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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 52/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 5084
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Wedding bells.
MONSIEUR ET MADAME OPERA GHOST
“Erik, for the love of God have some pity on me and sit down! If you don’t stop pacing I swear I’ll hit you over the head and sit on you until the ladies arrive,” James Patterson-Smythe declared with a determined expression, hefting his walking stick in one hand. “You’re enough to drive a man to complete distraction!”
“I would dearly like to see you try,” Erik snarled, taking another turn about the little waiting room. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in such a state, wound so tightly he feared he might snap at any moment. Pulling out his watch he checked the dial for the tenth time in as many minutes. She was late, surely? Why wasn’t she here yet... had she finally changed her mind? The little voice in his head that had spent the last forty years constantly telling him he was unworthy of love, that there must have been a reason why his mother despised him and his father startled when he entered the room, piped up once more: Her eyes have been opened... she’s seen de Chagny again, seen what she could have had, what she could have been... why would she want to shackle herself to a hideous wretch like you? She’s probably a hundred miles away by now...
James frowned at him. “I’m quite happy to take you on; I used to box for my college, you know,” he said, and sighed when Erik failed to respond. “Please, just come and sit down. Christ, I’ve seen men nervous before they get hitched but you’re just like a cat on hot bricks. Any more of this and you’ll work yourself into a frenzy and I’ll have to call a doctor. Teddy will kill me and I doubt if Christine will appreciate a forcibly-sedated husband on her wedding night.”
Wedding night... With a despairing groan Erik sank into the chair beside his friend, dropping his head into his hands. Jimmy reached into the pocket of his morning coat and withdrew a hip flask, wordlessly waggling it in front of Erik’s face; he found himself accepting the Dutch courage, spluttering as the whisky burned the back of his throat. “Thank you,” he coughed, fumbling for a handkerchief.
“It’ll all be over in a few hours,” Jimmy soothed. He took a swig from the flask himself and it vanished back into his pocket. “I don’t know why we go through all this fuss just to a get a piece of paper telling us we can legally cohabit; might as well just fill in a form and have it stamped yes or no, but I suppose the women enjoy all the display.”
“There is the religious aspect,” Erik pointed out.
“I suppose, but that’s not essential here, is it? You lot made marriage a civil contract a hundred years ago.”
“It is important to Christine.” And because it meant so much to her he had reluctantly agreed to speak with the priest who would be conducting their blessing at the little church of St Marguerite in Neuilly. Erik had not set foot inside a sacred building in many years; even as he passed over the threshold he had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him. A sinner such as himself did not belong in a church; had he made a confession he would not know where to begin, which transgression to seek absolution for first. Father Jérôme, a stocky, round-faced man with the physique of a prize-fighter and the calm of an Eastern mystic, sensed his unease and had led him to the vestry, away from the accusatory eyes of the saints and apostles. They spoke for a long time, the priest making no judgements and offering few homilies, a far cry from the churchmen of Erik’s childhood; he could still recall the fire in the eyes of the Jesuit his mother had called to the house in an attempt to exorcise the evil spirit she believed resided within his poor little body, still hear the man’s harsh voice as he chanted Latin incantations, his spittle flecking the huge, leather-bound Bible thrust before him as protection against this child of the Devil. He shuddered at the thought, pushing the memories to the back if his mind where they belonged. He would not think of his mother today. Much to his surprise, Father Jérôme had been understanding of his dilemma, listening gravely to the curtailed explanation he gave for his disillusionment with the Church, and despite himself he came away quite liking the man. “Though I know she would forgo it if I asked, she will not truly be happy if she is not married with God’s blessing.”
James leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle. “We all have to make some sacrifices.”
“That is not one I wished to ask of her.” Erik looked down at his hands. “Even if it involves facing demons of my own.”
“A few skeletons in your closet, are there?” Jimmy’s eyebrow flicked upwards and his voice took on the interested tone that meant he thought a little gossip might be in the offing.
Erik laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. He glanced at his watch, wishing that Christine would hurry before he entirely lost his nerve. “You have no idea, James,” he said, “No idea at all.”
“You love to play the man of mystery, don’t you? Is that why none of your relatives are attending this afternoon – you didn’t tell them you were getting married to preserve your enigmatic facade?” Jimmy asked. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that your house is entirely devoid of family pictures.”
“It is very hard to invite the dead to a wedding,” Erik told him sourly, which had the desired effect of silencing the American for a few moments.
In truth, he could hardly believe that they were actually sitting there in a tiny side room in the Hôtel de Ville, waiting for his bride to arrive, a registrar somewhere beyond with the necessary documents to tie him and Christine together for the rest of their lives. The past few weeks had passed so quickly they were virtually indistinguishable; Die Fledermaus had gone down well with the summer patrons and Christine even played Rosalinde for a week when Theodora developed a late summer cold. Marigny and Fontaine were ecstatic with the receipts, the newspapers were asking why La Daae was not given more starring roles and Erik and Reyer’s new ballet was such a success that the music shops were besieged by customers seeking a copy of the score. Amidst all of this there had been suit fittings for himself and James, new dresses for Antoinette and Meg, the wedding gown to be cleaned and mended, flowers to be ordered and a buffet organised for the reception; after much deliberation it was decided to ask the guests back to the new house and Erik was startled to be knocked up by Madame Giry that morning at first light demanding a key so that she could get in later to lay out the food before they returned from the church. His head had barely stopped spinning since; his hands trembled so much when he tried to fasten his cravat or do up his cufflinks that Jimmy was forced to offer his assistance and he had only just managed to drink a cup of coffee without spilling it all over himself. Though he was reluctant to admit it, Erik was grateful to his new friend for staying the night and attempting to calm his nerves, though he had demurred at Jimmy’s suggestion they both take advantage of the soporific qualities of a bottle of Scotch.
