Epilogue

Le Gaulois, April 15, 1871

Erik is dead. [1]

It was a simple epitaph for such an extraordinary man. Leroux had known he deserved better, but what should he have said? How could he capture the essence of such a man on paper? How could he confine the soul of music to mere words? It was like trying to contain sunlight in a bottle or the wind in a box. The article was a year old now, but he simply couldn't throw it away. It was a tribute to a man who he had come to think of as one of his dearest friends. He set the newspaper clipping down on the table and stared out the window at the clouds in the sky, wondering what Erik was up to in his new life.

A man stands in the doorway of a small cottage in the French countryside, his face obscured by the shadows cast in the late afternoon sunlight. There are vines growing up the side of the house, blanketing the white brick chimney in a rich emerald green. To the side of the house there is a grand old oak, looking like a stately sentry standing guard over the house. There is a slight breeze blowing, tossing the leaves to and fro, their shadows dappling the grass below in ever-changing patterns of darkness and light. In the meadow in front of the house, the grass is tall and dotted with wildflowers, their brightly colored heads bobbing in the wind. A woman is there dressed in white, dancing barefoot in the fields, her dark curls radiant in the sun, her thin cotton dress undulating in the breeze. A band of pure gold encircles the fourth finger of her left hand, glinting in the sunlight as she gathers the tender blossoms – bluebells and buttercups and dasies. She runs with her hands full of flowers, with her hair flowing wildly. From his place among the shadows, the man smiles as she approaches, dropping the bouquet on the steps. She stands with her back to the setting sun, its golden rays surrounding her with an angelic glow. She is waiting for him with open arms, beckoning him into the light. There is a moment of hesitation, a moment of fear, but at last he steps forward and feels the sunlight on his skin, the warmth caressing his face like a mother comforting her infant child. It is not a particularly handsome face, scarred in battle and scarred from birth, but it is the face of the man that she loves and to her, it is beautiful. The man takes her in his arms and lifts her into the air, spinning her around and dipping her low, pulling her in for a kiss, their features darkened against the radiance of the sun.

The papers, you see, had gotten it a bit wrong. For though the Phantom was truly dead, Erik was very much alive.

[1] As mentioned before, Leroux's original novel was first published as a series in the French newspaper Le Gaulois from 1909-1910. In his story, the only notice of Erik's demise is a simple, one-line sentence: "Erik is dead." I chose to use April 15th as a tribute to the author because Leroux himself died on April 15, 1927.