La Nuit Porte Conseil
Chapter One
A/N: No warnings this chapter, but please pay attention to TWs at chapter heads going forward. Please bear with this intro chapter, this fic is going to get weird.
Feedback is greatly appreciated :) I L Y for reading!
It had been six days. Six days of freedom––days without the Opera, days without her tutor.
Six days without music.
The emptiness of her days maddened her––six long, meaningless days, punctuated by the hounding questions of incessant journalists upon the doorstep of the de Chagny city-house, the changed, watchful eye of M. Giry, and the simpering apologies of her managers. Richard and Moncharmin! Such fools they were, pandering to her Vicomte, with false entreaties for her quick return to the stage.
Worst of all was Raoul. Dear, simple, sweet Raoul; Christine tried to remain patient with him and his well-intentioned protectiveness. His constant assurances concerning her safety aggravated her as much as they had once soothed her––he knew, as she knew, that the rumors of the Phantom's death were false. Now Raoul concocted him in every shadow, as if he laid in wait for his next chance at claiming Christine. How many times had her fiancé drawn his ridiculous pistol to threaten a breeze-shivered curtain, or frozen in speech to demand she stood behind him?
She knew Erik still terrorized Raoul's sleep––the servants whispers told her as much, though he would never admit to such a thing––and often he awoke sweating and gasping for air, with his fingers about his throat, as he cried out to Christine, to his lost brother, and even to that Persian fellow––
But none of this he shared with Christine. She had tried to speak to him about Philippe one morning as they sat together at the breakfast table, but as soon as she'd said his name Raoul had lowered his elbows to the table and carefully placed his silver upon his still-full plate. For a moment he sat, rigid and silent as a statue with his eyes closed––then he passed a palm over his face, stood, and exited the room without another word.
When she saw him again later that morning, he maintained his usual gay manner and behaved as if nothing had transpired at all.
And Christine never mentioned Philippe again.
Now Raoul insisted on accompanying her everywhere she went, forbidding her return to the Opera, and marrying her as soon as possible in the intention of moving her out to Chateau de Chagny in the south. He would hear nothing of her protestations. All of this, he claimed, was done only for her own protection.
Yet Christine knew she needed none. Erik would not seek her now. His final actions toward her, just six days ago, had revealed him. She had chosen him––accepted him––and still he turned her away. Still he set her free. Even Raoul would have nothing to fear from him now. It was Christine who had freed them both, in the end. Erik could never have claimed her love by force––he knew he had no right to demand it––even if a moment of passionate madness, of cruel weakness, had prompted him to try. Returned to himself, humbled by her sacrifice, he accepted her choice was hers alone. He had lost all dominion over her. She saw it cast upon the ruin of his face, his horrible face––
Six days. Six days of only her own voice in her head. Her own thoughts, turning each moment, each word, each painful glance from those tormented eyes over and over, over and over. Should she have done differently? Could she have, that night, as all she had come to know crumbled around her, and so violently?
How dare he make such demands of her! How could he think she would have chosen him, truly chosen him, after such a display?
Oh, he had terrified her! To threaten the murder of hundreds for her unwilling hand––what a mad thing to say! But that was all it was, was it not––a threat. Why should it seem so clear to her that he had no intention of doing as he'd claimed? When surely Raoul had believed it of him, and even the Persian, who spoke so very curiously, as if Erik were his friend…
She could not imagine Erik having any friends.
No––it mattered little. Whatever it was, whatever it had been––in a mad instant, Erik had destroyed it. The veil was lifted, the tower crumbled to nothing––
Because whatever his intention, he still had said the words.
Did she believe him incapable of following through when she had made her choice? Or did she only realize it in the sobriety of six days of unbearable silence? For she had kissed him, then, knowing…
Oh, God––she could not think on it––
Phantom, Ghost––it was absurd! No normal man would title themselves thus. And yet, Christine knew, he was no normal man. Could he ever had enthralled her mind, her voice as he did, if he were?