Thankfully, after the publication of Didier Tolbert’s interview in Le Monde, no more had been heard of Francois Béringer and Erik fervently hoped they would be spared his noxious presence later at the church. Tolbert informed them gleefully that Béringer attempted to sell a piece claiming Christine was living in a bohemian enclave in Pigalle, sharing herself between two men and posing nude for the delectation of the artistic community but even the editor of Le Figaro drew the line at printing such a ludicrous story; the fact that Raoul, on Jimmy’s advice, had threatened the man with legal action over the accusation that he had been the instigator of the attack upon Erik just put the icing on the cake. The thoughts of the Comte de Chagny over all of this were still unknown, and the Vicomte returned to sea shortly after the interview appeared in public. The feeling of relief was palpable, but Erik found himself reluctant to relax just yet; though he might have left his cellars, the Phantom was still able to haunt him.
Wanting to pace again but not wishing to provoke James into attempting some indignity upon his person, he picked up the fedora lying on the chair beside him, placing it in his lap for a moment before nerves overcame him once more and he fell to twirling the brim through his fingers. Though his tailor had looked askance and been affronted when he refused a polished top hat like that Jimmy held on his knee to accompany his formal dove grey suit, Erik could not bring himself to abandon his old friend, feeling exposed without the wide, soft brim to partially conceal his mask. The white porcelain was reflected like a half moon in the gleaming leather of his boots and he glanced up to find the clerk seated at the desk in the corner watching him curiously. Erik shot him a glare and the man hurriedly returned to his work.
“They’re here,” Jimmy announced suddenly, getting to his feet. Listening hard Erik realised he could hear voices in the corridor outside and to his great shame was convinced that if he stood now his knees would give way. It was an utterly ridiculous situation: the man who not so long ago held an entire Opera House in his thrall, had them all terrified of his every word, was reduced to a quivering wreck by his impending marriage to the woman he loved!
The clerk rose from his seat and ducked outside, returning a few moments later to beckon and say, “This way, Messieurs; all is ready for you.”
________________________________________
The room set aside for civil marriages was large but sparsely-furnished. The architect in Erik wondered to what use it had been put before, as the gilded mouldings and Trompe l’oleil ceiling fresco suggested grander things. Freestanding arrangements of white roses and ribbons flanked the table behind which stood the registrar, a neat little man with an outrageous waxed moustache and meticulously-parted hair, and facing him four rows of red velvet-upholstered seats had been set out with an aisle between them. Only two of these were occupied, by Theodora Merriman and Antoinette Giry, both of whom stood as the men approached them; Teddy was barely visible beneath the most enormous hat Erik had ever seen, a ridiculous feathered confection the approximate size of a cartwheel precariously pinned to one side of her piled chestnut hair. Erik thought she might tip over at any minute from the uneven distribution of the weight. Beside her Madame Giry was as prim and severe as usual, though she had exchanged her black for midnight blue; her hat was as tiny as Teddy’s was huge, a little pillbox creation embellished with a net veil. She was smiling as he and James took their places, and reached out to take his hand.
“I never thought I’d see this day,” she said quietly, a tear shining in her eye.
Erik lifted a finger to gently wipe it away. “You disapproved, if I recall.”
“I know.” Antoinette shook her head. “I’m happy to have been wrong.”
“Shhh, don’t let anyone hear you say that,” he said with a lop-sided grin. “You have a reputation to maintain, after all.”
“You’re looking very swish, Maestro,” Teddy announced, before Madame could respond. She winked. “I just might have to fight Christine for you.”
Erik felt himself flush, embarrassed that she should take notice of his appearance. Mercifully James interrupted, demanding, “Teddy, where on God’s green earth did you find that hat? I’ve seen smaller baseball pitches!”
The registrar cleared his throat. “Mesdames et Messieurs... if we might begin..?”
There were murmurs of apology and shuffling about as they all returned to their appropriate positions. Erik found himself holding his breath, clenching his fists around his suddenly sweating palms as the registrar raised a hand in signal to the ushers at the doors; there was a moment’s pause and then, to the accompaniment of a piano, the doors were opened and Christine made her entrance on the arm of Monsieur Reyer, Meg following behind. Though her face was obscured by the veil, she looked stunning; he had gazed upon the dress so many times as it hung on the mannequin in his subterranean house, but such moments could never have prepared him for the sight of the flesh and blood Christine wearing the wedding gown he had designed. He was glad of the countless hours he had put into its creation, the determination that it should be absolutely perfect; it accentuated her curves and her tiny waist, the full lace flounces of the skirt moving gracefully with her every step. One little hand rested on Reyer’s arm; the other held a bouquet of pink and ivory roses interspersed with trailing orange blossom to match the decorations on her headdress.
He was sure he must be staring, open-mouthed like a simpleton as they came to the end of the aisle and Reyer, beaming from ear to ear with pride, handed Christine over to him. Meg, a vision in rose-pink satin, her gleaming golden curls caught up in a coronet of fresh flowers, fussed about with her friend’s train for a few moments before taking the bouquet Christine handed to her and scurrying to one side, dabbing at eyes that welled up despite her smile. Hesitating awkwardly for several seconds before he remembered what to do, with trembling fingers Erik reached up to lift the veil, carefully smoothing it back to reveal Christine’s beautiful face, her lips lifted and eyes shining with joy. He thought that if God decided to strike him down at that very moment he would die a happy man.
The pianist ended his recital with a flourish, and after a brief pause the registrar began: “Mesdames et Messieurs, we are here today to join Erik Charles Gabriel Claudin and Christine Louise Daae together in matrimony...”
________________________________________
“...the giving and receiving of a ring.”
Everyone looked at James expectantly. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and rummaged for a few seconds before withdrawing an empty hand with an apologetic expression. Christine looked horrified, and Erik glared. Behind them he heard Teddy hiss “Jimmy..!” before the fool produced the jeweller’s boxes from his waistcoat instead, presenting them to the registrar with a deep bow and a cheeky grin. Erik made a mental note to harm the man in some fashion later for pulling such an inappropriate stunt; the registrar, who judging from his bored expression had obviously seen it all before, removed the rings from the boxes and laid them on the book in front of him.
