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Chapter Text

The boat proceeded slowly along the underground canals of the Opéra Populaire.
Christine and Raul wanted to leave that place as soon as possible because the noises of the angry mob behind made them well imagine what destruction was going on in the Abode on the Lake. Raul was rowing and Christine was holding his arm, or rather she was clingingonto it with all her might. He was the Prince Charming who saved her from a killer monster and led her to a new life full of happiness and light. She kept telling herself that, and yet, along with the young man’s rowing, the feeling of being in the wrong place increased in the girl. The farewell with Erik had been heartbreaking, like everything else that night: she had chosen Raul but rather than going to the boy with her own strength and her will had been he to lead her away.
Christine’s mind was completely occupied with kissing the monster. Not a single kiss, actually, but two: the first given only to save Raoul but the second ... Upon contact with Erik she had become a burning flame, without fear, overwhelmed by a passion that she believed possible only in opera. In the arms of that man she had the feeling that this was her place, that only the Angel of Music could complete her and make her feel alive. So as soon as her lips detached from those of her Angel she kissed him again with a passion she did not believe she had. At that moment Raul had disappeared, there were only two of them and a kiss. Erik, more incredulous than she, had heard the sounds of the angry mob descending into the basement: She turned away from him and after a moment of absolute silence entrusted her protege to the young nobleman and ordered her to go away from that place and to keep the silence on the basement; Christine took leave from her Maestro and the two left the dwelling on the lake.
Now they had docked in a safe place and Raul offered his hand with an encouraging smile "Let’s go little Lotte! Come on, it’s all over!". Not even then Raul could reach the girl’s soul with the same depth as Erik.
Over... it’s all over... what did that mean? That she would never see her Angel again? That she would live a lifetime without listening to his melodies and his voice? If someone had killed her, even in the most atrocious, long and painful way, it would have hurt less. Christine was the image of death, paler than the moon and with empty eyes.
"Come on, Christine! It’ll be all right! That monster won’t bother us anymore!"
A spark of awareness crossed Christine’s eyes: Erik was not a monster and she had realized it too late. She looked again at Raoul’s outstretched hand, trying to grab it. After all that had happened, she couldn’t turn back? Or could she? Instinctively grabbing the oar and pulled the boat away from the shore without saying a word.
"Christine! Christine! What are you doing? Go to him? To that disgusting, infamous, miserable creature? He’s a Christine killer! He’s just a murderer!" shouted a stunned Viscount at her.
She turned and smiled back, "He is my Angel!" and disappeared into the darkness.
Raul could not understand how Christine could prefer a murderer to him, especially after the dangers he had run to save her. After she had begged for his help! "Go to your beast if you care so much! But know that someday you will regret it!" He said after a few seconds of silence in a threatening tone, The words came to the girl’s ear, but she didn’t care, now she had to find the house on the lake as soon as possible.
At her destination she saw the destruction of the mob: the candelabra were all torn from the bottom of the lake, fragments of the majestic organ were scattered everywhere along with the remains of furnishings, furniture, curtains and everything that had been the decor of the refuge of the Phantom of the Opera. Christine got off the boat with death in her heart because at this point she would only have a body to cry on. She searched everywhere but found nothing, no trace of his presence except the monkey with the cymbals. She went through all the rooms of the "house" but the result was always the same, nothing of anything. Not even the masks were saved from destruction.
Her knees held her no further, and she fell to the ground, bursting to tears like a fountain.
"I lost him! I lost my Angel!" she said between hiccups.
"He died because of me! Just because of my stupidity!"
"I betrayed him and abandoned him and now I have nothing left!"
"I got what I deserved ... but I wanted him to be saved, to disappear in one of his hundred trapdoors!"
She remained in that state for a time that seemed infinite to her. Finally she decided to get up and go to Madame Giry’s house, coming out of one of the passages that Erik had shown her and that led directly to the streets of Paris.
It was dawn and the city had been awake for quite a while, too busy in its daily life to notice a young girl walking lifeless through its streets. Her heart was still beating, her muscles were moving and her senses worked perfectly, but under that facade she was practically dead. She came to Madame almost in a trance and when she was opened she fainted in the arms of her adoptive mother.

