A/N—Well, this is it, the last chapter of Second Chance. It's been a wonderful experience writing this story, spread out as it has been over twelve years. I think all the threads are wrapped up with this last installment, and I cannot begin to express my gratitude to everyone who has stuck with the story and taken the time to write so many kind and helpful reviews.
Thanks to Melancholy's Child, emeraldphan, Mominator124, Kitkat, MomoxDerpy, Stemwinder, and WolfShadow1 for their wonderful reviews of Chapter 23! You all are awesome and I appreciate you so much.
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
Please read and review. And…if you read this in the years to come, please drop me a comment as well, to let me know.
A Second Chance
Chapter 24
Copyright 2016 by Riene
Autumn, 1882
Darius set out bowls of figs, sour cherry and quince jam, as well as marmalade, with a stack of sangak, lavāsh, and barbari nan flat breads, Tabrizi and feta cheese, little knives, spoons, butter, honey, plates, and cups. Water would boil soon for tea. The morning paper hung from a pole across two chair backs, dry now and ironed smooth, ready for his master. This bit of cleverness he had learned from visiting with other servants, butlers, and valets during his years traveling with his master, and he was rather proud of it. Soon the paper would be folded and placed at readiness at Nadir Khan's breakfast table. The sugar bowl was empty again and with a sigh he brought over the package of tiny cubes to refill it. Khan had a terrible sweet tooth, as these foreigners said.
It was over breakfast that the article caught his master's attention. Body of Tenor Found in the Seine, Suspected Victim of Robbery and Assault. The paper noted wounds made by a knife and the absence of a wallet, as well as a broken neck and various bruises, cuts, and contusions. The body had been in the water for some time, but had been positively identified as a Signore Luigi Bartoldi, late of the Opera Garnier. Rumors of heavy drinking and indebtedness surrounded the man, and thus it was being assumed he had met his death at the hands of foul play. The prefecture de police paris was investigating.
Khan lowered the newspaper and fixed steady jade-green eyes on his manservant. "Knife wounds, my friend? And a missing wallet?" he asked quietly.
Darius shrugged and lifted fierce brown eyes. "He could not be tied back to them. Robbery seemed a likely ending for such a vile man. That pig had dared lay hands of disrespect on her." He took a sip of tea and looked both pleased and unrepentant. "And he would not have objected."
Nadir hid a smile; it was a badly kept secret that Darius was half in love with Christine himself. "Don't make it a habit, hmmm? The Opera is having enough trouble keeping a tenor as it is."
She smoothed the thin grey hair back from his temple, grateful only to be holding her sleeping husband against her heart. It had been another night disturbed by pain and hellish dreams, and finally Christine had propped herself up against the headboard and pulled him into her arms so he could sleep. Her Erik, her love.
Against all odds he had somehow survived the bullet wounds to chest and thigh, of substantial blood loss and feverish days. Nadir Khan had later confessed to her that he had privately doubted his old nemesis would live, but Erik was rather difficult to kill, he'd added softly, and she saw the truth in his eyes, that he would have grieved the loss of his friend. But Erik had survived, thinner and more irascible than ever, his temper foul and words sharp as he limped about the apartment, exhausted and impatient with the slow recovery. He had no lung capacity with which to sing right now, and the shattered shoulder blade was agony when sleeping or holding the bow or reaching for the keyboard. Denied his music, with one arm strapped to his body, Erik restlessly paced the confines of the flat, searching for distractions. He snapped and snarled, but Christine was wise enough to know his frustration was not aimed at her and cared for him accordingly.
In the restless days which followed, she was finally able to persuade him to reconsider Joseph Allard's proposal of publishing his music. If he did not sit too long at one time, Erik could write or copy his music onto the stacks of creamy lined paper that littered the Bösendorfer's polished top. He began with a series of vocal exercises, with Christine patiently singing by the hour, then arias, and eventually his own etudes and nocturnes. The violin pieces would take the longest, for it would be many weeks before Erik was able to again comfortably hold the cherished instrument.
Christine would never forget the stunned look on Joseph's face when Erik presented him with a folio of piano works for a solo hand. For though he had never commented on the empty folded and pinned sleeve that had ended the man's military career, Erik had somehow discerned that the publisher's passion for the piano. In a daze, Joseph had stared at the compositions and dropped to the bench of the Imperial, fingers lightly skimming the keys, his eyes riveted on the notes. Wordlessly, he'd looked up to where Christine stood, her hands wrapped around Erik's upper arm, tears on her cheeks at his silent, emotional response.
"Go on," she said, and Erik nodded.
"Yes, do try it out. I should hate to have spent all that time to no avail." But his dry words were lost on the man who once again, could make an instrument sing.
One rainy afternoon, Raoul came to the apartment. Bearing flowers, hat in hand, he came to apologize but the meeting rapidly turned brusque.
"I didn't expect you to betray me like this!"
"Like what? You were dead, Raoul!"
Erik, who had shut himself away in the study rather than risk straining either his temper or his wounds, stepped out into the salon, his eyes flashing a warning. "And he can be again," the amber voice hissed.
