The sweet, golden soprano voice twisted through the walls and lanced its way to his ears. He took a breath, sharp and pained. "Angel," he answered, his wishes turning his perception just slightly to allow him to overlook the warmer tones that distinguished Magdelene Defoe from Christine Daee. And then, louder, with more demand, and in the language he used when in Paris: "Ange."
Thinking in his mind that he was calling out for the very thing she sung about - a ghost - he hadn't expected to have that specter come any closer. Ghosts did not obey the ones that they had left behind in the world itself. They reminded, but never minded, those who were still suffering in the mortal realm. He took another drink.
He needed her. He needed her voice and her beauty to give him something - anything. There was nothing left for him now, or so it seemed to him - nothing worthwhile, nothing for him to care about.