Chapter Text

Paris, eight years later, Grand Hotel

Richard Firmin and Gilles André had lost much of their fortune trying to renovate or resell the Opéra. The fire had destroyed almost everything and the reputation of the Phantom of the Opera had done the rest. Although all France believed him dead, unable to haunt any place, his memory still aroused terrible thoughts. The Carlotta, who had left the scene but was still the guest of honor of the most elegant salons, was shaken by violent tremors and showed all her terror for that creature despite the passage of the years. Even the usually kind and composed Viscount de Chagny was prey to at least unconscious reactions if anyone dared remind him that night. To complicate it all, was the fact that Christine Daaé had literally disappeared into thin air. The Phantom had died but his spirit still haunted the theatre preventing the owners from getting rid of it. The metal residue market had saved them from bankruptcy, but it wouldn’t last forever.
Fortunately, God seemed to have helped those poor souls: a mysterious individual, Mr Y, had contacted them claiming to want to rebuild the theatre and bring it back to its former glory. André and Firmin didn’t need any more information! They didn’t know anything about Mr Y, but that man was saving them from failure and setting no limits on reconstruction spending. No Frenchman in his right mind would refuse such help. What did it matter if no one had ever met him?
Actually, in their letters, they had been begging him for months for a meeting, but Mr Y always seemed too busy to come to Paris. On the other hand, every time André and Firmin got caught up in the scruples of doing business with a complete stranger, he gave them a bigger and bigger check. Eventually the two men had succeeded and Mr Y had told him that he would return to France for the final conclusion of their contract and had given them an appointment at the Grand Hotel, where the impresarios were anxiously waiting for him, with sweaty hands like kids on the first day of school.
"He’s late!" Andre blurted, observing that the pocket clock was beating a quarter past seven.
"Calm down! This man not only wants to rebuild the theatre and act as a patron; he is even willing to repay us the losses of the last eight years!" If he had looked into his friend’s eyes he would have seen many gold coins appear, and probably he would have even heard them clink. "What does it matter a few minutes late?"
"All right! But you will admit that it is at least rude!" and Firmin replied with the same look that he reserved for Calotta and his whims "What do you want to do my friend!? It’s eccentric!"
"Are you Mr Firmin and Mr André?" asked a stranger.
Dark skin, very dark hair, chocolate eyes and thick moustaches: Mr Y showed all his Middle Eastern origins. But it would also be good with almond eyes and yellow skin! Franks do not carry traces of the hands in which they pass! In addition, the refinement of the clothes made ignore the color of the skin.
"Mr Y! Please have a seat! We are delighted to meet you!" they exclaimed in unison.
"I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m just his attentant. My name is Nadir Khan. Mr Y apologizes but his business has kept him in Bali." he said sitting.
"Bali?" they responde still in unison. The letters of their savior always came from a different part of the world, but Bali? What kind of business could one do in Bali that would require his direct presence?
"You see the services of my principal are in high demand, and his patrons are people who would charge the slightest imperfection with life. But you don’t have to worry: he gave me the broader mandate of discussion and I assure you that dealing with me is like dealing with Mr Y in person." He explained naturally, obviously it was normal to replace the mysterious millionaire.
The owners of the Opera bleached and gobbled up several deaf champagne to support the amused grin that accompanied that explanation. Mr Y could be their salvation or their destruction. But they had no choice: either he or the creditors.
"Very well Monsieur Khan..." Firin began "Mr Y claims to want to give back to Paris an Opera House worthy of the name, am I right?" the Persian nodded "He also claims that there are no spending limits ..." another affirmative nod "Excuse me ... but does your employer know what business he is embarking on? The costs could be very high...!"