Erik could not be expected to do anything normally. Not even a proposal.
Still his eyes, that night… how they haunted her. How can so much passion be expressed in such ugly, mismatched eyes––such strange, dark things.
Those fascinating eyes––how they burned like black fire behind that mask––
He must have known she would refuse him. He had given her no choice! She could never have let him hurt Raoul in her name––the decision was made as soon as her fiancé stumbled into that sick chamber of mirrors. Surely Erik had seen that! They both knew her final acceptance had been only for Raoul's sake––not Erik's.
But that kiss… like a consummation…
Raging and raw it tormented her––the memory of it––she dreamt of that damned kiss and woke writhing in sweat-dampened sheets, in hot shame at the name which hovered upon her parted lips––
The guilty panic that she had tried to shake for nearly a week rose like hot bile in her throat. But she was safe now, was she not? She would marry Raoul in two days, on Sunday; she would leave this place and its ghosts––forever––for a good marriage, a Chateau––a title, no less! What more did any woman have the right to desire?
She need not think on Erik again.
She need never hear his voice––
Why did the thought fill her with such fear?
Now Raoul glanced at her curiously over the flimsy vellum of Le Gaulois. Sensing him, Christine turned from the window to meet his gaze. She curled her mouth in a weak smile and hoped her fiancé did not regard the pink bloom that had heated her cheeks.
"My love," Raoul said, with characteristic ebullience. She wondered if he'd woken screaming last night; no––whether he had or not he would never let it show. He would not speak of it to Christine. This aristocratic mask was so much a part of him that even he did not know how to remove it.
He rolled the large paper in two manicured hands and tossed it casually upon the breakfast table. "Are you quite well? You haven't eaten a thing." Christine glanced at the plates piled high before them of cured meats, soft cheeses and breads, and beautiful, delicately decorated pastry. A display of opulence suited for a Vicomtesse, she thought sardonically, and instantly regretted her ingratitude.
Christine reached across the table to place her palm atop Raoul's.
"It hardly warrants any concern, dear," she said lightly, to the innocent furrowing of Raoul's well-built brow. "I am simply not very hungry this morning." A footman the name of whom Christine could not yet remember shot her a disdainful look as he straightened to remove his proffered tray; she pretended not to regard it.
The servants loved her fiancé, to his credit; they might have loved her too if she could only live up to their expectations of her. Christine could never get used to the lady's maid who dressed and undressed her, and brushed out her long curls each night before bed. How could it be considered rude to dress oneself? Or to open one's own door? With every faux pas Raoul would eye her with a sort of pitiful, kind superiority of which she could not bear. She had never thought of it much before––his high birth––save to think he would never consider her. Now, despite his patience with her, she could not seem to forget that he was a Vicomte.
And the servants were less understanding.
When had independence become an undesirable attribute? Hers was a trait she had cultivated out of necessity; she had long considered it a point of pride…
It occurred to her that Erik must have valued it in her––or at the very least, regarded it––he would leave her alone for days at a time in the underground cottage beside the lake, and never once behaved as if she could not be trusted out of his presence.
Save for when she'd tried to kill herself to be free of him...
Now all of this aristocratic convention––it was so exhausting.
She had never appreciated her freedom when she'd had it.
"Ah, still you must eat, my Bride!" said Raoul, with a laugh. Christine managed another tight-lipped smile and sipped her cooling tea; her fiancé pressed on eagerly. "We have much to do today, and you will need all your strength. I should like to have your apartments emptied today, and your things packed away. You will need to oversee, darling, of course––M. Bardin has your cases ready, and he's positively itching––" He shot a suggestive glance in the footman's direction, who gave a pointed nod in reply.
Another private jest that Christine could not understand.
"Oh, but it will not take long, dear," Raoul added, misreading Christine's expression.