“Now,” he said, “If you will repeat after me: ‘I, Erik, call upon these persons here present to witness that I take thee, Christine, as my lawfully wedded wife. I solemnly declare that I know not of any just impediment why I, Erik, should not be joined in matrimony to Christine’.”
Erik’s fingers were shaking almost uncontrollably as he took Christine’s left hand in his and slipped the ring onto her finger, but his voice thankfully remained as level and confident as ever, obeying his commands as his traitorous body did not. Gaze fixed on her radiant face he almost forgot to let her hand go, releasing it only when the registrar turned to Christine, calling upon her to make the same declaration. Her hand barely wavered as she took the second gold ring between her finger and thumb; it was hardly fashionable for the groom to wear a ring but Erik had been adamant that he would do so, wanting the world to know that he had been accepted by the love of his life. He hardly heard the words as Christine held his hand in hers, gently squeezing his fingers in silent encouragement.
“I, Christine, call upon these persons here present to witness that I take thee, Erik, as my lawfully wedded husband. I solemnly declare that I know not of any just impediment why I, Christine, should not be joined in matrimony to Erik.”
“You have made your vows to each other in the presence of these witnesses and to the requirement of the laws of the Republic,” the registrar declared, his moustache raised to an alarming angle as he smiled broadly, so much so that Erik feared it might vanish right up the man’s nose, “All that remains is for me to pronounce you man and wife.” He paused for effect before adding, “You may kiss the bride.”
All further thought of the man’s moustache fleeing his mind, and accompanied by applause from their guests, Erik did just that.
________________________________________
“We’ve done it! We’re actually married!”
Christine flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek as they stood on the pavement outside the Hôtel de Ville. Having already been embraced by Antoinette, Meg and Teddy, more women than had ever previously touched him during the whole of his life, Erik was reeling, and could not shake the feeling of complete dislocation that had swept over him after the ceremony had ended. Had he not been able to see the ring on Christine’s finger and feel the weight of its twin on his own he might have convinced himself that the whole of the last half an hour had been a dream. A smile kept stealing onto his face and would not go away no matter how hard he tried; though he knew he was completely sober he still felt as if he had drunk a whole bottle of brandy and chased it down with a pint of claret.
“Well, Monsieur and Madame Claudin, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Theodora said with a grin, bobbing a curtsy that made her petite figure almost disappear from sight, obscured by the expansive brim of her hat. She rose gracefully, smile now tempered with genuine affection. “I hope you’ll have a wonderful life together. Heck, what am I saying? I know you will!”
“And she knows everything, so I’d believe her if I were you,” Jimmy added, earning himself a whack on the arm with Teddy’s handbag.
“Oh, Christine, it was beautiful,” Meg sniffed, gathering up her best friend in a tight hug. Her make-up was running down her face in streaks and her nose was red but she insisted she was not upset, just overcome by the occasion. “I’ve never been - ” She hiccupped “ – so... so happy..!”
Antoinette came and took her daughter’s arm, drawing her away before she could start bawling like a child. “Meg Giry...” she said with a sigh, casting her eyes heavenward. The carriages were returning to collect them, and she looked grateful for the distraction. This time the bride and groom would travel together to their blessing, followed by their witnesses in the second brougham. “Come along or we will be late for church.”
“I can’t believe it’s really happened,” Christine said as Erik handed her into the coach and sat down beside her. She looked at her hand in his, admiring her wedding ring, moving it this way and that to catch the light. “I’m Christine Claudin now; it was so funny trying not to write Daae in the register by mistake!”
“Do you regret it?” He couldn’t help but ask the question, deep-seated doubt forcing the words to his lips. Those doubts, however, flew from him in an instant when she turned her glowing face to his and looked upon him with dark eyes so full of adoration that his heart jolted painfully in his chest.
“Not for a moment,” she told him seriously, laying the palm of her free hand against his unmasked cheek and leaning in to kiss him long and deeply on the lips. “And you?” she asked, holding his gaze with a steady one of her own. “Do you regret any of this?”
“I could never regret any decision I took regarding you,” Erik said, his mouth quite suddenly and inexplicably dry. “You are my life. Without you I cease to exist.”
“In that case, mon amour, be prepared to live forever as I have no intention of letting you go,” Christine declared, before pulling down the window blind and doing her best to kiss him quite senseless.
________________________________________
He spent the rest of the day walking on air.
The blessing passed in a blur of organ music, incense and Latin; Erik hardly recalled anything about it until much later, when he came to cherish the memory of that apparently endless walk down the aisle with his bride on his arm, to see the smiling faces of the friends and colleagues that had come to show their support and share in such a special day. The church was filled with flowers, their scent heady and intoxicating in the heat, and Reyer’s friend, the organist from La Madeleine, played Pachelbel’s Toccata in F Major with the skill of a virtuoso; the sound of the instrument was perfect and Erik couldn’t help wondering whether Father Jérôme would allow him to make use of it when the church was empty.
They stood there before the altar, the sunlight falling through stained-glass and scattering brilliant colour across Christine’s dress like a handful of heavenly jewels; the words of the service meant little in his distracted state but somehow he managed to make the correct responses in the right places and give her no reason to be ashamed of him. It seemed almost seconds later that they were processing back towards the door, Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from A Midsummer Night’s Dream ringing in his ears. Before they reached the exit Christine paused slightly, a frown touching her forehead, and he realised she was looking into the very last pew, at the occupant almost completely hidden in the shadows.