"I assure you, Monsieur Firmin, that Mr Y always knows exactly what he is doing. In fact, he has even prepared a statement on the total cost of the operation. Rebuilding, repairing your losses and operating costs for the theatre for the first two years." He stopped to take a sheet from the leather folder resting on the table.
They read the unbelieving sheet: the account was extremely accurate! It reported a stratospheric figure; but that figure was right. They knew it by heart. "How is he so knowledgeable?" Andre whispered without realizing he was thinking aloud.
"In business, as elsewhere, knowledge is power. And I assure you, Mr Y is very adept at being properly informed. Now that I’ve reassured you of the seriousness of his intentions, may we begin, gentlemen? ... Well! Mr Y is willing to invest immediately in the project; he leaves you carte blanche regarding the works, the choice of the cast and the chorus. It has only two conditions: the theatre must be just as it was before the Catastrophe."
"Of course!" they could not ask for better!
"The other concerns the role of first woman ..."
" La Carlotta retired many years ago! And she would be the only one capable of being the first woman of the Opera!" André said with a bit of anger. La Carlotta was already unbearable eight years before but on the verge of senility she had to be even worse!
"I wasn’t referring to her. I think at her age she wouldn’t be able to be the first woman." Mr Y would have strangled them without giving time to understand what was happening: he spoke with the utmost disgust of la signora Giudicielli. Firmin and André had to thank Allah that he was not present! "There is also another person with the skills to do it: Christine de Chagny."
"You mean Christine Daaé? The Viscount never married. And as for Madmoiselle Daaé, nobody knows anything about her since that tragic night." Firmin sadly explained.
The Persian scratched the ends of his moustache perplexed "Oh ... it seems that my information was not completely correct. What an unpleasant inconvenience! However I know from a certain source that she survived the fire."
"Even so, Monsieur Khan, no one knows where she is! She may have left the country! She may even have died in these years!" the two directors answered with concitatamente superimposing their voices.
"I’ll take care of the research; in the event that she’s dead, you can choose the soprano you want. But if she is still in this world you will have to put her under contract. From this depends the participation of Mr Y."
"In this case, we have no objections!" Firmin said after a glance of agreement with his friend.
"Perfect! I have a check with me to start the work". Khan announced taking the paper from the folder "If there are any unforeseen events, know that Mr Y has unlimited credit at the Bank of Marseille: you only have to tell us the need for money and the bank will provide you with what you need!"
"We are struck by such generosity! But what if you find Christinen Daaé and she doesn’t accept our offer?" stuttered one of the two, also giving voice to the thoughts of the other.
Khan smiled with a strange grimace on his face, one of those that did not bode well. "Don’t be pessimistic, gentlemen! Don’t worry too soon!"
More big sips of champagne, though they probably would have preferred something stronger.
"Do we have an agreement gentlemen?" the French nodded and Nadir pulled a package from the folder "I have with me the contract to sign, here! You can have it examined, but the conditions are the ones I just told you."
Firmin and André eagerly read the document looking for the classic scam; sifting through every line but found nothing. It didn’t even say that Mr Y would request to be reimbursed for all the costs if they couldn’t hire the Daaé! That contract was their salvation. Not even in their best dreams could they have imagined anything like "No need! We sign immediately!" they said by completing each other’s sentence.
From that day on, Paris could say that she had a new opera house worthy of her! With the help of the mysterious Mr Y the theatre would rise from its ashes like the Phoenix and no spectre would disturb the harmony of that temple of music.
Nader lifted the corners of his mouth: these two little men were so naive! Not even the geniuses of lamps do not fulfill the desires of others out of exclusive kindness. Mr Y would have collected every penny paid! He had been waiting for this moment for years, licking his chops like a cat in front of the biggest fish at the thought of how relentless his revenge would be. But for now, it was better to let those poor naive people enjoy the happy moment.

