The portly, well-dressed yet slightly rumpled man scurrying to and fro on the railway platform certainly seemed out of place. He in no way resembled the typical teenaged rascals employed by the newspapers, and even less still the young grocers’ boys that often distributed advertisements in the busiest parts of the city. For this reason he attracted Christine’s attention, perhaps even piqued her interest, and she took the proffered pamphlet with a smile and polite nod. He paused a moment to touch the brim of his bowler hat and breathe, “Merci,” before plunging his hand into the basket over his arm, removing another copy of his distribution and moving on in search of another victim.

Absently, Christine glanced over the cover of the folded brochure. When she noted it was a piece of fictional writing, she smiled and tucked it into her own basket, placing it safely among her market-goods. Often, writers who distributed their work on the streets of Paris produced nothing worthy of note; but occasionally a delightful storyteller would get his start this way. Regardless of their quality, Christine nearly always found these snippets of writing amusing, and resolved to look it that evening.

It was chilly in Paris that day, and Christine picked her way among days-old piles of snow that still remained in the streets. She preferred to walk, even though the price of a carriage was well within her means, but in this section of the city, near the railway station, she often found it less than pleasant. The smoke that poured endlessly from the coal-driven engines gave a dingy grey hue to everything nearby, even the snow. Gathering her coat closer at the throat and rearranging her scarf a bit to keep off the brisk breeze, she quickened her pace. Her scarf, incidentally, was not red; it was a fine black cashmere decorated with lovely handwork. Red scarves, after all, did not become well-to-do ladies of middle life.

As she neared her destination, the scenery through which Christine passed became more appealing. When she finally ascended the front steps of a modest townhouse, it was in a pleasant neighborhood of other slightly upper-class homes, lined with wrought-iron fences and potted plants. This particular house, number 5 Rue d’_____, was particularly charming with its grey stone façade and lace curtains at the windows. Christine turned her key in the front door and slipped inside, carefully knocking the snow from her overshoes before crossing the threshold.

She emptied her basket in the comfortable, neat kitchen and glanced through the pantry briefly, wondering what she would prepare for dinner. Although she and her husband did employ a housekeeper, Christine preferred to do the cooking herself. The self-sufficiency she had learned as a child while travelling Europe with her father had never completely left her, and despite her comfortable status still liked to be involved in the running of her household. She eventually decided on a dish that was one of her favorites, but noted that it was still rather early to begin preparations for dinner. To pass the time and unwind from her afternoon at market, she wandered into the nearby parlor where she settled into a comfortable chair, turned the gas lamp up brightly, and unfolded the pamphlet she had taken from the gentleman in the train station. She had glanced over it briefly in the street, but had not noted the title of the piece; doing so now, she felt as though the floor had dropped out from beneath her.

“The Phantom of the Opera,” she could not help whispering aloud, “by Gaston Leroux.” Despite her seated position, she felt as though she were going to faint. She pressed a hand to her cheek and forced herself to breathe normally; once she had regained her composure, she began to read.

“Prologue: In which the author of this singular work informs the reader how he acquired the certainty that the Opera Ghost really existed.

“The Opera Ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imaginations of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the obx-keepers, the cloak-room attendants, or the consierge. No, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say, of a spectral shade.”

It had been fifteen years since the whole affair at the Opera. It had been the talk of Paris for quite some time, but as often happens with scandals, a new one soon arose and obliterated public interest in ‘old news.’ Some six or seven years after they had left it, Christine and her new husband had found it quite easy to return to Paris and set up modest housekeeping on the Rue d’_____ with little or no notice from the populace. They led a quiet and unobtrusive life, although they had an amiable relationship with their neighbors. This is not to say, however, that their existence was devoid of friendship or diversion. They had several close acquaintances in Paris and the surrounding area who visited them often, and they had even felt comfortable venturing out to the Opera or other musical engagements. They took to dressing modestly and sitting in the first balcony instead of a box that they could easily have afforded. Although they never thrust themselves into the public eye, neither did they hide themselves away.

