Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  “There’s nothing your young friend, Raoul, has that I don’t, except for a pretty face; in fact, quite to the contrary. Look, Christine,” I said as I stepped away from the chair and held out my arms from my sides. “I’m a man in every respect. I have two arms, two legs, all in good working order, but, most of all, I have a heart that I’m giving to you unconditionally.”

  She also took a deep breath and looked away from me toward the fire. I watched her for a moment, and then, trying not to limp and disprove what I’d just told her, I took another chance. I stepped to within one meter of her and knelt down on one knee, so we could look eye to eye.

  “Can’t you look beyond this mask, Christine, and look at me?” She took another deep breath and looked in my eyes. Then I spoke softly, “A simple grain of sand in the bottom of your shoe can become quite irritating and you quickly take off your shoe and shake that grain of sand out on the ground. Then you keep walking without another thought about that ordinary piece of earth. But that same grain of sand if put inside an oyster’s shell will, in time, produce a beautiful and very valuable pearl.

  “Most people, when they first encounter me, consider me nothing more than an irritant that should be thrown away and walked over. But those who give me enough time eventually see how I can produce beauty that has great worth. Give me time, Christine. Just give me time, and I’ll give you beauty of greater value than a pretty face.”

  She glanced down at her hands in her lap and then back into my eyes, so I started again with a tone of voice that showed the depth of my sincerity. “Look in my eyes and see if I’m not telling you the truth. Look deep, Christine, and you’ll see my soul. Look beyond this mask and see if I’m whole in every other respect.

  “I can offer you the same, if not more, than your young de Chagny. What does he have that I don’t, other than a pretty face? His face will change, you know. He’ll grow old, or some fate could befall him and he would no longer have his pretty face. Would you feel the same way about him then? What would you do if he lost his pretty face?”

  She looked frightened, and I feared my words sounded more like a threat than simple reasoning, so I tried again. “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything to spoil his pretty face.” Although I wanted to add that I was tempted, but I tried changing my direction instead.

  “We have something you’ll never have with him, and you know that to be true if you listen closely to your heart. You’re just too frightened of this mask and all that has happened tonight to let yourself see beyond it. I don’t believe you to be so shallow that you would let my mask hamper you from seeing who I am. You can’t be.”

  I felt that ache in my jaw and tears start to form in my eyes, so I glanced at the fire and swallowed hard, trying to maintain control. “You’ll never have anyone who’ll share your passion for music as I do.” I looked back at her and she was also staring at the fire. “Look at me, Christine. Not my mask, but me—look at me.”

  When she looked back into my eyes, I continued. “I can match or surpass the Vicomte’s wealth and his name if you’re by my side. I can make my name known on a much grander scale, believe me. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again—for you. You’ll never find anyone who’ll love you more than I. Look at me, and see me, not the mask or what’s behind it.”

  She shook her head and frowned. “What are you talking about? Are you seriously asking me to love you and stay forever with you when we’ve just met? You’re mad!”

  “Perhaps,” I responded with a sigh. “But do you really know anyone who has lived in this insane world who can claim to be entirely sane?”

  Her head shook. “I must be dreaming. This can’t possibly be happening to me. I don’t understand any of this.”

  She looked around the room again and her rapid breathing was telling me she was about to do something, but I just didn’t know what. My leg was hurting severely in my kneeling position, but I was afraid to move, afraid that any movement might increase her fears. Therefore, I stayed put and tried to apologize.

  “I’m sorry, Christine. I never wanted you to be so frightened. I had this entire evening planned out so well, but nothing seems to be going the way I’d intended. As we traveled down here, I wanted to be singing to you so you would know who I was and trust me. The last thing I wanted was for you to fear me or my actions. I promise you, I’ll do you no harm. I only want you to stay down here with me for four days. That’s all I ask.”

  She was looking in my eyes when I finished, and, at first, I thought everything was all right, but then she recoiled from me and started again.

  “What do you mean, down here? Where are we?”

  I looked around at all the colorful flowers and burning candles and tried to answer her honestly. “We’re in my home, and my home is in the fifth cellar of the opera house. Would you like to see it?”

  Clenching my teeth, I managed to get to my feet and hold out my hand to her. She looked at my hand and then up at my face and then back at my hand. I stayed put in that position until she got up and moved past me, without taking my hand and in apparent defiance.

  “This room, as you can see, doubles as a library and a drawing room. While you’re here, you’re welcome to read any of these books you wish. I have a nice selection, so I’m sure you can find something you’d like.”

  She nodded, and then her eyes scanned the multitude of books on the shelves. She moved closer to them and ran her fingers over a few of the titles, while I stood watching her with my nervous hands holding each other behind my back. That was the first positive response I’d gotten from her since we left her dressing room.

  “You have eclectic taste in books,” she offered as she glanced over her shoulder at me.

  I took a step closer to the bookshelf and also scanned my collection. “Yes, I presume I do. I don’t believe there should be any boundaries on knowledge, other than the amount of time we have on earth to take it all in.”