Chapter Text

Audeville, Normandy ten years after the night of Don Juhan.
 
Christine stared at the stormy sea from Goury’s cliff. She liked that place becuse it made the absence of her Angel almost bearable. The memory of her Master had never abandoned her, if she closed her eyes she could even hear him sing for her. Too bad he would never sing again. He would never sing for anyone.
The pain she felt was infinite and since he had died she had always carried mourning: the long hair collected in a coiled braid, the black clothes and everything else. For some time she had lived with Madame Giry; after about three years, through his cousin, Antuanette had found her a place as a singing teacher in a remote orphanage in Normandy. To make sure no one found her, Christine even changed her name.
"Mademoiselle Rosebud! Mademoiselle!" Christine turned and saw little Camille running as fast as she could to reach her on the edge of the cliff.
"The mother superior sent for you! She has visitors!" the child announced as she took a breath with her hands on her knees.
"Visits?" asked Christine puzled. Ever since she took refuge in the convent, no one had come to see her. Not even Meg or Madamme Gery, who now worked at the Fenice Theater. Who could it be? "Mother Superior told you who it is?"
"No, Mademoiselle. She just sent me to find her and told me I’d probably find you here."
"Then let’s go, whoever it is, we don’t want keep them waiting." Christine answered, taking the orphan’s hand. She had no idea who was after her, let alone why. The inhabitants of Audeville knew nothing of her past; they knew her only for her work with the girls. They nicknamed her The Sad Rossignol (sad nightingale, nda) for her celestial voice and her look unable to be happy.
Although Christine had lived in that convent for years, she had never taken vows, nor had she ever expressed her intention to do so; but, by now, she was considered member of the convent in every sense: she was always present to the prayers of the morning and of the vespers, and prayed with so much intensity to strike deeply the nuns. "Christine you have no veil, you are not married to Our Lord! You are a girl of the World. You do not need to put so much ardor in the prayers!" Sister Maria Teresa or Maria Roberta often told her, and she replied with a smile full of pain and regret "I pray for the brightest of the angels … I tore his wings and made him fall to hell ... trying to comfort his soul is all I can do now."The mother superior, Madame’s cousin, was the only one who knew who Christine really was but she had always kept the secret, "Mademoiselle Rosedud is just a poor soul looking for some comfort" she had told to the sisters that, in the early days, assailed her with questions about the new arrival.
Christine hurried to go to the office of the Mother Superior a little frightened: she knew that Raul had searched for her after the evening of the Catastrophe and a part of her was always afraid that he could find her and still be angry with her. She knocked and was invited in.
"You called me Mother?"
"Yes child.” The old woman smiled The Mother Superior was the cousin of Antoinette Gery, although physically they did not resemble each other at all, she shared the same wit and the same spirit of observation. “These gentlemen came from Paris especially for you, they have an offer that you should listen to. Gentlemen, this is Mademoiselle Christine Rosebud!" She said, pointing to the two men who were waiting for her with trepidation. After all, their fate depended on that meeting! "I think it is better that I leave you alone."
The show that was presented to André and Firmin was definitely unsettling to sey te least: they remembered Christine Daaé as a beautiful rosebud with fleshy petals and intense color, the woman in front of them was completely different: the red of the cheeks had given way to a white ashen, the smile always painted on the dancer’s face had disappeared, the eyes were occupied only by the pain that extinguished every spark of vitality. The black widow’s dress, which completed her figure, highlighted her thinness and clearly showed that suffering and pain had been the only companions of the young woman in recent years!
"Mademoiselle Daaé! We are so happy to see you!" Christine noticed that some things never change, like the two men always spoke by completing the sentence that the other began.
"Monsieur André! Monsieur Firmin! I am very pleased to see you! What brings you to this lost place?"
"You don’t read a lot of newspapers around here, do you?" asked André with a grimace of slight disgust observing the spartan furnishings of the prioress' studio. All Paris was talking about the incoming reopening of the Opera, how could she not know?
"No Monsieur. This is just a humble convent." she timidly excused himself by shrugging.
"It doesn’t matter Mademoiselle!" Firmin explained with excitement "We’re almost done rebuilding the Opera!" At these words the soprano’s eyes opened wide for wonder, and the man continued "You see we found a financier who allowed us to bring everything back to the way it was once in less than two years! Today we’re here to offer you the lead role, Mademoiselle."
