Epilogue.

I lived to reach Belgium and then England, where I stayed for close to four years. The troubles of 1871 were resolved very soon. The very next day after my flight, as Erik had said, the Commune was declared. Civil war raged throughout March and April, and I found it of supreme irony that the Communards made the Opéra hospital. There would be plenty of morphine for Erik, though I believed the constant surveillance would have forced him to keep to hiding. I later learned the cellars were used during that time for unfortunate prisoners of war. I wondered if Erik ever took pity on them and used his Punjab lasso to rid them of burdensome life.

The Commune fell in late May, and life returned swiftly to normal in France. Paris proved resilient, though I had little desire to return. In England, I met another expatriate, an older man named Jules, and we were married. I thought I would never wed, but my companion was a whimsical man who let me laugh, and expected no children. Even so, we adopted a little English girl, five years old, to whom I became very attached.

I never felt for Jules the way I had felt for Erik, but I believed I led a happy, quiet life. Jules was a financier and clerk, who worked for adequate sums at large companies. Businesses, such as printing shops or theatres. By the time we had returned to France, it was 1875, and I was growing old quickly. Jules knew my passion for sweets, and it wasn't long before I grew very fat. Two years into living in Paris again, I was already going grey. It was by chance only that Jules took work in the offices of Garnier's Opéra, now the grandest opera in Europe, rivaled only by La Scala. I admit my heart was glad, to see Erik's haven so splendid in completion. I wondered if he still lived in his little house on the lake. I convinced myself he had long ago moved on, like my dear brother Jean, whom I never saw again.

But fate is a strange puppet-master, and it happened that my husband died in 1877, leaving Meg and I with no income to support ourselves. I was offered the job of concierge by the Opéra, which I accepted. Meg was a faithful petit rat in the company, on her way to the success she would later find in marriage, and I could watch over her. But as Mame Giry (an affectionate title supplied by my husband), I was not prepared for the ghost of Box Five. I recognized the voice at once, and almost laughed at Erik's daring. I knew he could not recognize in the stout, greying old woman the nurse he had once befriended. Rather than reveal his secrets, I played his part.

I was an actor equal to himself, and I was convincing in my role of the superstitious imbecile. The note I recited to the managers was a delightful fabrication of Erik that I pretended to believe in piously. I was delighted my little Meg took to the legend so well, though I took pains to make sure her imagination never ventured too close to the truth.

Many nights I would sit near the empty box, aware that Erik was hidden within the architecture somewhere, and hear his laughter, his humming voice. He was still very generous to his willing servant, and once I even caught a glimpse of his silhouette in the foyer de la danse.

I was notably disappointed when he fell in love with the trifling Christine Daaé; what business did a man of near fifty have with a girl barely twenty? I hoped it was the angelic quality of her young voice, the beauty of his Don Juan paramour, that made him love her. Yes, I was jealous of the unfortunately weak-constitutioned Miss Daaé, but my Meg kept me well-informed on her doings.

And the night Christine Daaé reappeared from the cellars to elope with the youthful Vîcomte Raoul de Chagny, Meg was told some of the ingenue's wild tales. Alone and bold, I took the dangerous path to the underground house. I knew very well that I might be attacked by the ratcatcher, accosted by the Persian, or killed in Erik's torture chamber, but I returned.

I saw the house completed, and my heart swelled from pride. The door, however, to Erik's chamber was not even locked. In the darkness of his coffin he lay, at peace at last, frozen tears still on his uncovered cheeks. He had died before I was able to say goodbye. But I knew his wishes. His fine things I had discreetly taken to my flat; his house I left bare and clean. His coffin I weighted down and sent to the waves, so he would never be found, never again be displayed.

When I think about the winter of 1871, I realize we all had our scars from that dangerous time, but none deeper than Erik's or mine.

Fin

Author's Note

Many thanks to you, faithful readers, for getting this far. I hope the twist here at the end wasn't too annoying. Looking at the ending I wrote over 4 years ago, I realize that it is a bit Maupassant-esque. Hmm.

It may interest you to know that this last summer I began writing a new Phantom story, called "Origins." This one, as you might imagine, returns to the very beginning of Erik's life. Split into three parts, it tells the story Leroux hinted at, this time from what I hope is a unique perspective: Erik's father's. Stay tuned.

My thanks to you again.