Her palm returned to its place in her lap as Raoul rose and moved towards the open window with a surveying rise of his chin––every bit the foppish spectacle in fashionable pastels. Unbidden, her thoughts teased of a taller man in darker clothes, of sensuous, measured movements in contrast to Raoul's stilted boyishness; of long fingers unfurling, torturously slow, so close to her flesh and yet never touching, as they drew her to him under the veil of ecstatic song––oh, God forgive her––it was so easy to follow those fingers––
Christine lowered her eyes as a base heat rushed to her ears and parted her lips. She exhaled heavily through her nostrils; Raoul continued, unbothered, "I know it is a burden, dear, but it must be done before the wedding––I should like to be en route to Provence on Monday, and we are expected, besides––you'll stay here at the house, of course, as you have been, until then––so you see, darling, there's no need to keep the place now. It simply must be done today––"
"I do not want to empty my apartment yet, Raoul." Her sudden interruption startled him into a turn. Raoul leaned against the window's decorative molding with his head tilted at the barest angle, watching her. A lock of his yellow hair tumbled across his forehead in boyish mockery of his frown.
"Christine, you are being ridiculous," he said dismissively and ran a flat palm over his crown. "If not today, when? Do you plan to pack on our wedding day?"
"I think––well!––I should like to stay there, tonight, Raoul––alone! I should like to stay there until the wedding, in fact!" She stood suddenly in the manner of an emotional outburst, nearly toppling her finely caned Louis XIV chair, but seeing Raoul's furrowed brow and pouting, open mouth, she straightened her skirts and cooly sat down again. This occurred with such unexpected speed that Raoul did not know what to make of it, though the footman arched an obvious eyebrow in her direction.
"Christine?" sighed Raoul, "if you are upset––" He couldn't fathom why his fiancé should desire to return to this place she had never spoken particularly highly of, especially when, if anything, it could only serve as a reminder to her of the horrors of the past several months!
Christine regretted her tantrum as soon as she had made it, and looking upon Raoul's simple, visible anguish, softened her voice to explain that she didn't mean to upset him, she only wished to stay there as she'd been denied a proper farewell what with everything that had befallen them this past week, and besides, they could easily have someone pack the place for them unsupervised before Monday. She never had many belongings there to begin with, and she cared little what became of them. Raoul was not made to feel less uneasy, but in assuring himself that her emotions could be entirely attributed to common, all-too-mysterious 'women's issues'––rather than any serious crisis––he had to accept her wishes. He was never able to resist any whim of her sweet pink mouth. And in just two days… he thought, distracted. In two short days, she would be his.
So it was settled. For the cost of her two nights of freedom, Christine knew her fiancé would likely have her followed and her flat guarded, by at least one man, if not more. Raoul would be too occupied making arrangements to do so himself, and Christine took comfort in this––the stalking, bumbling presence of his well-meaning cadre was not a great improvement over Raoul's own company these six days, where every moment spent was spent under his worried, watchful eye, but it was something nonetheless. Perhaps Raoul had begun to think of his old rival as gone after all––if he had truly believed her in danger, Christine knew, he would have chained her to his bedpost rather than allow her to sleep out of sight.
She tipped her chin to meet his lips and let him kiss her in farewell, and went away feeling empty and rather cold, and perhaps more confused than ever.
But even on her own, her apartments felt like just another prison. Pacing, Christine turned over small items mindlessly in her fingers as she passed, toppling several unceremoniously to the floor. The silly girlish keepsakes were but trifles now. She made a pot of tea and left it to cool on the table, untouched. The maid, a nervous creature Raoul had sent to see to her, was dispatched just as soon as she'd arrived.
Christine wanted to be alone. And yet, she could find no comfort for her restless mind here––this place was not her home.
She moved like a corpse to the window. When had it begun to rain? The glass offered little protection from the gelid damp, and she felt the chill of it before her palm reached the surface. Tracing her finger over the track of a raindrop, she tipped her forehead forward to rest against the glass. The cold soothed her heated skin, and she sighed.
