The Mask and Mirror

Chapter 7

The bleakness of the white world outside, the snow drifting sadly down in ice-borne drifts, rendering all else a chill mist, seemed to have infiltrated its way to the interior of the Girys' household. Tension frosted the very air. Madame Giry paced the length of the room, starched grey skirts trailing in her wake the only sound in the small parlour. Glancing out the window into the emptiness of the street beyond, she released a sigh that only she herself knew was borne of sadness rather than anger. Meg, in contrast to this picture of agitation, was reclining with petulant boredom in one of the straight-backed chairs; her expression one of mingled concern and exasperation.

"Maman, will you please sit down? You're exhausting me."

"He will come soon," Her mother muttered, barely listening. "And by God, when he does, I hope he has an adequate explanation."

"He will," said Meg at once, fiercely loyal to those whom she had accepted into her favour, "And you'll be heartily ashamed for misjudging him."

Antoinette Giry cast her a stern look, one that in former days had cowed even the boldest of chorus girls, but seemed to have little effect on her implacable daughter who had been on the receiving end of such looks too many times. "I'll not tolerate your impudence as well."

She drummed her thin fingers against the frosted windowpane. She was extremely displeased. Christine had left as was her custom the preceding afternoon to dine at the Chagny estate, and Madame Giry had naturally seen her off with a smile and the expectation of her arriving home around eleven. The morning was well on its way toward noon, and still Christine had not returned.

Oh, the Vicomte was a sly player! And cleverer than she had given him credit for. Admittedly, she had lowered her guard. He had displayed nothing but respectful deference, modesty and courtesy throughout the course of his engagement to Christine. She should have known it could not last. Beneath that pleasant and beguiling exterior, he was a man after all. It was easy enough to discern what had happened. Christine, in her innocence had dined at his estate, and under the influence of wine, the cover of darkness and the handsomeness of her betrothed, had succumbed to his gentle and soothing persuasions. Madame Giry's lips tightened to whiteness. What on earth had possessed her? She had thought Christine to have more sense. For all her innocence, the girl had a strong sense of principles and seemed to regard her moral obligations almost as a sacred duty. But apparently, Antoinette had underestimated her naivety and the appealing charm and manipulations of her fiancé. But it was all just so…needless! The two were to be married within a week, why could she not have waited? Christine was a good girl, a devout Christian girl, so why had she thrown away one of the Church's most fundamental instructions in a moment of foolish passion?

Antoinette was too practical, too wise and experienced in the ways of the world to suspect Raoul of being completely dissolute. The likelihood of his seducing Christine and abandoning her was about as likely as her own husband rising from his grave. No, the Vicomte's love towards Christine was undoubtedly sincere; his actions and the painstaking preparations for this wedding made that fact irrefutable. There was no youthful silliness, no shallow sentimentality in his affection; she had detected that his love, though deep, was rational. On that score, Madame Giry was satisfied. But the whole affair exposed a duplicitous side to his character that was unwelcome to her. He had taken advantage of the sweet girl's innocence merely to satisfy his own whims, when waiting merely a matter of days would have kept Christine's virtue intact. For all her rigid, undemonstrative nature, Antoinette loved Christine like a daughter, and her measures to see that the girl who had been left alone in the world to its vices was protected seemed to have come to nothing. She had fallen at the final moment of trial. Her unassailable conduct had been irreproachable for so many years, so to be exposed to the censure and gossip of the servants she would soon be mistress of was both sad and unnecessary. Even if nothing of an intimate nature had passed between them, the very suggestion of it could throw Christine's reputation in jeopardy; a reputation that had already faced intense scrutiny and speculation ever since the disastrous events of the Opera Populaire nine months before.

The rattle of carriage wheels caused the woman to start, and she turned at once to look out of the window and see the chaise she had been waiting for. Behind her, Meg rose uneasily. In the light movement of a dancer, she was across the room, a small hand entreatingly grasping her mother's arm.

