Chapter One:
Though many had sent their condolences, few sought to attend the actual funeral that day. Letters from distant relatives of whom Raoul had never even met were received and notes of appreciation sent; a few chorus girls who had known Christine all signed a card that was delivered by post. But the final push came when Raoul received an eye-dazzling wreath from the managers Andre and Firmin, along with a page of flowerily written prose: How the world has been deprived of its brightest star, sincerely M. Andre and M. Firmin of the Opera Populaire – it was all the smooth elegance and veiled insincerity that would flow so easily out of the pen a refined businessman. Raoul, upon taking one look at said note, had ripped it to shreds. He instructed the servants to remove this "disgusting insult to her memory" immediately from his sight or else he would not be responsible for his actions.
The servants responded with alacrity to his command; they all of them knew to
stray as far away from him as possible these days lest they too be on the receiving end of one of his explosive grief-driven outbursts. There were even whispers among a few of them as to the mental health of their master and if he would ever recover from the death of Christine, not to mention the death of his first son in the same day.
Raoul had refused anyone to touch his wife's body, had shut himself with her in their bedroom all day and all night, and would have stayed down this path before his head servant was compelled to utilize force. The de Chagny household erupted into chaos as the Vicomte attempted to strike at him with a poker when he had tried to move the body, and a doctor finally had to be called in to sedate him. Thereafter, Raoul was kept in bed and under strict watch so that he could overcome the intense stress and fatigue his body had been recently put through. But for this grieving husband it was the mind, and not the body, which needed healing the most. After a full twenty-four hours confined to his bed, he had only just been allowed to leave it for the funeral.
And in the end, there was only Madame Giry and Meg Giry with himself besides – a maid Christine had been especially fond of in attendance. The former came as she had always been publicly seen: tall and unyielding in her black taffeta dress, like the strongest oak tree in wintertime. Her arm circled around her daughter's waist, more for support, Raoul believed, than for comfort as little Meg visibly trembled as she walked. They passed him and Raoul felt a gentle squeeze on his shoulder. He nodded his acknowledgment in return, secretly grateful to the Girys for coming while others were so quick to forget such unpleasant occurrences once they had fulfilled the necessary etiquette requirements.
Raoul barely listened to the sermon at all. With each passing second, he couldn't help but think that Christine was not really dead, was not really lying lifelessly in the coffin before him, and was in fact at home waiting for her husband to come back. He imagined sweeping her up into his arms, hearing her laughter echo across the hall, smelling her pleasantly light perfume, watching her smile light up a room. No, she couldn't possibly be dead. They still had so much life yet to experience together. How was it possible for the sun to be shining as bright as a day like today if she was truly gone?
His chest swelled up with hope even as he knew in some deep recess of his heart that this blissful feeling was only a fool's paradise. But at this moment, he did not care if it was; he had been so emotionally drained that even through Meg Giry's heartfelt sobs, he could not find a tear left to shed. Perhaps it was better this way; tears did not nothing except give a finality to the situation. Raoul could not remember ever even crying for Jacques, only feeling vaguely hollow in the pit of his stomach.
But this buoyant feeling did not go away. To Raoul, it felt a little like chasing a rainbow; Christine was just a little ways away from him, just on the other side of the hill or across the street or just behind him. If he should turn a little to the left now, he would see her...
"... enter not into judgment with Thy servant, O Lord, for in Thy sight shall no man be justified, unless through Thee remission of all his sins be granted unto him..."
He just barely caught sight of it, but felt the world shift beneath his feet all the same. He had expected to see hair dancing with movement and dress lifting gently with the breeze; instead it was the shock of black cape, the glint of yellow eyes, the lingering stench of death that assailed his senses, and he felt his insides seize up in terror. But a blink later and the vision was gone.
"… that Thou deliver it not into the hands of the enemy, nor forget it unto the end..."
His skin still prickled like a cactus plant, as the sickening feeling of being observed by an invisible phantom never left him. Raoul swung around, trying to catch the elusive apparition and was not surprised that he could not find him.
Like a magic trick: Here he is, then here he's not.
"He was here, wasn't he?" Raoul had all but ran after Madame Giry as she departed with her daughter. "Answer me, you woman!"
"Monsieur, I don't presume to know of whom you are referring to," said she in that tight, dismissive tone of hers.
Raoul fairly trembled with rage. "You already know who I mean. You brought him here, didn't you? The one who's haunted her for years. The one who haunts her still. The Opera Ghost."
Little Meg gasped audibly. Madame Giry turned to her. "Meg. Go wait in the carriage for me."
"Well!" Raoul shouted, his face whitening with ever increasing anger. He wanted to hit something, but so far the only person near was Madame Giry. All the same he felt his fists clench.
Madame Giry regarded him calmly. "Think about what you are saying, Monsieur. You are not making any sense. Erik has departed from this land of the living long before your dear wife did."
She turned to leave but Raoul grabbed her arm, holding her back. "No. He is always here." His fist clenched painfully around her arm, but Madame Giry did not give any indication of the slightest discomfort. "Tell that Monster," Raoul hissed these words, "that if I should ever see him again, he won't have time enough left to draw a single breath before I slice him in two. And this time, I will succeed."
It was fortunate for all those around that the Vicomte did not return immediately to his wife's grave. For if he had, he would have discovered a figure cloaked in black laying down an engagement ring tied to a single red rose.
tbc-
a/n: Feedback and constructive criticism, as always, are very much appreciated. Also, does anyone know a good site with information on late 19th century aristocracy in France? Thanks.