Christine trembled and had to support herself to a heavy chest of drawers. Offer her the role of prima donna? Singing in front of more than two hundred people after so many years? Singing again in His theater? "Why me?" she asked in a trembling whisper.
"Our benefactor provided us with unlimited money and favored us in every way, but placed as the only condition that you was the prima donna. On this depends his stay in the business." Andre explained, trying to hide the tension.
"Is your patron Raul?" She a sked holding her breath.
"No Mademoiselle. My boss is called Mr Y."A voice from the shadows intruded. She was so surprised to have seen André and Firmin after so many years that she did not notice the man leaning a wall behind their shoulders.
"Who are you?" asked the woman. The man had an olive complexion, thick black and shiny moustaches, very elegant clothes but, unlike André and Firmin, he still wore the shiny hat on the head.
"Oh! Forgive me!”  He said tapping his forehead theatrically “I didn’t even introduce myself! My name is Nadir Khan, enchanted Mademoiselle Rosebud," he bowed kissing the singer hand "... or should I say Daaé?" There was a clever grin on that his face, like a cat who had learned to open the salt anchovies box.
Simply by his lack of manners Christine could tell that Mr Khan was not French, but with that name and his appearance he could only come from the Middle East. "Did you  ... did you find me?"
"As you French say: oui mademoiselle." He responds with a distracted voice pulling a cigar out of his coat.
"How?" No one in the village or convent knew who she really was, and Christine was sure she looked very little like the young dancer who had enchanted Paris with her voice ten years earlier. How did Mr Kham, a foreigner, find you in less than two years?
"An angel like you cannot remain hidden forever, even if she chooses to go down so low." the man accompanied those words with a strange grin that Christine liked very little. Even Firmin and André didn’t seem to appreciate his manners, but for the sake of money they would have swallowed much worse.
"Why would you want me to be the Prima Donna? I haven’t sung in a long time."
"Mr Y was present the night Don Juhan was represented ... oh no mademoiselle please! Don’t make that sad expression! I assure you that he liked your performance very much, despite that abrupt interruption.  So he decided to sign you! The most beautiful theatre in Europe deserves the best soprano there is!" Another ambiguous smart cat grimace. The more he talked the less Christine could stand him, more than a businessman she seemed a predator waiting for the right moment to bite his lunch at the jugular! But maybe all Middle Eastern people were like that!
"Like I said, I haven’t sung in a long time." She said walking to the door but the Persian sopped her.
"Excuse me, but my sources are definitely opposite. I know that you are used to sing near the lighthouse and that some fishermen thought it was a charming mermaid hunting them."
"Singing at the Opera is definitely different from singing for the sea, I don’t know if I could sing in it properly. I’m sure if you start looking you’ll find someone more suitable than me. "
"Mr Y thinks you’ll be perfect!” Monsieur Khan replied clapping his hands “And believe me, he never gets thid sort of things wrong!" As soon as he had finished lit the cigar that held between the index finger and the middle finger of the right hand and Christine could not but turn up her nose for the too strong smell that emanated.The Persian seemed perfectly at ease, smoking quietly perfect smoke circles, while the owners of the Opera could not restrain the agitation and the impulse of tormenting theyr hats.
Christine felt in a corner. She had never thought of returning to Paris and singing in the Opéra, but singing for her Master in his theatre … Could there be a better way to honor his memory? Even if returning to Paris also meant seeing Raul again. “Can I think about it?" she asked, looking at Frimin and André.
"Of course Mademoiselle!" replied the Persian waving his hand and spreading in the room the stench of the cigar "The theatre will reopen in three months, we will be back in two weeks from today. The fee and the rest will be discussed calmly in Paris."
"If I accepted your offer!" Christine pointed out.
"Of course! If you decides to accept!" the Persian confirmed, but he could tell that she’ll gave her consent. "See you soon Mademoiselle Daaé." greeted Nader with a small reverence of the head before opening the door and leaving followed by Andre and Firmin, who greeted her in a slightly less formal way.
Christine clenched her hands. For a moment she hoped that the Persian would set himself on fire with his terrible cigar, rather than ever having to see him again. But she had to admit that his offer was as tempting as it was dangerous.

