(A/N: This is a translation of the German story Gefangene der Angst by E. M. K. 81, which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)
Imprisoned by Fear
Summary: Christine and Raoul's escape plans succeed, but with Erik in pursuit they are still far from safe...
She would sing for Erik one last time. One last time — and then vanish at once. That was what Christine had arranged with her fiancé, and that was how it would be.
She knew that Raoul was waiting for her at the stage door with several bodyguards — there would be no curtain call for her tonight; it was too risky. Nor would she return to her dressing room, or change out of her costume, or collect her personal belongings, for she knew that Erik was waiting for her behind the mirror.
Christine was weeping when she left the stage. She wept, for she knew all too well what she was doing to Erik and how much pain she was causing him. Raoul, however, ascribed her tears to fear. He took her gently in his arms and led her to a small side entrance where a coach with four horses awaited them.
On their way through the Opera she and Raoul had been escorted by seven armed men, and mounts for the latter stood ready behind the coach. Raoul meant to take no chances and had spared no cost. On the heavy vehicle there was a large trunk which held essential clothes for them both during their journey, and Raoul was carrying another case in which he had a pair of highly accurate pistols, in addition to a knife in his belt — although he doubted that Erik would engage him in a knife fight.
The driver was thoroughly briefed, and the coach sped off. Christine wept harder than ever.
"It will soon be over," Raoul said to comfort her, and took her into his embrace. "I'm here with you. It will be all right."
"I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself for what I've done to him today," sobbed the young woman, who was still wearing the penitent's shift from Marguerite's prison scene.
The Vicomte sighed. It seemed odd to him that Christine was constantly expressing regret on Erik's behalf when the man was a common murderer and kidnapper. "It's not your fault," he soothed her, "this Erik has only himself to blame. If he had behaved towards you in a normal fashion then none of this would have been necessary."
"Oh, Raoul, you don't understand," Christine wept. "I owe Erik so much — he loves me, and I'm betraying him."
The young man decided it would be better to say nothing and hope that she would grow calmer of her own accord.
The escape was well planned-out. First they travelled along a route that had been drawn up so that they never spent more than one night anywhere, with the coach still guarded by seven armed men. In this manner they covered a zigzag course to the north-east so that they could then send the coach and its guard on further north by itself. If Erik were following them, then he would pursue the coach and thus lose their trail.
Then the young couple, dressed in simple working-class clothes, took the train back to Paris, where they were met by the Comte de Chagny and brought to his chateau south of the city. Christine was exhausted by the hardships of the journey and glad to be able to remain in the same place for a couple of days.
The Comte took Raoul into his study and demanded to know what these actions were supposed to mean. Raoul confessed to his brother that he and Christine were fleeing from the mysterious Erik, who wanted Christine for himself and now plotted revenge.
"Brother, the whole thing sounds to me very much like a bad novel," the Comte said irritably. "I understand that this escape plan of yours is helping you impress your opera-singer, but both of you are long past the age for such games. For God's sake, be reasonable! There is no-one following you. And what on earth is to be the outcome of it all?"
"I want to marry her — you know that. And I'm certain that we are being followed. This Erik is real: I've seen him myself. He will kill us if we give him the opportunity, that's why we've tried to decoy him to the north while in reality we're travelling back south. I don't intend to halt long anywhere. From now on Christine and I will be taking an unpredictable route without even knowing ourselves where we shall be and when. I've written the names of towns on a set of cards, and every time we'll draw a single card to determine where we go next. When we're there, we'll draw the next card. That way no-one can follow us: we won't even know ourselves where we shall be the next day."
The Comte let himself sink down into the chair behind his desk with a sigh.
"And how long are you going to keep this up?" he enquired. "You can't criss-cross Europe for the rest of your life. And how are you going to pay for it? While I'm obliged to make you a certain allowance, that's not an inexhaustible source of funds — and besides, how am I to send you the money when I don't know where you are?"
"I'll come back to Paris every so often and we'll do it like that," Raoul said, after considering. "I don't think Erik will reckon on our venturing back to Paris, so he won't look for us here."
"You can't simply set out to travel the world with an opera-singer — think of your reputation! Think of the reputation of our family!"
"I've thought of that as well. I'm going to marry her straight away tomorrow."
"And what if I refuse my consent?"
"You're not my legal guardian: you're my brother. I'm marrying her tomorrow."
The brothers stared at each other for a while in silence. Then the elder gave in. "Even if you're out of your mind, you're still my brother and I'll help. Marry her — travel the world — but don't come complaining to me afterwards if it doesn't make you happy."
The wedding was neither festive nor romantic. The bride and groom turned up in the little chapel wearing their travelling clothes, and only the priest and two witnesses — the Comte and his steward — were present. There was no music, no bells, no wedding-dress, not even a speech, and naturally no festivities. Any fuss was to be avoided for fear that Erik might get to know of it and turn the wedding into a bloodbath.
