HIS YELLOW EYES
Darius produced from the folds of his cloak a smooth mahogany box and laid it amongst the rouge and perfumes and brushes and pins that were strewn across the dressing table. He withdrew, bowing without a glance to them and paced toward the door, the fabric he wore whispering in the silence of the room.
"Did no one see you come in, Darius?" asked the Persian, his query strange to the Viscount's ears. The Viscount glanced between the two suspiciously, unable to comprehend what had been said.
At the door, he paused, as if reflecting, or as if amused. "No, master," he responded in a neutral tone, in his native tongue as well.
The Persian nodded, turning from his servant to lay his hands upon the hatches of the elaborate case. "Let no one see you go out," he advised. Once the door had clicked shut behind Darius, he lifted the lid of the case, which contained two pistols laid in rich scarlet velvet. The pistols were identical, their handles gilded in gold that shone with care. The Persian took one from the case and passed it to the Viscount, who accepted it without hesitation, running his fingers along the smooth metal with admiration.
"Do you mean to fight a duel?" he asked, watching as the Persian drew the second pistol from its resting place and closed the case. He opened a broad drawer of the dressing table and slipped the case within amongst a flurry of blackened rose petals. Silently, he shut it.
"It is inevitable," the Persian replied and shuffled toward the mirror. Once he stood before it, he glanced to the mirror and met the Viscount's eyes. He sighed.
"But you love Christine Daaé, do you not?"
- - -
Curiously enough, the viscount had absolute confidence in the Persian, though he knew nothing about him. His emotion when speaking of the "monster" struck him as sincere; and, if the Persian had cherished any sinister designs against him, he would not have armed him with his own hands. Besides, Raoul must reach Christine at all costs.
- - -
Suddenly, the Persian drew the Viscount down with him.
"Down on your stomach!" he hissed, his grip tight on the young man's arm. The Viscount winced uncomfortably as the pistol dug into his ribs from its place in his coat pocket, but soon fell still as a whisper of fabric reached his ears and the muffled fall of footsteps passed. Something warm fluttered over his head and ruffled the locks of his hair—something warm, something live. He held his breath.
Minutes passed, and at last the Persian allowed him to rise.
"It's not…he, is it?" the Viscount asked nervously in a whisper, casting his eyes about.
"He?" It seemed almost a scoff. He urged the Viscount onward, assuring him, "If he does not come from behind, we shall always see his yellow eyes."
They moved onward, and before the encountered their next adversary, the Viscount found himself recalling a haunting pair of yellow eyes glowing in the darkness, glimmering and shining as if by an unholy light of ill-intent. He shuddered.
Beside him the Persian was steady and silent.
- - -
Raoul passed his hand over that nothing, over that reflection.
"Hullo!" he said. "The wall is a looking-glass!"
"Yes, a looking-glass!" said the Persian, in a tone of deep emotion. And, passing the hand that held the pistol over his moist forehead, he added, "We have dropped into the torture-chamber!"
- - -
The Viscount whirled on the Persian. "Torture-chamber?" He demanded.
"Yes," replied the Persian simply. Where before he had spoke with grave emotion, he now seemed to be calm with resolve. He swiftly moved toward one of the mirrors and knocked twice, his knuckles striking an eerie, reverberating note upon the glass. The mirrors rearranged themselves and slid and turned this way and that until a passage was revealed to them both. At the end was a faint orange light, swaying and flickering––the Viscount perceived that someone was headed toward them.
Panicked, the Viscount whirled around once more to demand an answer from his companion. He froze, however, on finding a pistol pointed between his eyes. The echo of footsteps began to ring in his ears as the phantom figure drew ever nearer. The Persian advanced, leaving the Viscount no choice but to retreat into the narrow tunnel.
The air changed from still to foul as he passed from the torture-chamber to the passage, and he became suddenly aware that he too was armed. Anxiously, he sought the pistol in his pocket—only to find both all were empty, the pistol gone.
The footsteps behind him had ceased, and behind him glowed a gentle orange that danced in the five black mirrors behind the Persian. He stared into the mirror, frowning at the shadow behind him––someone cloaked, wearing a felt hat of some sorts––the hat tilted and suddenly, gleaming and golden in the black of the mirror were a pair of yellow eyes. The Viscount felt himself go faint even before the butt of the pistol thudded against his skull, and in his last fleeting moments of consciousness he realized where he had seen those yellow eyes before.
- - -
The Viscount awoke in the embrace of Christine, in a reeking, damp cell where mice scurried about their feet and droplets of water occasionally fell upon their heads. Once his eyes had fluttered open, cleared, and registered her face, Christine began to sob.
When he reached to comfort her, there was a clank of a metal and the squeal of rusty hinges. At this she rose and left him without a word and left him alone in the blackness of his cell.
The hours passed him by, and he remained in a state of mind that was neither awake nor asleep. In this he contemplated his situation, and, upon making his resolutions, he sat furthermore in miserable silence. To amuse himself, the Viscount took from his pocket his watch and began to grate it against the stone of the wall in the curves of his initials. For hours on end he did this in a trance, ceasing only when the door to his prison lurched open and two figures loomed in its frame, standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
One possessed eyes of brilliant jade, the other, a demonic yellow.
Two pistols shone in the dim light, and they clacked and snapped as they were set.
- - -
Christine stood ready outside, her skirt twisted by her small hands. The thundering blast of the two pistols in unison had left her shaken and pale. Her cheeks shone silver with tears.
The two figures filed out from the cell and placed the pistols carefully in her quavering hands. They went once more into the cell and came out with the body of the viscount suspended between them. Christine closed her eyes as they passed, and then followed them down the passage without a word exchanged.
When the three of them reached the underground lake, they passed the swollen corpse of the Count, at which Christine shuddered. The Persian took to his own boat with the corpse of the viscount, Christine and his accomplice to the other.
"Daroga," it addressed across the rippling water. The Persian hesitated at the oars. Christine went rigid.
"See to it that she elopes with the viscount, Darius," he said after several moments' contemplation. He then began to row into the night.
Once the splash and churn of the Persian's oars were but a distant murmur, Darius spoke: "Our masquerade has finished, Christine."
The boat rocked gently in the water.
"Yes," she agreed.
"I am sorry," he said.
"I know," she replied, steadily.
"Would you have me?" he asked, yellow eyes fearful.
"I would."
They said nothing more and Darius began to row while Christine turned the pistols over in her hands. There was first one splash, then a second––both sound and thick. The two pistols sank to the black depths of the lake.
At the opposite shore, they stepped out from the boat and embraced and stood for a time in one another's arms. After a time, Christine murmured, "I will never forgive myself for what I have done."
Yellow eyes met hers in the dark.
"Nor will I."