Christine sighed and shook her head in irritation. "Stop it, both of you. Raoul, please sit down. Erik, it's all right." She seized her childhood friend's hands and drew him down on the divan beside her. Conscious of the weight of those smoldering black eyes, Raoul sat stiffly on the edge of the cushion, silent.
She tried again. "Raoul, please," she pleaded softly. "You must let this go. You must let me go."
"How can I, Christine?" he said bitterly, but his thumb gently rubbed the knuckles of the hand he was holding. "I had thought…" His voice trailed off, and he took her hands, shutting his eyes against the words he knew were to come, a muscle twitching in one cheek.
Raoul took a deep, shuddering breath. "Tell my truly," he said softly, "do you love this man?" His blue eyes opened, full of pain and acceptance.
"Yes," she said gently. "With all my heart."
"And you have for a long time, I think. Despite all he has done, all you have seen."
"Yes."
"And what is it you feel for me?"
She pulled his hands upward and kissed his fingers tenderly. "Oh Raoul. I never meant to hurt you. I do care for you…but I know now, as the brother I never had from my childhood, as my dear friend today."
He stood, still clasping her hands. "Then at least I may have that. All I can hope for is that you mean it, and I have always wanted you to be happy." He smiled faintly. "I can only wish it had been with me." Carefully he brushed her hair away from her forehead, seeing the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "Goodbye, Christine, and forgive me. If you ever have need of me, in any way, please…" He broke off, unable to continue, and leaning forward, kissed her gently and turned to go.
The young vicomte gathered his hat and stick from the foyer, then bowed, facing the gaunt, silent man who stood beside the study door. "Forgive me, Monsieur…and take care of her. She is very dear to me. Adieu."
For a moment, Erik studied him, then stretched out a long, thin hand. "Not adieu, but au revoir. Be safe on your travels."
Raoul nodded, smiled at Christine, and was gone.
It was at dinner that Giles Andre received what was quite possibly the shock of his life. He was dining with Joseph Allard. Though the man was some twenty years apart from him in age, both were single and had formed first an acquaintance and then a friendship over evenings at their club.
He had brought Joseph the preliminary program for one of the upcoming autumn evening concerts. Joseph had looked it over, making acerbic remarks on most of the music choices.
"Ah! But I see the charming Mlle Daae is performing!" His finger jabbed the program suddenly. "And with a piece by E. Rouillard. Erik Rouillard, I assume, the composer?"
Giles looked up. "I am sure I don't know." Erik? He felt a sudden tightness around his lungs.
Joseph speared another bite with his fork and frowned. "Surely you've met him. Christine's husband, the composer?"
Giles took a hasty gulp from his wine glass. "Actually, no," he sputtered. "Christine tends to keep her personal life very quiet. Have you?"
Joseph looked alarmed. "Giles, whatever ails you? And yes, I've met him. Once, when he signed his contract, and later again at their flat. He's with our publishing house. Two books for students so far, a Vocal Exercises and a Violin Exercises, both proving to be quite popular. Another book, Nocturnes, is coming out soon."
The older man's eyes had taken on a look of desperate intensity. "Joseph, I beg you…describe this person, please."
"You would remember if you'd met him." Joseph frowned. "He's rather reserved, a tall thin man, dark hair. Brilliant musician. Wears a mask over half of his face. War injury, I always assumed, didn't think it polite to inquire."
"A mask?" squeaked Giles, turning an unbecoming color of old parchment. "I, um…" His thoughts flew furiously. Christine rarely mentioned her husband, only smiling when asked about him and saying that they preferred to live quietly, without publicity. The man was a composer, yes. He seemed to remember M Reyer waxing rhapsodic about the instrumental parts of the aria Christine would be performing, and asking if her husband might have any other works he could see.
But a mask…and that name. Surely not…it could not be possible.
The event was held in the reception hall at the officers' club. The new electric lighting gleamed on gold braid and polished buttons. Men and women moved freely about the room, chatting quietly, admiring the paintings and discussing the schematics of the Aréthuse. Her captain stood proudly in his uniform, a tall man with a short clipped greying beard and mustache, shaking hands and answering questions. The ship would be launched in the next week.
Philippe sipped from his glass appreciably. "Do watch the rum punch, it's rather potent."
Raoul threw him a glance of anger and grief. "I cannot believe you are making a jest when my heart is in pieces," he seethed.
Philippe sighed. "You will forget her in time, my brother. All things pass."
"Never!" he hissed.
Philippe's eyes roamed the room, noting various politicians he would make a point to speak with before the evening was out, and making a game of placing husbands and wives together. Movement caught his eye; a young woman entered from the kitchen bearing a tray and gracefully set it down, replacing clean glasses and snowy serviettes on the banquet table. She was tall and well-proportioned, with long blond hair wrapped in braids around her head…and Philippe noted her clear cornflower blue eyes strayed often to his brother's unhappy face.
"Who is that exquisite creature?" Philippe nodded over his glass and Raoul turned.
"Éléonore, the captain's only daughter. Only child, too...her mother is dead," he said indifferently.
"She seems without a companion tonight," Philippe observed. "You might speak with her; no doubt it would please her father."