“Who is that?” she whispered, and Erik peered into the gloom to see a woman sitting there, her black dress old-fashioned and shiny, her face obscured by a broad-brimmed hat swathed in a veil of thick net. The hands folded in her lap were encased in faded silk gloves, every part of her concealed; sensing their curiosity she turned away, staring straight ahead towards the altar and refusing to look in their direction again. Her fingers clenched the little bag she held so tightly that Erik was sure that beneath the gloves her knuckles must have been white.
“I have no idea,” he replied when Christine called his name and he realised everyone had stopped behind them, unable to leave the church until they did. With one last glance back he covered Christine’s hand with his own as it rested on his arm and by the time he led her out into the sunshine followed by the congratulations and rice liberally showered upon them by the company of the Opera Populaire he had forgotten all about the strange woman in black. Christine had insisted on inviting Didier Tolbert and the young journalist looked as pleased as punch to be there, dapper in a new suit that his earnings from their interview had obviously allowed him to buy. With him came the photographer Eustache, to whom Erik knew they had definitely not issued an invitation, but when it became clear that Tolbert wished to present them with a photograph of the occasion as a wedding gift they could not begrudge the man’s attendance, however long it took him to arrange everyone to his satisfaction outside the church before he would press the shutter.
The party afterwards, inevitably given the occupation of the guests, became a rather riotous affair. Erik was sure some of his doubtless straight-laced middle class neighbours would not approve but he didn’t care, content to observe from the sidelines with a glass of champagne in his hand. There was talk and music and plenty of laughter, the latter something he had never expected to hear in his home. It was a beautiful evening and the ballerinas (most of whom he was sure had only accepted the invitation Christine had offered because she didn’t want anyone to feel left out for the free food and drink) sat on the grass in the garden, cackling together like a gaggle of geese and becoming progressively tipsier as the night wore on. The managers attended, and Olivier Fontaine insisted upon having the first dance with the bride, despite it being pointed out that he was usurping the groom’s privilege and there was in any case no space for dancing with so many people in the house. Monsieur Marigny rolled his eyes at his partner’s antics from his seat in the corner of the music room where he was discussing business with James Patterson-Smythe; apparently Jimmy never missed an opportunity to further a client’s interests.
There was food galore; more than even the most ravenous of them could manage and crowned with the most enormous cake Erik had ever seen: a mountainous croquembouche made of cream-filled pastry puffs piled into a pyramid and covered with caramel and spun sugar. It made his teeth hurt just looking at it but the cries of appreciation from the guests when he and Christine cut into the monstrosity proved that he was evidently the only one. Toasts were drunk and speeches were made, thankfully lacking any embarrassing stories as he had only known his best man for two months, a fact which did not stop Jimmy claiming the customary kiss from the bridesmaid who, despite her mother’s frown of disapproval, was only too happy to oblige.
As it grew later and the wine kept flowing Erik found himself seeing different sides of the people with whom he shared his daily life. Madame Marigny, a lady whom he had realised at the masquerade enjoyed a party far more than her husband, insisted upon taking her place on the piano stool and, though she was more than a little merry, proved to be an accomplished musician; the wrong notes she played either by accident or design were quite inspired, their cacophonous tune provoking much hilarity from the company. Christine, Teddy and Marie Durant gave an impromptu performance of Mozartian harmonies accompanied by Eugène Reyer on the piccolo, while in the dining room a flushed and wide-eyed Meg, egged on by Alphonse and Marius, attempted a demonstration of the scandalous can-can dance that was taking the cabarets on Montmartre by storm. They succeeded in getting a fine view of her ankles before a furious Madame Giry put a stop to it, pulling her daughter down from the table onto which she had climbed. Meg went reluctantly, exclaiming, “But Maman, they see more than that every time I wear my tutu - !” Erik smiled, and promised himself that he would have a word with Antoinette and remind her that Meg was no longer a child.
Gradually things wound down and people began to make their way unsteadily home, thanking them for their hospitality and wishing them future happiness together, leaving behind piles of dirty plates and a house that needed cleaning from top to bottom. Christine, tired but smiling, suggested they push it all into the kitchen and close the door, politely turning down Antoinette’s offer to return the next morning to help them clear up.
“But it will take you hours to make the place tidy again,” Madame objected. “Many hands make like work, after all.”
Meg pulled a face. “Maman, I don’t think they’ll have much time for housework...” she said with a pointed glance towards the stairs.
“I don’t...” Antoinette looked at Erik and Christine; Christine smiled sweetly and tightened her arm around his waist, her touch sending an involuntary shiver up his spine. The penny dropped, and he could have sworn it was the first time he had ever seen the ballet mistress blush. “Of course. How silly of me! You have far more important things to do,” she said, and paused before adding, much to Meg’s consternation, “But do at least put those plates in to soak before you start; if you leave the sauce too long it will never come off.”
Christine hid her treacherous mouth behind her hand, leaving Erik to respond. “We won’t forget, Annie,” he told her solemnly.
“Come along, Maman.” A mortified Meg tugged on her mother’s hand, dragging her outside to where James and Teddy were waiting in the carriage to take them home. Christine and Erik managed to wave them off and shut the door before they both collapsed laughing.
Though he could not deny that he was filled with trepidation about what was to come between them, that long, eventful day had been the happiest day of Erik’s life. He felt exhausted and elated at once, his blood singing and his nerves jangling. Everything was about to change beyond recognition, and though he would never admit it to anyone he was scared of what that might mean. It was some considerable time later when he stood one evening in the darkened garden with a glass of brandy, looking up at the stars that he found Father Jérôme’s words from the blessing service returning to him:
“...I am the resurrection and the life...”
In that moment, surrounded by people who admired, respected and even loved him, his living bride at his side, Erik realised that the horror and solitude of his past was finally no more. The Devil’s Child, the Living Corpse, the Phantom of the Opera... all were dead. From here his life began anew. Judged by his actions instead of his face, no longer dictated to by an accident of nature, he could at last become the person he had always dreamed of being.