But now, Christine could not help fearing the worst; should this book become popular, the quiet life she and her beloved husband had come to cherish might very well be dashed to bits by the prying public. She shook her head at herself and did what she always did when feeling nervous or out-of-sorts: she climbed the thickly carpeted stairs to the second story of their house and knocked quietly on her husband’s study door. A muffled invitation wafted through the wood and Christine entered the dimly lit room, closing the door behind her.

The scent of tobacco was the first thing she noted, as her eyes were not completely adjusted to the dark. The room was lit only by the fire in the grate, and by its flickering illumination Christine could make out her beloved leaning back in his favorite wing chair, inhaling the acrid smoke of his pipe. Drawing nearer, she chided him gently, “I do believe I have asked you not to smoke that in the house.”

“You have,” he responded just as affectionately. “But I know you don’t mean it well enough to turn me out-of-doors.”

“Really?” Christine smiled. “And how is that, my love?”

“Because I know,” he chuckled, puffing out smoke like a dragon and pointing his pipe-stem at her in mock-severity, “that the aroma of tobacco reminds you keenly of your father; and for that reason you not only permit me to smoke it, but also to smoke it in the house.”

Christine grinned and shook her head slightly, acknowledging his theory. It was impossible to hide anything from this man, who seemed to know her better than herself. “All right then,” she admitted, settling onto the footstool nearest his chair. “But here, I will tell you about a strange thing that has just happened if you will turn up the lamp.”

He obliged her, and she began to read him the contents of the leaflet. As she read, he sat very still, absorbing every word like a parched plant; not even when her own name was mentioned did he move a muscle.

“…Well, what the subscribers wanted to know was, why Debienne and Poligny had applied to Daae, when Carlotta was taken ill? Did they know of her hidden genius? And if so, why had they kept it hidden? And why had she kept it hidden? Oddly enough, she was not known to have a Professor of singing at that moment. She had often said she meant to practice alone for the future. The whole thing was a mystery.”

“Pah,” said Erik, noting that his pipe, which he had held for so long on his knee, had gone out. Taking a splint from his tobacco-box, he leaned in towards the fire and caught a spark; only after he had gotten his pipe comfortably smoking again did he wave out the burning splint and continue. “I hardly think it cause for concern, my dear.”

“Don’t you?” Christine asked, her brow knit.

“No,” he replied gently, taking her hand reassuringly. “It already sounds as though this Leroux character has got more than half the details wrong. And judging from his language, he means to make his novel one of Gothic horror, not one of facts.” He leaned back into his chair again, chuckling. “A pity, too … the real tale would probably sell better, don’t you think, Christine?”

She could not help but smile. “You are probably right, Erik.”

“Probably right?” he questioned with a lilt in his voice. “Listen to Gaston, my dear – I seem to be a very clever character, able of deceiving all manner of persons at once … what is it, the box-keepers and the cloak-room attendants and the consierge?” Erik threw back his head and laughed outright. “Perhaps the consierge … perhaps indeed … but I somehow doubt I ever had dear Mme. Giry completely fooled.”

Christine joined in the merriment. “Yes, Mme. Giry was a tough old bird, but a dear soul too. Such a shame she has gone ahead now …”

“Yes – but so many have gone ahead or moved on to greater things, Christine. So few remain at the Opera from those days; I think we have very little need for worry.”

Christine sighed. “Of course you are right, my love. I was just so startled when I read it written out so plainly.”

“Understandable, my dear.” He rose from his chair and kissed Christine’s forehead tenderly. “Now, I must set out the chessboard; Nadir will be visiting us tonight.”

“Oh, will he?” Christine responded, delighted. “How nice our evening will be, then. Shall I sing for you?”

Erik smiled. “I think your voice might be better employed reading tonight, my dear.” He kissed her hand tenderly and offered her his arm. “Why don’t I order a cab? We shall make a quick trip to the bookshop and purchase this new modern classic by Monsieur Leroux. I dare say Nadir would be interested to hear it – yes, interested, to say the least.”