Chapter Text

 
 
 
Malta, Grand Master’s Palace a week later
 
 
 
 "Viscount Raul de Chagny!" the valet announced the nobleman that was presented to the governor of the island.
For many years he helped his brother in the management of family wealth and attending that reception was nothing more than a way to take advantage in trade with the East: champaghe, cigars, luxury and eminent businessmen or politicians whom the Governor had called from all over the world for his annual birthday party. Personally he would have preferred to stay in Paris but Philippe considered his "sweet face" a great advertisement. Not to mention, since the night of the Catastrophe, Raul was a terrible companion during the decadent social evenings of Paris! Better send him to get bored elsewhere.
The reception was held in the inner courtyard of the building: a cloister in the corners of which stood four tall palms flanked by other plants typical of warm climates to which Raul could not give the name. But the aesthetic sense of the French always wins over their desire for knowledge, so the young man just notices how they were all elegantly pruned. The evening was spent anonymously between glasses of champagne and useless chatter on the most disparate topics, not much different from the parisian parties. That endless series of unimportant conversations was interrupted by Lady Harrison, a wealthy widow friend of the Governor who, like all englishmen, loved gossip."Viscount, we’ve been looking for you everywhere!"
"I am at your disposal, Madamme!" he replied with a slight reverence.
"Let me introduce you to Colonel Stempleton and Lady Langley!" The first was a corpulent man, who didn’t look mutch like a soldier, his face was characterized by the thick mustache and a pair of round glasses with gold frames. Lady Langley seemed a few years younger than her friend, she had thin lips and a nose ready to curl for anything that would upset her senses. "You see, my friends and I were wondering if you wasn’t excited."
"For what, madame?"
"Oh! How can you say "for what"? A parisian who does not know the news of his city! Where will we go!" Probably if Raul had told her that for him the Earth was flat the woman would have been less upset.
"I fear, madam, that all of Paris knows that I am never up to date on gossip! Unfortunately, I always seem to be the last to know things." the young man justified himself with a diplomatic smile.
"Oh it doesn’t matter! We very knowledgeable about everything! After your stay in Malta you will know more about the morning newspapers!" The colonel sentenced.
"If so, please, update me! What should I be excited about?"
"For Mr Y’s arrival!" said Lady Harrison excited.
Raul showed all his bewilderment "Who is him?"
"Viscount, how do you not know the name of the new benefactor of the Opéra!" Lady Harrison was increasingly amazed!
"The Opéra is no longer a business for me or my family." he replied in a tone bordering on rudeness.
"We didn’t want to dredge up the past Viscount, just celebrate the future." Lady Langley intervened, sensing that she was entering a territory not very congenial to the interlocutor "Mr Y seems to be the most eccentric creature that Paris has given to the world in years! It seems to have endless economic resources; they said that it has unlimited credit at the Bank of Marseille; that it has managed to completely rebuild the Opéra bringing it back to its former glory and is already ready for its next reopening!"
"Will the Opéra reopen?"
"Yes monsieur in less than three month. My cousin has just been to Paris and wrote to me that the whole city keeps talking about it! It seems that the speed of the work has already left everyone stunned; I do not tell you the effect of the news of the arrival of Mr Y!" announced Lady Harrison.
“The last time I was in Paris," the colonel said thoughtfully "there were those who swore that at night you could see people wandering around the building or hear strange noises coming from underground, and yet all the workers dismantled at six. "
"I would distrust such rumors, Colonel! They will be nothing but slanders spread by the Théâtre du Châtelet, I don’t think they are very happy with the reopening of the Opéra!" replied the Viscount pragmatically. He had never been convinced of the death of the Phantom of the Opéra, but he was also absolutely certain that he would never return to Paris. He was probably on the other side of the world happy with Christine. The Monster and the Fool! He toasted them mentally by drinking a sip of Champagne. "But how did Mr Y finish the reconstruction in less than two years?"
"With many, many workers; and the help of huge rubies and emeralds!" Lady Handerson replied in a tone of obviousness.
"Rubies and emeralds?" Since when do theaters build with jewelry?
"Yes! To encourage the diligence of the Parisian administrative officials." the widow chuckled at the edge of her champagne cup.
"Are you kidding me?"
"Not at all! Mr Y always acts through his intermediary, a Persian I believe, who travels accompanied by letters that always come from the most exotic places. If there are administrative formalities or problems of another nature the man delivers the letter accompanied by a gem and the problem is magically solved by sunset."
"Excuse me, but how can you be so informed?"
"Because we have friends who often travel in Paris and writes long letters." explained the colonel with a slight resonance before Lady Langley intervened.
"But you haven’t heard the best part yet!” intervened Lady Handerson “Mr Y bought a house on the Champs Elysee, that means he’s moving to Paris.”
"I don’t think it’s great news: a rich man buying a house in the most elegant area of Paris." Raoul dispelled his disinterest. He hadn’t been much interested in the reconstruction of the Opéra, but in Paris everyone seemed interested in his opinion on the subject and the rumors about Mr Y that had followed one another over the years had been more astounding than the other, so the gossip had been impossible to avoid. At first everyone thought that the impresarios had been fooled by someone, but when all of Paris had seen millions and millions of francs to rebuild the Opéra the rumors had changed. There were those who wondered how one person could accumulate all that money, and few believed that it was a completely honest process. Then there were those who had read too many novels and grinned almost hoping that Mr Y had a long list of people to take revenge on.
 