An unpleasant sensation at her feet roused her. Water from a pool on the little stone balcony had begun to seep beneath the window-frame to soak through her satin slippers; she kicked off her wet shoes with distaste. Barefooted, Christine dragged the dusty linens from her metal frame bed in one great heap and stuffed the soft mass at the base of the window.
She would not need them now.
A comfortable, impossible room rose in her memory. A roaring hearth, and before it two soft leather armchairs beside a rich red velvet settee. Walls lined with tall bookshelves, filled with every volume imaginable, more. A bedroom, with crisp cotton sheets and feather quilts upon an overlarge, mahogany bed, and a private marble bath. Lush brocade curtains over empty, dark windows.
A coffin. No doors…
But in the center of it all, a piano, from which resounded constant music––beautiful, impossible, unbearable music––
And a man…
She wanted to go home.
Stepping back into her sodden shoes––her only pair––Christine rushed to the door, and slamming it behind her, flew down the flights of stairs into the pouring dark.
The walk from her apartment to the opera was not a short one, as accommodations at a close distance were for the almost-wealthy, and Christine was not that. In two days, I will be that and more––she realized, though the thought did not bring her joy. She might have ordered a carriage had she thought of it in her rush to leave the apartment, but now it was too late, and her shoes, petticoats, and curls had already paid the price.
It was shameful for the wife of a Vicomte to walk about the streets of Paris alone at night, and in the rain no less––but she was no Vicomte's wife yet. Christine knew she was likely being followed by one of her fiancé's men, but if she were they had not so far given themselves away, and she would not allow herself pause to glance about for them. Let them think she was simply a foolish bride-to-be, nervous before her wedding night. By the time they realized where she was headed, it would be too late to stop her.
And Raoul would know too, soon enough. It should have bothered her, Christine knew, and yet she felt no alarm for the knowing.
She fumbled with the little gate key in her palm. It was a strange thing, more comb or lyre than key in shape. She had taken to wearing it always these past several months, on a golden chain tucked against her bosom. It was too heavy, too strange to wear around her neck, but it rested upon her heart all the same.
When Erik had torn Raoul's ring from her throat, thrusting it before her face in his rabid anger, she wanted to rip the thing from her breast and throw it to the ground to spite him. But she was too afraid, and the key remained her secret, bound to her chest even as he cursed her.
She had worn both their rings. She had worn both their rings!
Oh, it was a mad thing she was about to do––
Now the opera loomed magnificent and terrible before her––its marble facade threatened Hell even as it reached for Heaven. And from atop it Apollo watched, as God's own tears rained down upon him––
Changeable child, make up your mind!
But what choice did she have? She must brave damnation; she must go down below. What kind of life would she have, up here––if she could not know for sure?
His ghost would haunt her until she was dead.
Poor Raoul. Poor Christine! They might have been so happy if not for him––
Christine feigned exhaustion beneath the high overhanging stone arch of the last drainage tunnel on the Rue de Rivoli side, as carriages and pedestrians splashed past with blind eyes. To an onlooker, she simply appeared a well-dressed woman, caught without umbrella or escort in a downpour, seeking a moments refuge from the storm.
If only refuge could be found up here.
For six days, her mind had burned with the twisting, twisting, twisting of the Angel's words, as if within that tumult the answers were plain, if she could only find the key. Now beyond the iron bars of the drainage gate, the dark passage called to her, compelled her to it. It sang in the vibration of her veins, in the constant hammering of her aching skull, as if all the answers were right there, just beyond her reach. Still, she was powerless against the Angel's summons.
Had she ever been able to resist?
She must see him one more time. She had to understand––
And the Angel always knew just what to do.
A small commotion in the intersection of the Rue Auber, some shouting and whinnying of wet horses, provided cover enough––the golden key found its mark.
Christine ran down the dark passageway as the gate's locking behind her echoed like funeral bells in her ears…
There could be no going back.