He had been reborn. And he had his beautiful wife to thank for his resurrection.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 5084
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Wedding bells.
“Erik, for the love of God have some pity on me and sit down! If you don’t stop pacing I swear I’ll hit you over the head and sit on you until the ladies arrive,” James Patterson-Smythe declared with a determined expression, hefting his walking stick in one hand. “You’re enough to drive a man to complete distraction!”
“I would dearly like to see you try,” Erik snarled, taking another turn about the little waiting room. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in such a state, wound so tightly he feared he might snap at any moment. Pulling out his watch he checked the dial for the tenth time in as many minutes. She was late, surely? Why wasn’t she here yet... had she finally changed her mind? The little voice in his head that had spent the last forty years constantly telling him he was unworthy of love, that there must have been a reason why his mother despised him and his father startled when he entered the room, piped up once more: Her eyes have been opened... she’s seen de Chagny again, seen what she could have had, what she could have been... why would she want to shackle herself to a hideous wretch like you? She’s probably a hundred miles away by now...
James frowned at him. “I’m quite happy to take you on; I used to box for my college, you know,” he said, and sighed when Erik failed to respond. “Please, just come and sit down. Christ, I’ve seen men nervous before they get hitched but you’re just like a cat on hot bricks. Any more of this and you’ll work yourself into a frenzy and I’ll have to call a doctor. Teddy will kill me and I doubt if Christine will appreciate a forcibly-sedated husband on her wedding night.”
Wedding night... With a despairing groan Erik sank into the chair beside his friend, dropping his head into his hands. Jimmy reached into the pocket of his morning coat and withdrew a hip flask, wordlessly waggling it in front of Erik’s face; he found himself accepting the Dutch courage, spluttering as the whisky burned the back of his throat. “Thank you,” he coughed, fumbling for a handkerchief.
“It’ll all be over in a few hours,” Jimmy soothed. He took a swig from the flask himself and it vanished back into his pocket. “I don’t know why we go through all this fuss just to a get a piece of paper telling us we can legally cohabit; might as well just fill in a form and have it stamped yes or no, but I suppose the women enjoy all the display.”
“There is the religious aspect,” Erik pointed out.
“I suppose, but that’s not essential here, is it? You lot made marriage a civil contract a hundred years ago.”
“It is important to Christine.” And because it meant so much to her he had reluctantly agreed to speak with the priest who would be conducting their blessing at the little church of St Marguerite in Neuilly. Erik had not set foot inside a sacred building in many years; even as he passed over the threshold he had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him. A sinner such as himself did not belong in a church; had he made a confession he would not know where to begin, which transgression to seek absolution for first. Father Jérôme, a stocky, round-faced man with the physique of a prize-fighter and the calm of an Eastern mystic, sensed his unease and had led him to the vestry, away from the accusatory eyes of the saints and apostles. They spoke for a long time, the priest making no judgements and offering few homilies, a far cry from the churchmen of Erik’s childhood; he could still recall the fire in the eyes of the Jesuit his mother had called to the house in an attempt to exorcise the evil spirit she believed resided within his poor little body, still hear the man’s harsh voice as he chanted Latin incantations, his spittle flecking the huge, leather-bound Bible thrust before him as protection against this child of the Devil. He shuddered at the thought, pushing the memories to the back if his mind where they belonged. He would not think of his mother today. Much to his surprise, Father Jérôme had been understanding of his dilemma, listening gravely to the curtailed explanation he gave for his disillusionment with the Church, and despite himself he came away quite liking the man. “Though I know she would forgo it if I asked, she will not truly be happy if she is not married with God’s blessing.”
James leaned back in his seat, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle. “We all have to make some sacrifices.”
“That is not one I wished to ask of her.” Erik looked down at his hands. “Even if it involves facing demons of my own.”
“A few skeletons in your closet, are there?” Jimmy’s eyebrow flicked upwards and his voice took on the interested tone that meant he thought a little gossip might be in the offing.
Erik laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. He glanced at his watch, wishing that Christine would hurry before he entirely lost his nerve. “You have no idea, James,” he said, “No idea at all.”
“You love to play the man of mystery, don’t you? Is that why none of your relatives are attending this afternoon – you didn’t tell them you were getting married to preserve your enigmatic facade?” Jimmy asked. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that your house is entirely devoid of family pictures.”
“It is very hard to invite the dead to a wedding,” Erik told him sourly, which had the desired effect of silencing the American for a few moments.
In truth, he could hardly believe that they were actually sitting there in a tiny side room in the Hôtel de Ville, waiting for his bride to arrive, a registrar somewhere beyond with the necessary documents to tie him and Christine together for the rest of their lives. The past few weeks had passed so quickly they were virtually indistinguishable; Die Fledermaus had gone down well with the summer patrons and Christine even played Rosalinde for a week when Theodora developed a late summer cold. Marigny and Fontaine were ecstatic with the receipts, the newspapers were asking why La Daae was not given more starring roles and Erik and Reyer’s new ballet was such a success that the music shops were besieged by customers seeking a copy of the score. Amidst all of this there had been suit fittings for himself and James, new dresses for Antoinette and Meg, the wedding gown to be cleaned and mended, flowers to be ordered and a buffet organised for the reception; after much deliberation it was decided to ask the guests back to the new house and Erik was startled to be knocked up by Madame Giry that morning at first light demanding a key so that she could get in later to lay out the food before they returned from the church. His head had barely stopped spinning since; his hands trembled so much when he tried to fasten his cravat or do up his cufflinks that Jimmy was forced to offer his assistance and he had only just managed to drink a cup of coffee without spilling it all over himself. Though he was reluctant to admit it, Erik was grateful to his new friend for staying the night and attempting to calm his nerves, though he had demurred at Jimmy’s suggestion they both take advantage of the soporific qualities of a bottle of Scotch.
