caught in his throat finally expelled on a sigh of ecstasy as her lips met his own. He crushed her to him as their kiss deepened into passion. The touch of his firm, warm mouth on her own lifted Christine to paradise. Her long curly swung down to her waist and brushed against his hands as she leaned back in his embrace, the sensation turning his bones to liquid.

Raising his head, his pulses racing and his eyes flaming with desire, he whispered, "Christine, oh my Christine, how I love you, love you, love you."

She turned her head and kissed his palm, saying simply, "Take me home, my Angel."

Holding her hand, he took her through the mirror and into the dark passageway beyond.

At the end of the corridor César was waiting patiently for his master. Erik helped his bride onto the horse's back and vaulted lightly up behind her. He held her against his chest as he guided César down the tunnels and corridors that led eventually to the underground lake. Dismounting, Erik held out his arms and lifted Christine down to the ground. She waited whilst he walked César to his own warm stable, ensuring there was plenty of fresh hay and a quantity of fodder for the horse. Seating Christine comfortably in the gondola, her husband stepped in and swiftly poled the craft across the still waters of the lake.

The Phantom of the Opera and his Angel of Music entered the secret underground domain. He closed the door behind them and they stepped inside the beautiful living area. Erik removed his cloak and hat and opened his arms wide. Christine ran into them and flung her arms around his neck; he enfolded her in a passionate embrace. Lifting her chin with his long, strong fingers he whispered huskily against her cheek.

"My darling, this is ... the final threshold. Are you sure, completely sure ...?

Christine's lips parted in a tremulous smile as she replied softly, "Oh, my love, never have I been more sure of anything. I love you so much." Erik swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom. There, all through that wondrous night, they experienced another kind of music, when they were floating and falling, dreaming and drifting, possessing and caressing, spirits soaring as they became one body, one heart and one soul - their Music of the Night had begun in the glory of their love.

Part 2 of Music of the Heart

© Jeanette Birt 2002