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Somewhere near Marseille, in the same hours
 
 
 
The road was deserted, as well as the beach; but it was no wonder: who would ever leave home to go to the sea on a moonless night marred by such a strong wind!? Nadir stopped the carriage and went down to the sea. It was only a few minutes to midnight; all he had to do was send the agreed signal, three small flashes of light, and wait. He did not see anyone for some time and began to worry: although the man he was waiting was capable of everything he doubted that he would be able to oppose the stormy sea.
"I’m disappointed in you, Daroga! There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to get so close to you without you noticing." someone suddenly said behind him.
Never mind! His friend, if you could call him that, was in great shape. "I’m getting old too." he said with a half smile. But in the past such a distraction would have been fatal.
"I thought we were the same age."
"What does that suggest?"
"That hideous tobacco you keep smoking hurts you."
Only Nadir laughed, a little laughter only hinted. Since he met his partner he had never heard him laugh, in fact he had never seen anything that even vaguely resembled a smile. Erik grinned, like Mephistopheles would have, but he never smiled.
"Let’s go Erik. There are some news." and the two set off for the carriage that left quickly for Paris.
"Your news!?" Erik asked impatiently after several minutes of travel, turning an inquisitive gaze to the Persian.
"For starters I bought you a house. Two to be exact: one in the countryside, just outside Paris, and the other at the Champs Elysee." despite the darkness and the mask Nadir could see the expression of disappointment of his interlocutor "You shoukd thank me, all self-respecting Parisians have a villa in the countryside and we don’t wan’t to ba anything but respectable.  And the rich patron of the Opera Garnier can only live in the most elegant district of the city. Was it your intention to impress everyone?"
"That’s not what I meant!" the Persian’s reasoning was correct, if he did not want to be noticed he had to behave according to the schemes of the Parisian aristocracy, but the time when he wanted in broad daylight through the Campes Elysée were long gone.
"I know exactly what you meant" Nadir said, annoyed, letting all his disappointment about Erik’s intentions get out.
"Save the sermons for your son Daroga!" he knew he hit a sore spot, but he didn’t really care. Not that night when he could see his revenge taking shape. "Is everything in order at the Opéra?" he asked, returning to his coldly authoritarian tone.
Nader remained impassive. He knew that Erik loved his son, he remembered that in Persia he was the only person with whom he could build a human relationship worthy of the name. He knew he’d gone to a lot of trouble to save his wife and him. But he also knew that Erik was Erik and that he had a terrible temper. "The renovation is almost finished. Andrè and Firmin’s workers built the building by day and ours the secret passages at night. In less than three months there will be the inauguration."
"There will be no grand opening without Madame de Chaqgny!" His former pupil was a key element of his plan, If she hadn’t been found, he’d have lost the last ten years. He didn’t care about the money his revenge was costing him, as long as Christine lost everything she loved.
"Calm down my friend. That’s the other news: I found her!" said Nader as he lit a cigar, knowing full well that his companion would not like it. "For a few years she has been working as a singing teacher in a remote orphanage in Normandy. She calls herself Rosebud and she never married!"
"How pretty … Rosebud … It suits her!" the Phantom grinned amusedly before curling his nose to the strong smell of the cigar. "Only you can stand certain insults to smell and taste! Do you know why she is not a viscountess?"
"I’m already working on it. But Erik don’t you think that ..." Nadir wanted to ask for mercy at least for the girl: from what he had seen she had suffered a lot after that nighr, even if he had not managed to understand the cause of so much pain.
"That they don’t deserve to meet my revenge? I won’t tell you again Dagora: don’t try to get in my way this time! You owe me a debt, remember? And they have one too! And they’re going to pay it. They’re going to find out what it’s like to lose everything." The Persian listened attentively to the words of his fellow traveler as his blood froze in his veins: Erik had not moved an inch, his body had not betrayed any sign of tension; not even his voice had taken on a particular tone. But under that apparent softness Nadir could clearly feel that he was determined to settle the accounts of the past, as he was to continue breathing. And that he would consider a foe everyone who stood between him and his goal.
Erik had spent ten years wandering around the globe to devise his plan of revenge: revenge against that cheeky dandy for turning against Christine; revenge against Antoinette for betraying him, revenge against André and Frimin for helping them and revenge against his former student for deceiving him. Everyone would pay, and they would pay all the way back.