Thankfully, after the publication of Didier Tolbert’s interview in Le Monde, no more had been heard of Francois Béringer and Erik fervently hoped they would be spared his noxious presence later at the church. Tolbert informed them gleefully that Béringer attempted to sell a piece claiming Christine was living in a bohemian enclave in Pigalle, sharing herself between two men and posing nude for the delectation of the artistic community but even the editor of Le Figaro drew the line at printing such a ludicrous story; the fact that Raoul, on Jimmy’s advice, had threatened the man with legal action over the accusation that he had been the instigator of the attack upon Erik just put the icing on the cake. The thoughts of the Comte de Chagny over all of this were still unknown, and the Vicomte returned to sea shortly after the interview appeared in public. The feeling of relief was palpable, but Erik found himself reluctant to relax just yet; though he might have left his cellars, the Phantom was still able to haunt him.
Wanting to pace again but not wishing to provoke James into attempting some indignity upon his person, he picked up the fedora lying on the chair beside him, placing it in his lap for a moment before nerves overcame him once more and he fell to twirling the brim through his fingers. Though his tailor had looked askance and been affronted when he refused a polished top hat like that Jimmy held on his knee to accompany his formal dove grey suit, Erik could not bring himself to abandon his old friend, feeling exposed without the wide, soft brim to partially conceal his mask. The white porcelain was reflected like a half moon in the gleaming leather of his boots and he glanced up to find the clerk seated at the desk in the corner watching him curiously. Erik shot him a glare and the man hurriedly returned to his work.
“They’re here,” Jimmy announced suddenly, getting to his feet. Listening hard Erik realised he could hear voices in the corridor outside and to his great shame was convinced that if he stood now his knees would give way. It was an utterly ridiculous situation: the man who not so long ago held an entire Opera House in his thrall, had them all terrified of his every word, was reduced to a quivering wreck by his impending marriage to the woman he loved!
The clerk rose from his seat and ducked outside, returning a few moments later to beckon and say, “This way, Messieurs; all is ready for you.”
________________________________________
The room set aside for civil marriages was large but sparsely-furnished. The architect in Erik wondered to what use it had been put before, as the gilded mouldings and Trompe l’oleil ceiling fresco suggested grander things. Freestanding arrangements of white roses and ribbons flanked the table behind which stood the registrar, a neat little man with an outrageous waxed moustache and meticulously-parted hair, and facing him four rows of red velvet-upholstered seats had been set out with an aisle between them. Only two of these were occupied, by Theodora Merriman and Antoinette Giry, both of whom stood as the men approached them; Teddy was barely visible beneath the most enormous hat Erik had ever seen, a ridiculous feathered confection the approximate size of a cartwheel precariously pinned to one side of her piled chestnut hair. Erik thought she might tip over at any minute from the uneven distribution of the weight. Beside her Madame Giry was as prim and severe as usual, though she had exchanged her black for midnight blue; her hat was as tiny as Teddy’s was huge, a little pillbox creation embellished with a net veil. She was smiling as he and James took their places, and reached out to take his hand.
“I never thought I’d see this day,” she said quietly, a tear shining in her eye.
Erik lifted a finger to gently wipe it away. “You disapproved, if I recall.”
“I know.” Antoinette shook her head. “I’m happy to have been wrong.”
“Shhh, don’t let anyone hear you say that,” he said with a lop-sided grin. “You have a reputation to maintain, after all.”
“You’re looking very swish, Maestro,” Teddy announced, before Madame could respond. She winked. “I just might have to fight Christine for you.”
Erik felt himself flush, embarrassed that she should take notice of his appearance. Mercifully James interrupted, demanding, “Teddy, where on God’s green earth did you find that hat? I’ve seen smaller baseball pitches!”
The registrar cleared his throat. “Mesdames et Messieurs... if we might begin..?”
There were murmurs of apology and shuffling about as they all returned to their appropriate positions. Erik found himself holding his breath, clenching his fists around his suddenly sweating palms as the registrar raised a hand in signal to the ushers at the doors; there was a moment’s pause and then, to the accompaniment of a piano, the doors were opened and Christine made her entrance on the arm of Monsieur Reyer, Meg following behind. Though her face was obscured by the veil, she looked stunning; he had gazed upon the dress so many times as it hung on the mannequin in his subterranean house, but such moments could never have prepared him for the sight of the flesh and blood Christine wearing the wedding gown he had designed. He was glad of the countless hours he had put into its creation, the determination that it should be absolutely perfect; it accentuated her curves and her tiny waist, the full lace flounces of the skirt moving gracefully with her every step. One little hand rested on Reyer’s arm; the other held a bouquet of pink and ivory roses interspersed with trailing orange blossom to match the decorations on her headdress.
He was sure he must be staring, open-mouthed like a simpleton as they came to the end of the aisle and Reyer, beaming from ear to ear with pride, handed Christine over to him. Meg, a vision in rose-pink satin, her gleaming golden curls caught up in a coronet of fresh flowers, fussed about with her friend’s train for a few moments before taking the bouquet Christine handed to her and scurrying to one side, dabbing at eyes that welled up despite her smile. Hesitating awkwardly for several seconds before he remembered what to do, with trembling fingers Erik reached up to lift the veil, carefully smoothing it back to reveal Christine’s beautiful face, her lips lifted and eyes shining with joy. He thought that if God decided to strike him down at that very moment he would die a happy man.
The pianist ended his recital with a flourish, and after a brief pause the registrar began: “Mesdames et Messieurs, we are here today to join Erik Charles Gabriel Claudin and Christine Louise Daae together in matrimony...”
________________________________________
“...the giving and receiving of a ring.”
Everyone looked at James expectantly. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and rummaged for a few seconds before withdrawing an empty hand with an apologetic expression. Christine looked horrified, and Erik glared. Behind them he heard Teddy hiss “Jimmy..!” before the fool produced the jeweller’s boxes from his waistcoat instead, presenting them to the registrar with a deep bow and a cheeky grin. Erik made a mental note to harm the man in some fashion later for pulling such an inappropriate stunt; the registrar, who judging from his bored expression had obviously seen it all before, removed the rings from the boxes and laid them on the book in front of him.