With a bitter look, Raoul acquiesced and crossed the room. The girl glanced briefly at Philippe, who smiled and slowly nodded. She ducked her head, smiling back, and turned to look up at Raoul.
"And some day, perhaps, little brother, you might just thank me," Philippe murmured and chuckled inwardly, and went to discuss politics.
Hidden well back in the shadows of Box 5, Erik steepled his fingers and listened critically to the evening performance. Beside him Nadir Khan leaned back, fingers waving in time with the music. Henri Sellier, the new tenor, was doing a rather good job, he had to admit. The man was in his mid-thirties and happily married, an additional welcome bit of news. Below, Carlotta was taking her final bows, tears streaming down her face. A rare moment of pity cracked through his sneering disdain. Between Gabrielle's dulcet tones and his Christine's clear, bell-like soprano, it was painfully obvious her aria tonight had been an act of mercy, a final bow for a diva ready for retirement. Years of over-extending her voice, coupled with poor training, had ended her career before its time.
The Palais Garnier was doing well. At long last the managers were able to stick with the business side of things, for Charles Dumont, the director, had proven to be a man of capability. He, the stage manager, and M Reyer worked smoothly as a team. The autumn line up of concerts, ballets, operas, and plays looked to be a series of excellent choices. His Opera was at last in good hands.
Cautiously Erik touched on his thoughts. He rather suspected this feeling was contentment, and he approached it with some trepidation. He felt...calm? At peace? At least more so now than at any other time he could recall. Dressed elegantly, he was clean, comfortable, surrounded by music, with a home to return to tonight. Though he refused any personal contact, he was working again, respected as an architect and composer. And at home later, she would be there, would touch him in all her gentleness and love, would allow him the divine gift of lying with her in their…their bed. His Christine, his wife. This sensation was so foreign, so elusive, he feared to analyze it very much, lest he wake up and realize it was not real.
Nadir Khan had returned with them after the concert, joining them for a late dinner and chess afterwards. After losing two games, he used the newly-installed telephone to ring Darius for the carriage, complaining about his old bones and misfortunes, but left with a smile.
The instrument had been a necessity for his architectural consulting work. Erik, who had been prepared to loathe the intrusive device, seemed to take a secret delight now in using it. He would lift the receiver and in his imperious voice, demand the services of laundress or maid, the delivery of groceries, or a carriage brought 'round. All in all, he found it a very satisfactory arrangement.
Curled on the sofa by the fireplace, Christine folded the most recent letter from Meg and laid it aside with a smile. There would be time tomorrow to respond. Meg and her mother were visiting a distant elderly relation in the southeast of France. Meg, who had rarely traveled, was finding the trip stimulating. She had met someone, a young man with an almost unpronounceable last name, a young man with warm brown eyes, brown hair and a small moustache. He painted, and reminded her very much of the men who displayed their light-filled canvases along the sidewalks and bridges of Paris. He was the fifth son of a Baron, and having escaped the pre-destined roles of inheritance, military, and clergy, was free to pursue his artistic leanings. There was no money, Meg assured Christine, but also no pressure to marry well. He liked her, she thought, and Christine read blushes all over the letter.
She felt rather than heard Erik's quiet footsteps approach. He had been writing notes in the study and now came to stand behind her, his long cool hands resting gently on her shoulders. Christine raised his hand to her cheek, leaning against it and kissing his palm. "All done?"
"Yes."
He deposited the letters on the console table, ready for tomorrow's mail, then expertly banked the fire and closed the glass doors to prevent a draft or accidental sparks. Smiling, she stood and moved into his arms. "My Christine," he said softly, and leaned into the hand she stroked along his good cheek.
He would never be comfortable in social situations, never be completely free of the shadows that haunted him, but they were together and the storms of the past two years had at last cleared, leaving behind a rare peace. Erik brushed his lips against her forehead, his eyes glowing golden in the remaining firelight, and she rose to her toes, embracing him. "Shall we?"
"Yes."
The spiky black handwriting was oddly familiar, and M Firmin turned the letter over in his hands, a cold feeling of dread slowly gathering in his chest. Andre's words, so easily dismissed, now gathered in a queasy memory. The paper was heavy, expensive. He slit the top and pulled out a black-bordered note. A bank check fell into his hands.
My Dear Messrs Firmin and Andre,
The concert night was an unqualified success. Madame Krauss was delightful, and the duet between Mlle Daae and M Melisidec was glorious. La Carlotta did not embarrass unduly, and mercifully we will not have to experience her croaking again. M Sellier is a welcome addition to the ensemble and seems competent. I think we can all agree that the crowning triumph of the night was Christine's aria, and I am pleased.
The first bassoonist was superb, do pass along my compliments. The second trombonist needs replaced...I have no idea what M Reyer is thinking.
I shall expect Box Five kept for me for the next performance.
Your obedient friend and servant,
Erik Rouillard
The Opera Ghost had come full circle.
Thank you all so much for reading. Second Chance has been a joy to write, and receiving your kind comments and reviews has always been such a delight. If you've been holding off leaving a review until now, this is your last chance!
I'd love to see this story reach 300 reviews some day. So please...let me know what you think!
~Riene, Sept 2016