Immediately after the marriage ceremony the Vicomte and the newly-made Vicomtesse made their departure. This time they travelled to Calais, where they made enquiries about taking ship for England at almost every agency that booked passages. They went so far as to pay a young couple, both from a humble background on the docks, to set out for England on a journey booked under the name of "de Chagny". Thus, if Erik followed them, he would be sent off to England, whilst in reality they remained in France, this time taking the road southward.
Neither of them was able to appreciate the beauty of France that spring or summer. They changed coaches constantly, sometimes taking the train, sometimes the stagecoach, sometimes a hired vehicle and sometimes one of the de Chagny family coaches. Never more than a couple of days in any one place, they were constantly on their guard. On no account could they leave their room after darkness had fallen, whether they were passing the night in an inn, a high-class hotel or on one of the Comte de Chagny's estates.
During the day they felt relatively safe, since Christine knew that Erik had to conceal himself due to his disfigurement and thus could only travel under cover of dark. Erik was not in a position to take the train or the stage, but he might well be able to get hold of a horse.
So far as possible in the daytime they remained in places where there were lots of people, visiting fairs, church festivals and exhibitions. The more crowded the better, as Erik would never ever venture into a crowd of people.
But this constant state of flight was more of a strain than they had anticipated. Christine in particular suffered from it, and at the beginning of autumn matters became intolerable. She felt constantly ill, had to throw up several times a day, and became ever paler and weaker. Seriously worried for her, Raoul finally forced her to consult a doctor.
His concern was justified. The doctor congratulated them on the forthcoming happy event: Christine was expecting a child.
This presented them with a new problem. If they continued in their constant flight back and forth across France Christine would lose the baby. She could not cope with the hardships.
"We have no choice," Raoul decided. "We need help. My brother has always stood by us — I'm sure he won't leave us in the lurch now."
When he saw Raoul and his wife, the Comte de Chagny was appalled. In half a year they had both noticeably aged. Both looked at least ten years older.
Raoul had lost weight and there were grey hairs in his fair moustache. Christine was terribly pale and had deep lines around her eyes, and her lips had become very thin. Her formerly flowing fair hair was pinned up into a tight knot to conceal that it had grown thinner. Due to the constant fear and the stress of their ceaseless travels, it had become very lank and dull.
"My God, what has happened to you?" the Comte exclaimed.
"Nothing — we're fine," replied Raoul, with a smile that held no humour. "But I'm afraid we need to tax your readiness to help. This flight of ours needs to come to an end somewhere. We need a safe place to stay... we're expecting a child."
"And so your big brother is expected to come to the rescue again, I suppose?" snapped the Comte.
He pulled himself together and turned to Christine. "Forgive me. My heartiest congratulations: I'm very happy for you, truly. But, my dear — please don't misunderstand me — this really can't go on."
"On that we're all agreed," Christine told him. "I know we have no right to demand anything, but would you listen to a plea?"
The Comte answered with a smile: "No need for that. I've been waiting a long time for you to decide you've had enough of this crazy flight of yours. I really don't understand how you can be so paranoid."
He reached into the desk drawer and drew out a couple of newspapers, which he handed to his younger brother. "Your flight has been completely unnecessary for at least three months. The Phantom is back in the Opera and more active than ever. I don't believe he can be on your trail and in the Opera at one and the same time. If your mysterious pursuer is really the Phantom of the Opera, then he gave up the hunt back in June. The two of you are just seeing ghosts."
Raoul and Christine leafed through the papers, amazed. Christine noticed that some of the articles could refer to ordinary accidents which happened all the time, but some of the occurrences were so extraordinary that she was certain that Erik was behind them. Relieved, she breathed freely for the first time since they had fled the Phantom. She had been so sure that he was in pursuit — but if he had been in the Opera since June, then for some reason he must have changed his mind.
"I would never have thought that Erik would give up," she said with a sigh. "Maybe he is simply lulling us into thinking ourselves safe? We must get out of Paris at once!"
"I was expecting you would say that," answered the Comte. "Also I had really rather you indulged your eccentricities away from here. I have a chateau in the south which has extensive estates: I will gladly put the whole place at your disposal, lock, stock and barrel. If you want to make yourself useful in the role of steward there, Raoul, I should be very grateful."
"I have no idea how..." began Raoul doubtfully. Then his face cleared, and he went on: "But I can learn."
Christine stroked her stomach pensively. Since she had learnt that she was pregnant, she did this from time to time without being aware of it. "But what if he finds us?"
Again it was the Comte who supplied an idea. "I thought about that too. If it is as important to you as all that, I'll place a bodyguard at your disposal. He is an excellent man, a former soldier who knows how to make a position safe from attack. He is prepared to take you there and take responsibility for your safety."
He rang for a servant and told him to summon Pierre Bertrand. Shortly afterwards, the door opened and three huge shaggy dogs thrust their noses into the room.