  I let her stay there until she looked back at me, and then I walked into my music room, turned and waited for her to follow me. Once she entered, I began.

  “This is where I keep my most prized possession—my music.”

  Her eyes came to life and the fear and suspicion left for the first time, causing me to smile. She looked at me, also with a smile, and then she held that position. I then realized that was the first time I’d smiled at her. I felt my smile broaden with her reaction to my music room, or perhaps my smile, or both. She started walking through the room, running her hands over everything. When she came to my violin lying on the top of the piano, her smile softened and she picked it up. She held it a few moments, and then she looked at me.

  “This is an expensive instrument. I can tell,” she remarked with wonder.

  I nodded. “Yes, but with its sound it would be worth any price.”

  She gently laid it back down on my piano and headed for the door. I started to follow her, but then she stopped and looked back at the violin.

  She thought for a moment and then looked up at me. “Perros?”

  I nodded, knowing it was going to take her some time to put all the pieces together.

  “You were there with me? It was you who played the violin for my father?”

  “Yes, Christine. I told you I would, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but that was my angel.”

  “I was playing the part of your angel for you, to help you gain the confidence you needed, the confidence you lacked, the confidence you now have.”

  She stared at me, and, for only a moment, I don’t think she saw the mask.

  “My father was right. Your playing is beyond compare. No wonder he thought you to be an angel. You had me fooled.”

  “I wasn’t trying to fool you, Christine. I was only trying to help you.”

  After a moment more of looking at me, she nodded and started to leave the room once more, but then stopped again and looked back at me.

  “The park? You were the man in the park. You were there. I saw you.” Her
hand went to her mouth and she looked at the floor in thought. “I talked to you—there in Perros and in my dressing room. You were always there. It was you I was always talking to. It was you.”

  The light had finally come on, and as the thoughts flooded in on her, I thought she was going to faint again. She reached for the piano to steady herself, and I reached for her shoulder, but then I thought again and pulled away.

  I motioned toward a chair by the organ and suggested, “You look as if you need to sit for a moment.”

  She complied, and, after sitting down, she laid her head against its back and looked at me. I stayed by my piano and away from her.

  She was gazing at the ceiling as she spoke. “It was always you. All those conversations were with you.”

  “Yes, Christine. You see, we already know each other. I’m no stranger to you.”

  She nodded and looked around the room again. “I see you play more than the violin.”

  “Yes, I have more than an abnormal fondness for music,” I replied as I ran my fingers over my piano keys. I waited a moment more and then asked, “Would you like to see the rest of my home?”

  She shook her head. “Not right now. I’m tired and I like it in this room. It’s comforting. Would you play something for me? Would you sing for me?”

  “Absolutely, my dear. It would be my pleasure.”

  I accompanied myself through one piece, and she kept requesting more, so I complied. Then, at one point, I looked over my shoulder and found her asleep and I smiled. My beautiful Christine was asleep—in my home.

  I stood in front of her and spoke her name, but she didn’t respond. I knelt down in front of her and touched her hand, squeezing a bit and repeating her name. She opened her eyes sleepily, and I got to my feet, with her hand still in mine.

  “Let me show you to your room, Christine. You need rest. It’s been a trying day.”

  She didn’t argue with me or pull her hand from mine as I led her to her room. I opened her door and we were instantly caressed with the fragrance of the burning lavender candles. We both took a deep breath at the same time, and I looked down at her and smiled. I stayed in the doorway and gestured with my hand for her to enter. She looked up at me and walked past me so close that I thought I would be the one to faint.

  When she looked in, she gasped. “I can tell you put a lot of thought into making me comfortable, and, while I do appreciate it, I’m still angry with you.”

  I closed my eyes. “I know, and rightfully so.”

  I was at her mercy and was preparing for the worst scenario: her complete rejection.

  She looked around and then looked at me with a strange expression on her face.

  “This is my favorite color and scent. Everything is so beautiful. Did you know? Did you know lavender was my favorite color?”

  I smiled and nodded. “I wanted you to be pleased with the room. Are you pleased?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” she responded while looking around. “You’ve gone to so much trouble for me.”

  “Believe me, Christine, it’s been no trouble at all. In the armoire and through that door you should find everything you need to make yourself comfortable.”

  She nodded. “Thank you, but I’m still angry with you for what you’ve done to me. You had no right to bring me here this way. I’m not your possession.”

  “I know, and I do apologize,” I replied with lowered head. “I truly do apologize.”

  She sighed. “I can’t imagine the worry those above us must be going through.”

  I had no answer, for that feature of my plan I’d neglected to consider. I was trying to think my way to a good response when she cocked her head and noticed the dressing table. She frowned as she ran her fingers along its edges, much as she had in the shop.

  “I love this piece. I’ve dreamt of owning it for . . .” She froze and stared at it. Then she looked at me. “Was this merely a coincidence or did you know how much I liked this particular antique?”

  “I knew you liked it, and I wanted you to have it.”