"Maman, don't be too angry with the Vicomte. I am sure there is some explanation –" she began to say, but was silenced by her mother's severe look.

"I need to have words with Christine, and her fiancé. I believe there are chores that need to be done, Meg. I would advise you to see to it."

"I'm not going anywhere!" said Meg angrily.

Before Madame Giry could argue her point, the front door sounded, and in her black mood, she savagely thought she could discern a certain tentativeness in the tapping of the knocker. She had no intention of coming down lightly upon either of them. The Vicomte in particular was about to see the measures through which she had kept the ballet rats on such a tight rein.


The wheels of the coach creaked and groaned as it clattered across the cobblestone streets, throwing dirty white streams of half-melted snow against the glass. Though the windows were tightly closed, the iciness of the air penetrated the interior of the carriage, settling around his fur-lined shoulders like another cloak. The snow shrouded world rushed by, a howling white wilderness, sending him reeling, eddying back into the past. The terraced houses blurred into oblivion, and Raoul felt himself drifting far away, thinking and dreaming of a night – so long ago it seemed now –

Away from the bustle and clamour, the burning heat of bright stage lights and the thronging press of people, Raoul took a moment to collect himself in the cool darkness of the hall. Then he pushed open the door to the dressing room quietly, the wish to pleasantly surprise Christine overriding all thought of social propriety. As he entered, he saw that the dimly-lit chamber was a veritable shower of floral colour, a tantamount to her unprecedented success. The dressing-table and chaise were crowned high with bright garlands of exotic flowers, the splashes of red and orange and deep blue startlingly at variance with the subdued and modest room he found himself in. The bouquet of simple white flowers he carried seemed woefully inadequate in comparison to the expensive gifts that had already been lavished upon her by admiring patrons. The modest offering that would have delighted his childhood friend was perhaps no longer a suitable token for the renowned singer Christine Daae, whose remarkable talents had brought a full Opera House to tears.

Raoul paused at the sight of her seated before the dressing table. The child of former days had grown into a delicate, sweet-faced girl, tall and slender, alive with the radiant dreams of youth. A black-ribboned rose was caught between her white fingers, and seemed to occupy her full attention as she stared down at it, quiet and pensive.

Then she looked up, her gaze falling wonderingly on his.

"Raoul?" she whispered softly, disbelieving.

He stepped forward into the soft, glowing light. "I brought you these. I know they're hardly a worthy gift after the way you sang tonight, but –"

"They are perfect." Her eyes shone with appreciation, a fond smile touching her lips. "You still know me better than anyone, Raoul. These things of wild beauty are dearer to me than all the hothouse flowers in the world." She cast the rose to one side and took the bouquet from him, burying her face in the fragrant wreathes of lily and white narcissus. "I never find flowers like these here – there's a freshness and sweetness to them that touches my heart."

It was as though her words had broken the hesitant barrier of formality between them. All propriety was swept aside as he embraced her tenderly. Raoul felt her breathless, delighted laugh against his cheek and was overcome with a rush of affection as he realised how dearly he had missed this girl, the childhood companion he had never quite forgotten even after years of long separation and social class had drawn them apart.

"How long has it been, Christine? Five years since we were last together?"

"Six next summer," she said, and the quickness of her memory on this point did not pass him by unnoticed.

"But what are you doing here? This is the last place in the world I would have imagined to find you. And where is Madame Valerius? Shouldn't she be here celebrating your success?"

"Maman is dead, Raoul. She has been gone these past four years."

"After your father… I am sorry. She was the best of women. But surely you are not alone?"

"The ballet mistress Madame Giry is my guardian now."

Raoul knelt down at her chair and took her slender hands in his, looking earnestly into her face. A blush coloured her cheeks and she dropped her gaze confusedly. A sudden, new consciousness of something changed between them came over him, as he realised they were no longer the children they had once been. The artless camaraderie of years' past was gone, had deepened into something richer and more profound, the sense of unspoken emotions hovering between them. His eyes fixed on the graceful curve of her throat and the troubled solemnity of her dark eyes, and he became aware suddenly that she was beautiful. It was an effort to speak lightly.