Behind the dogs there stood a gaunt man with a bushy grey beard, a strongly marked hooked nose and an eyepatch over his right eye. When he took off his hat his bald head was visible, along with a terrible scar down the left-hand side of his scalp which had taken off half his left ear. He made an accomplished bow, but said nothing.
"This is Pierre Bertrand," the Comte said, presenting him. "Perhaps it would be best if you introduced yourself?"
"There's nothing to know about me," answered the man he had addressed. "My name's Pierre Bertrand, I used to be a soldier and I know how to fight — nothing more and nothing less."
"But this is no normal enemy you will have to deal with," Christine warned, "the man is a genius."
"Even a genius can't evade the noses of my dogs," replied Pierre, not without pride, and patted one of the dogs on the head, while another of them ran over to Christine and slobbered on her dress. Pierre hastily dragged it away from her by the collar, apologising that it was a young dog that didn't yet know how to behave; Christine liked dogs and didn't mind.
"Do you mind if I smoke?" asked Pierre, drawing out a cigarette case.
"Not at all — but not too near the Vicomtesse," cautioned Raoul. Pierre muttered something indistinguishable under his breath, went to the window, opened it, leaned casually against the window-seat and lit up his cigarette. The dogs lay down on the floor at his feet.
A strained pause followed, while Pierre blew clouds of smoke pointedly out of the window. Finally it was he who broke the silence.
"I need to know more about this enemy of yours."
"What do you want to know?" Raoul asked in return.
"Everything."
"Very well," began Christine. She sat down in an armchair. "His name is Erik — I don't know if that is his real name, but that's what he calls himself. He is tall, a little taller than you, and very thin, almost skeletal: his shoulders are much narrower than yours. But the most noticeable thing about him is that he has no nose and looks exactly like an Egyptian mummy that has come back to life."
Pierre's brows went up. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"It's not a joke," insisted Christine. "He really does look like that. And that's not all. To be honest, we... we're fleeing from the Phantom of the Opera."
Piere stared at her for a long moment. Then he broke into a roar of laughter. "That's a good one! That's really good!" he bellowed, still laughing. "I'm splitting my sides here — that's the most original leg-pull anyone's ever played on me!"
Then he saw that the other three were not laughing. He cleared his throat. "Not a joke? You — you really mean it? I didn't think... you were actually serious!"
"Unfortunately, yes," Philippe sighed. "It's not funny, alas."
"In that case I beg your pardon," Pierre said in embarrassment. "I was convinced you were having a joke at my expense, it sounds simply too unbelievable. Go on, please. I know next to nothing about the Phantom of the Opera."
Christine, who after all knew the most, continued with her description.
"The Phantom, or Erik, is a genius who can perform feats that no-one else can. He passes through walls and partitions, hears what goes on in the office when he is in the cellar, is everywhere at once and nothing can be kept hidden from him."
"And yet you've managed to run away from him," pointed out Pierre. "So he's no true ghost."
"No, no — he is a man," Christine hastened to assure him. "But he knows so much and is capable of so many things. I don't know how he does it, but he can make himself outright invisible in the dark and then he suddenly appears... He can climb up everywhere as if he could fly, he can... he can make people disappear... I'm so afraid!"
Pierre stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill outside, took out another, and immediately lit up. "He's a skilful murderer — is that what you're trying to tell me?"
Christine nodded, taking out a handkerchief and wiping her nose. Pierre continued, almost gently, "But he has a handicap: his appearance. He can't move about in public without being noticed."
"At night he can," pointed out Raoul.
"All right. And what would my role be?" asked Pierre.
"Exactly what you have described to me," Philippe replied. "You said you were a soldier in the Foreign Legion. You survived attacks and battles of all kinds, and you know how to avoid being killed by an enemy. I want you to make sure my brother and his wife reach the chateau in the south of France safely, and to turn the chateau into an unassailable fortress."
"I'm no specialist in fortification," grumbled Pierre. "But I'm an expert in running away. I'll tell you why I'm still alive: because I'm a coward ready to do anything necessary to survive. My role was always to keep watch on the base camp and cover the retreat."
"You're no coward," was Philippe's friendly retort.
"How do you know that?" demanded Raoul, not at all convinced that this outlandish soldier could protect Christine.
"Because he saved my life," replied Philippe simply. "I was on my way home, alone and on foot, and two men went for me with knives. Pierre overpowered them both and saved me. That was how we came to know each other."
"I'm out of work and have no-one and nothing apart from my dogs," Pierre growled. "Who is going to give work to an old soldier like me? If the good Comte de Chagny hadn't taken me on and paid me for doing nothing, I'd still be in the gutter. I'm in his debt and will take on even a Phantom if needs be. I don't think your Phantom is half so dangerous as you believe, and not so dangerous by a long shot as rebels to fight: but if you want me as your guard-dog, I'm at your service."