  “But how did you know? I don’t remember telling anyone about it, not even Mummy or Meg.”

  “Your heart knew it, so I knew it,” I replied while slipping back into her angel’s character.

  “No!” she snapped. “No more tricks and lies. You’re not an angel. You can’t read my heart, so how did you know?”

  “Very well, I saw you in that antique shop, and I saw how you looked at it, so in a way I was reading your heart.”

  She frowned more. “You saw me there? When?”

  “Often,” was my answer as I shifted my weight and leaned against the door frame, trying to relieve the pain in my leg.

  She frowned even more and cocked her head at me that time. “Do you also visit that shop?” She glanced around. “I don’t see other antiques in here, only this one. And all the lavender—how did you know that was my favorite color and scent?”

  I started to answer, but by then she was putting the pieces together so she asked me outright, “Did you follow me to that shop?”

  “I have to admit that I did, but . . .”

  Before I could defend myself, she scrunched her face. “You followed me? Like a stalker? That’s sick. No, that’s demented.”

  “Demented?” I rebutted strongly, while forgetting who I was talking to. “Really now. Demented?”

  Fortunately, I took a breath and a moment to hold my tongue before I did serious harm. She had no idea why certain words cut right through me, so I tried to continue in a softer tone, but, from her reaction, I think my strong feelings showed through anyway.

  “Demented? Perhaps some might call it that, but I was acting out of love, and I wanted the woman I loved to have her heart’s desire. I also wanted her to be safe, and a woman walking alone on the streets of Paris is not safe. You can call me your unseen escort if you wish but not demented. My stalking you, as you called it, was done out of a heart full of love—not a demented mind.”

  She looked shocked and silently stared at me. Realizing the blunder I’d made, I clenched my teeth and lowered my head.

  “I’m sorry, Christine. That was rude of me. There’re some subjects that hit . . . I . . . it . . . please forgive my outburst. It won’t happen again.”

  Her face softened, she took a deep breath, and looked around the room again. When her sight came back to the dressing table, she ran her fingers over the items I’d put on top of it, then she picked up the lavender quill and ran it gently across her fingers.

  “You certainly captured the essence of my likes,” she said softly when glancing at me.

  “I tried,” was my simple reply.

  She looked back down at the items on her table, and then her eyes widened when she looked at the two red roses.

  She looked at me again and softly smiled. “It was you who gave me two fresh roses every day. It was all you.”

  I nodded, and she slightly shook her head. She steadied herself with her fingertips on the edge of the table and then sat down in the chair. Her head was down when she shook it again.

  “It was always you,” she repeated almost under her breath. She raised her head and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. Then she gasped and her fingers covered her open mouth. “The mirror? The flowers talked. The mirror talked. The tree in Perros? It talked. You made them talk? How did you make them talk?” She put her palm against her forehead and seriously frowned. “There’s so much I don’t understand. I feel so confused. What have you done to me?”

  In my most compassionate tone, I tried to reassure her. “I realize there’s a lot you don’t understand, and I don’t expect you to understand it all at once. We’ll talk more tomorrow, and I’ll answer all your questions then. Try to sleep now, and if you need anything else, just let me know.”

  She nodded. “I’d like you to play your violin for me. When I was a child and couldn’t sleep, my father played his violin for me. It would be comforting to me if you would play yours now.”


  “It’s my pleasure,” I responded. Then, as I started to close the door, I added softly, “Sleep well, Christine.”

  Twenty-Three

  As the door clicked closed, I leaned back against it and sighed contentedly. She was here. She was finally here in my home. At that moment, my heart swelled with love and thanksgiving for her.

  To fulfill her request, I got my violin and began playing softly. While sitting on the coffee table and glancing at her door often, I played three pieces before I stopped. Then I just sat there, looking at the door and thinking. The day may not have gone exactly the way I’d intended, but it ended with her sleeping under my roof. What more could I ask?

  That question triggered the pain of being shot, the sick visions of Buquet hanging in the third cellar, and the horrors of the chandelier falling. Those thoughts took me in an entirely different direction, so I went to Christine’s door and knocked softly. There was no answer, and since I needed to be sure she was sleeping before I left her alone, I peeked in. The sight of her asleep, with her golden hair spread out over the lavender pillow, helped to soothe my troubled spirit.

  Within minutes after that, my cloak was on, and I was heading up the passage that led from my music room to the main floor. Everyone was gone from the auditorium, except for ten men working around the fallen chandelier. All the restful thoughts I’d had while playing my violin for Christine were completely gone by the time I reached the chandelier’s rigging room.

  My managers were there with several workers and two uniformed men, so I waited for over an hour for them to leave before I could do my own investigating. What I discovered made my heart ill.

  The metal supports for the chandelier’s counter balance looked as if they’d been damaged by heat, perhaps a small electrical fire. Earlier that day, I’d opted not to climb any higher and check that one area because of my leg. I reasoned that they were metal and weren’t that old so they should have been in perfect condition, but, obviously, they weren’t.