“Now,” he said, “If you will repeat after me: ‘I, Erik, call upon these persons here present to witness that I take thee, Christine, as my lawfully wedded wife. I solemnly declare that I know not of any just impediment why I, Erik, should not be joined in matrimony to Christine’.”
Erik’s fingers were shaking almost uncontrollably as he took Christine’s left hand in his and slipped the ring onto her finger, but his voice thankfully remained as level and confident as ever, obeying his commands as his traitorous body did not. Gaze fixed on her radiant face he almost forgot to let her hand go, releasing it only when the registrar turned to Christine, calling upon her to make the same declaration. Her hand barely wavered as she took the second gold ring between her finger and thumb; it was hardly fashionable for the groom to wear a ring but Erik had been adamant that he would do so, wanting the world to know that he had been accepted by the love of his life. He hardly heard the words as Christine held his hand in hers, gently squeezing his fingers in silent encouragement.
“I, Christine, call upon these persons here present to witness that I take thee, Erik, as my lawfully wedded husband. I solemnly declare that I know not of any just impediment why I, Christine, should not be joined in matrimony to Erik.”
“You have made your vows to each other in the presence of these witnesses and to the requirement of the laws of the Republic,” the registrar declared, his moustache raised to an alarming angle as he smiled broadly, so much so that Erik feared it might vanish right up the man’s nose, “All that remains is for me to pronounce you man and wife.” He paused for effect before adding, “You may kiss the bride.”
All further thought of the man’s moustache fleeing his mind, and accompanied by applause from their guests, Erik did just that.
________________________________________
“We’ve done it! We’re actually married!”
Christine flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek as they stood on the pavement outside the Hôtel de Ville. Having already been embraced by Antoinette, Meg and Teddy, more women than had ever previously touched him during the whole of his life, Erik was reeling, and could not shake the feeling of complete dislocation that had swept over him after the ceremony had ended. Had he not been able to see the ring on Christine’s finger and feel the weight of its twin on his own he might have convinced himself that the whole of the last half an hour had been a dream. A smile kept stealing onto his face and would not go away no matter how hard he tried; though he knew he was completely sober he still felt as if he had drunk a whole bottle of brandy and chased it down with a pint of claret.
“Well, Monsieur and Madame Claudin, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Theodora said with a grin, bobbing a curtsy that made her petite figure almost disappear from sight, obscured by the expansive brim of her hat. She rose gracefully, smile now tempered with genuine affection. “I hope you’ll have a wonderful life together. Heck, what am I saying? I know you will!”
“And she knows everything, so I’d believe her if I were you,” Jimmy added, earning himself a whack on the arm with Teddy’s handbag.
“Oh, Christine, it was beautiful,” Meg sniffed, gathering up her best friend in a tight hug. Her make-up was running down her face in streaks and her nose was red but she insisted she was not upset, just overcome by the occasion. “I’ve never been - ” She hiccupped “ – so... so happy..!”
Antoinette came and took her daughter’s arm, drawing her away before she could start bawling like a child. “Meg Giry...” she said with a sigh, casting her eyes heavenward. The carriages were returning to collect them, and she looked grateful for the distraction. This time the bride and groom would travel together to their blessing, followed by their witnesses in the second brougham. “Come along or we will be late for church.”
“I can’t believe it’s really happened,” Christine said as Erik handed her into the coach and sat down beside her. She looked at her hand in his, admiring her wedding ring, moving it this way and that to catch the light. “I’m Christine Claudin now; it was so funny trying not to write Daae in the register by mistake!”
“Do you regret it?” He couldn’t help but ask the question, deep-seated doubt forcing the words to his lips. Those doubts, however, flew from him in an instant when she turned her glowing face to his and looked upon him with dark eyes so full of adoration that his heart jolted painfully in his chest.
“Not for a moment,” she told him seriously, laying the palm of her free hand against his unmasked cheek and leaning in to kiss him long and deeply on the lips. “And you?” she asked, holding his gaze with a steady one of her own. “Do you regret any of this?”
“I could never regret any decision I took regarding you,” Erik said, his mouth quite suddenly and inexplicably dry. “You are my life. Without you I cease to exist.”
“In that case, mon amour, be prepared to live forever as I have no intention of letting you go,” Christine declared, before pulling down the window blind and doing her best to kiss him quite senseless.
________________________________________
He spent the rest of the day walking on air.
The blessing passed in a blur of organ music, incense and Latin; Erik hardly recalled anything about it until much later, when he came to cherish the memory of that apparently endless walk down the aisle with his bride on his arm, to see the smiling faces of the friends and colleagues that had come to show their support and share in such a special day. The church was filled with flowers, their scent heady and intoxicating in the heat, and Reyer’s friend, the organist from La Madeleine, played Pachelbel’s Toccata in F Major with the skill of a virtuoso; the sound of the instrument was perfect and Erik couldn’t help wondering whether Father Jérôme would allow him to make use of it when the church was empty.
They stood there before the altar, the sunlight falling through stained-glass and scattering brilliant colour across Christine’s dress like a handful of heavenly jewels; the words of the service meant little in his distracted state but somehow he managed to make the correct responses in the right places and give her no reason to be ashamed of him. It seemed almost seconds later that they were processing back towards the door, Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from A Midsummer Night’s Dream ringing in his ears. Before they reached the exit Christine paused slightly, a frown touching her forehead, and he realised she was looking into the very last pew, at the occupant almost completely hidden in the shadows.
