You Alone

DISCLAIMER: See chapter 1.


CHAPTER 2 - In Sleep He Sang


Comte Raoul de Chagny was no fool. He had not realized it immediately but as the years passed, he understood that there was something in his son that made him different from all the other children. Philippe was an extraordinary clever child. His curiosity almost drove the young Comte insane.
"Papa, what is this?"
"Papa, how does this work?"
"Papa, why?"
"Papa, when?"
Questions after questions, day after day.


The child would stay still and quiet only when his mother would sing or play to him. Music was pretty much the only thing that made the child smile. The music seemed to draw him in a way that always made his father worry. Christine had bought Philippe a violin for his third birthday and hired a teacher. Eighteen months later, the child mastered not only the violin but piano and flute, too. Still, he refused to sing. Comte and his Comtess had done everything they could think of in order to make their son sing. He refused, stubbornly, telling them that he did not want to sing.


It was around his fourth birthday that he began to play with his imaginary friend. When his mother tried to ask him the name of this new friend, she received a peculiar answer.
"Maman, don't you know that angels do not have names?"
She felt the colour drain from her face. "Is this friend of yours an angel?"
"Oui. He is the most magnificent of them all!" the child declared with a smile.
"How did you meet this angel, Philippe?"
"He sang to me when I was asleep. He must be the Angel of Music, Maman, the one you always tell me stories about!"


When she told her husband about this, he laughed gently.
"I think our Philippe will grow up to be a great man - a writer or a musician. He has such an imagination!"
"Are you not worried at all, Raoul?" she asked. "What if it is him?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Christine. What would he want of our child?"
She could have told him, then. Show him all the little details that would prove that little Philippe de Chagny was not de Chagny at all. But she could not.


She knew that Raoul loved Philippe, probably more than anything else - including her. It would kill him, if he knew.


During these four years, she had often dreamt of her Angel. None of the dreams had been as vivid as the one she had had right after Philippe was born, though. Sometimes, when she was sitting alone in the garden, she could have sworn to have heard his voice, singing seducing melodies. A couple of times she had even thought that she had seen a black-cloaked figure walking in the garden after nightfall. Whenever she would tell her husband, he would but laugh, telling her that she must have been dreaming.


At that winter, Raoul had to leave for Marseille to take care of some business.
"Why would you not take me and Maman with you, Papa?" the boy asked him, tears in his eyes.
"We could come if you -" Christine began but was cut off by her husband.
"Nonsense. You would catch a cold, little man, and we don't want you to get sick, do we?"
"But Papa..."
"No. You stay here with your mother. When I come back, we can go to Paris, if you still want to leave."
Christine easily lifted her crying son into her arms and placed a gentle kiss on her husband's cheek.
"Be careful. Send me a letter once you get to Marseille."
"I will. Take care of yourself and the little one."
"I will."


She could not get sleep that night. Something was bothering her - something that she could not quite name. She would always grow restless when Raoul was out of the house. A soft noise from the hallway caught her attention. Could it be him? Could Erik have come back? She quickly but on her night robe and lit a candle. At least her room was empty. As quietly as she could, she went to the door, opening it just enough to see into the hallway. She let out a relieved sigh, when she saw nothing there. She opened the door completely and took a look around. There was no one to be seen but she could not help noticing that the door leading to the music room was slightly open and there was light in there. She sighed softly. Philippe had sneaked out of his bed before and been found asleep at the music room the next morning.


She quietly went to the door of the music room and peeked in. As she had suspected, she saw her son there, standing in front of the window, his back to her. She heard him softly call for his angel.
"Angel? Are you there?"
She could not hear an answer but she saw Philippe go to the piano and sit down.
"What would you like me to play?" he inquired, his face full of joy.
She watched, confused, at her son cock his head as if he was listening intently and then nod.
"Oui, mon ange."
With that, he began to play, and oh, how he played!


Christine could almost see the violent staccatos; she could feel the seducing adagios. Even though she had never heard this particular piece of music before, she knew that there were but few composers who could have written it, such as Mozart, Bach, Beethoven - and Erik. She knew her son well enough to know that she could enter the room now without him noticing. Music always absorbed his whole attention. She entered the room and sat down in one of her favourite chairs that were now hidden in the shadows. She watched a thin spread of sweat form on Philippe's forehead as he concentrated.
Soon, the child stood up and asked softly, "How did I do, angel?"
"You did well, my child," a gentle, yet disembodied voice answered.


She blinked rapidly a couple of times, feeling the panic rise within her. Had she really heard that? She slowly shook her head. No, it could not have been. She was tired and...


She was brought abruptly back from her thoughts by her son asking a question she had never expected to hear.
"May I sing now, angel?"
She could have sworn to have heard that whispery voice again, answering, "Yes, you may."
She stared, mesmerized, as her son stood up and frowned slightly. "What should I sing?"
"Whatever you wish, my child."
She whirled around, as the voice seemed to come right behind her. Yet, there was no one there.
"But first, tell me one thing, Philippe," the voice asked her son. "Do you love your mother?"
"Oui. Very much."
She smiled at her son's confession, feeling the tears well in her eyes.
"Then sing, child, as you would sing for your mother."
"Oui, mon ange."


She recognized the song immediately. It was a lullaby - one that Erik had sang her when she had come to the Opera House. She felt her heart begin to beat faster in her chest. There were too many similarities - the lullaby, the music, the fact that the child called his friend angel, ventriloquism. She shook her head and tried to concentrate on her son's voice. It was not perfect but Philippe was yet but a child. She could already hear that once he would grow up, his voice would be as beautiful as his real father's was. It already had such strength one thought a four-year-old could never master.


When Philippe finished the song, he asked his Angel, if he had liked it.
"You sang well, child," he answered shortly.
"Would you sing with me, Angel? I always sing better with you."
The soft chuckle sent shivers down her back. It was definitely Erik's laughter.
"Your mother said that, too."
"Have you sung with my Maman, too?" she could hear the confusion - and joy - in her son's childish voice.
"Yes. How did you think she knew all the stories about me?"
"You must have told them to her."
"Yes. Now, what would you like to sing, child?"
"I think it is your turn to decide, Angel," the child answered politely, making his mother incredibly proud. "But I have one more thing to ask."


"Then ask." Christine could hear the amusement in the voice.
"Could you come here, Angel?"
"I already am here, Philippe."
"Yes, but I mean really come here. So that I could see you."
"Angels are invisible, child."
"But Maman told me she has seen you."
She could hear the voice sigh. "Your mother did see me, yes. Maybe one day, you will too."
"Can I see you tomorrow?"
Gentle laughter. "No, Philippe. You must grow up first."
"But..."
"No buts. Let us sing now."


"I have one more question, angel."
"Fine, but this shall be the last."
"Oui. You once told me that angels do not have names."
"Yes."
"But last Sunday Father Michel told us a story about Arch Angel Michael. He has a name and he is an angel."
"What a clever child you are!" Christine could hear his smile. "But alas, only Arch Angels have names."
"That is unfair, is it not?"
A soft chuckle made Philippe smile, too. "I guess it is."
"Don't you have any kind of a name, angel?"
"I had once. If I tell it to you, you must promise that you shall never use it so that your parents can hear it. It would be our secret."
"I promise," the child answered, his voice full of excitement.
"Fine then. You can call me--"
For some reason she could feel her eyes drift towards the balcony.


The dark-cloaked man wearing a white mask stood at the balcony, steadily meeting the eyes of Comtess Christine de Chagny. He could see her mouth his name before she fainted.


"Erik. Now that is an extraordinary name," Philippe remarked.