“Who is that?” she whispered, and Erik peered into the gloom to see a woman sitting there, her black dress old-fashioned and shiny, her face obscured by a broad-brimmed hat swathed in a veil of thick net. The hands folded in her lap were encased in faded silk gloves, every part of her concealed; sensing their curiosity she turned away, staring straight ahead towards the altar and refusing to look in their direction again. Her fingers clenched the little bag she held so tightly that Erik was sure that beneath the gloves her knuckles must have been white.
“I have no idea,” he replied when Christine called his name and he realised everyone had stopped behind them, unable to leave the church until they did. With one last glance back he covered Christine’s hand with his own as it rested on his arm and by the time he led her out into the sunshine followed by the congratulations and rice liberally showered upon them by the company of the Opera Populaire he had forgotten all about the strange woman in black. Christine had insisted on inviting Didier Tolbert and the young journalist looked as pleased as punch to be there, dapper in a new suit that his earnings from their interview had obviously allowed him to buy. With him came the photographer Eustache, to whom Erik knew they had definitely not issued an invitation, but when it became clear that Tolbert wished to present them with a photograph of the occasion as a wedding gift they could not begrudge the man’s attendance, however long it took him to arrange everyone to his satisfaction outside the church before he would press the shutter.
The party afterwards, inevitably given the occupation of the guests, became a rather riotous affair. Erik was sure some of his doubtless straight-laced middle class neighbours would not approve but he didn’t care, content to observe from the sidelines with a glass of champagne in his hand. There was talk and music and plenty of laughter, the latter something he had never expected to hear in his home. It was a beautiful evening and the ballerinas (most of whom he was sure had only accepted the invitation Christine had offered because she didn’t want anyone to feel left out for the free food and drink) sat on the grass in the garden, cackling together like a gaggle of geese and becoming progressively tipsier as the night wore on. The managers attended, and Olivier Fontaine insisted upon having the first dance with the bride, despite it being pointed out that he was usurping the groom’s privilege and there was in any case no space for dancing with so many people in the house. Monsieur Marigny rolled his eyes at his partner’s antics from his seat in the corner of the music room where he was discussing business with James Patterson-Smythe; apparently Jimmy never missed an opportunity to further a client’s interests.
There was food galore; more than even the most ravenous of them could manage and crowned with the most enormous cake Erik had ever seen: a mountainous croquembouche made of cream-filled pastry puffs piled into a pyramid and covered with caramel and spun sugar. It made his teeth hurt just looking at it but the cries of appreciation from the guests when he and Christine cut into the monstrosity proved that he was evidently the only one. Toasts were drunk and speeches were made, thankfully lacking any embarrassing stories as he had only known his best man for two months, a fact which did not stop Jimmy claiming the customary kiss from the bridesmaid who, despite her mother’s frown of disapproval, was only too happy to oblige.
As it grew later and the wine kept flowing Erik found himself seeing different sides of the people with whom he shared his daily life. Madame Marigny, a lady whom he had realised at the masquerade enjoyed a party far more than her husband, insisted upon taking her place on the piano stool and, though she was more than a little merry, proved to be an accomplished musician; the wrong notes she played either by accident or design were quite inspired, their cacophonous tune provoking much hilarity from the company. Christine, Teddy and Marie Durant gave an impromptu performance of Mozartian harmonies accompanied by Eugène Reyer on the piccolo, while in the dining room a flushed and wide-eyed Meg, egged on by Alphonse and Marius, attempted a demonstration of the scandalous can-can dance that was taking the cabarets on Montmartre by storm. They succeeded in getting a fine view of her ankles before a furious Madame Giry put a stop to it, pulling her daughter down from the table onto which she had climbed. Meg went reluctantly, exclaiming, “But Maman, they see more than that every time I wear my tutu - !” Erik smiled, and promised himself that he would have a word with Antoinette and remind her that Meg was no longer a child.
Gradually things wound down and people began to make their way unsteadily home, thanking them for their hospitality and wishing them future happiness together, leaving behind piles of dirty plates and a house that needed cleaning from top to bottom. Christine, tired but smiling, suggested they push it all into the kitchen and close the door, politely turning down Antoinette’s offer to return the next morning to help them clear up.
“But it will take you hours to make the place tidy again,” Madame objected. “Many hands make like work, after all.”
Meg pulled a face. “Maman, I don’t think they’ll have much time for housework...” she said with a pointed glance towards the stairs.
“I don’t...” Antoinette looked at Erik and Christine; Christine smiled sweetly and tightened her arm around his waist, her touch sending an involuntary shiver up his spine. The penny dropped, and he could have sworn it was the first time he had ever seen the ballet mistress blush. “Of course. How silly of me! You have far more important things to do,” she said, and paused before adding, much to Meg’s consternation, “But do at least put those plates in to soak before you start; if you leave the sauce too long it will never come off.”
Christine hid her treacherous mouth behind her hand, leaving Erik to respond. “We won’t forget, Annie,” he told her solemnly.
“Come along, Maman.” A mortified Meg tugged on her mother’s hand, dragging her outside to where James and Teddy were waiting in the carriage to take them home. Christine and Erik managed to wave them off and shut the door before they both collapsed laughing.
Though he could not deny that he was filled with trepidation about what was to come between them, that long, eventful day had been the happiest day of Erik’s life. He felt exhausted and elated at once, his blood singing and his nerves jangling. Everything was about to change beyond recognition, and though he would never admit it to anyone he was scared of what that might mean. It was some considerable time later when he stood one evening in the darkened garden with a glass of brandy, looking up at the stars that he found Father Jérôme’s words from the blessing service returning to him:
“...I am the resurrection and the life...”
In that moment, surrounded by people who admired, respected and even loved him, his living bride at his side, Erik realised that the horror and solitude of his past was finally no more. The Devil’s Child, the Living Corpse, the Phantom of the Opera... all were dead. From here his life began anew. Judged by his actions instead of his face, no longer dictated to by an accident of nature, he could at last become the person he had always dreamed of being.
He had been reborn. And he had his beautiful wife to thank for his resurrection.