"You look well, Christine."

"Tonight has transformed me. It is as he said it would be – I could sing again, Raoul! Sing in such a way I never thought I would again after Papa died."

"You were divine. Even in Perros, with your father beside us, I never heard you sing like that." He frowned, trying to put his thought into words. "It was almost frightening."

"Oh, Raoul, things have happened to me – such great, wondrous things, I can hardly believe them myself." Christine laughed breathlessly, but he saw her shoulders were shaking in spite of the warmth of the room's interior.

"Christine, you're trembling!"

"It's only because I am so terribly full of joy – but I can't lie to you – I am scared, Raoul; I – I shouldn't be, because he is so good to me and he knows best in all things... but when I sang tonight, I thought my soul would leave my body and I should never come back to it... but what am I saying? I can't tell you these things! He would be so angry, and I made a solemn vow I would never, never speak of it. One day I shall tell you everything. But I was alone and miserable for so long… these lessons came to me and lifted me from the darkness – but I've said too much already –"

"We used to have no secrets between us, Christine."

She touched his cheek lightly with her fingers. "And I hope this will be the only one." She smiled, such open and ardent trust in her eyes that he could not help but believe her absolutely. "Be patient. In time you will know everything."

There was too much joy in his heart to listen to the faint stirring of unease that whispered to him that all was not right, that he should question her further on this strange fortune that seemed to have befallen her. "We must dine together tonight, Christine. We have so much to talk of." He halted as her expression fell. "Whatever is the matter?"

"Raoul, don't you see? Things are different now." She smiled a little sadly. "We are no longer two children playing innocent games together. You are a Vicomte and I – I'm merely a chorus girl –"

He caught her fingers, his grip unconsciously tightening. He wondered how she could think so humbly of herself, this gentle girl with the spiritual face and unearthly voice who had captivated him with her loveliness. "You are not merely a chorus girl."

"You know that people will talk."

His jaw hardened. "Not in my presence. Christine, we never used to care for such things! It meant nothing to me then. It means nothing to me now. Do you not remember Perros? When there was only music and laughter and each other? We cared nothing for what the world thought then."

"Of course I remember. Those were the happiest days of my life."

"You are my friend, Christine. The dearest and truest friend I have ever had." He paused and sighed. "But, if you prefer, we can have Madame Giry accompany us to stop the gossiping tongues. You know I would never do anything to compromise you."

"It's for the best, Raoul. But, oh, if you knew how I long to see you as we did in the past! The nights we spent together, telling stories and listening to the sea-storms, the secrets we shared, the things I would tell you –" She stopped abruptly and coloured, as though realising she had said too much. Raoul said nothing, but noted every hesitation, every unsteady moment of self-consciousness, and held those memories close and dear in his heart. One day, very soon, he would speak of it. But not tonight.

In those days, there had been only love and hope between them; his brother had still been alive, and he had been so full of youth and joy…

A youth and joy that had ended that very night, for Christine had disappeared and the Opera Ghost descended to blight their happiness and cast a long shadow over their lives that even now he wasn't sure they would ever be truly free of. Raoul sighed, resting his head wearily against the carriage window. He had lain awake until his manservant had entered his room, still preoccupied over last night's quarrel. Going over (and over and over and over) the last few blissful months, he had convinced himself that his jealousy was nothing more than his own weak doubts rising to the fore. This time next week he was to be a married man. Naturally he was going to be anxious, but suspecting her of being in love with someone else…! It had been low of him, an accusation unworthy of his character, and worse still, implied that he did not trust her. Was it any wonder she had been so angered and outraged? He had condemned her when he should have comforted her. She had been the victim of the machinations of a madman, was it any wonder the experience haunted her still? He too had heard that voice, the night in the cemetery, the hypnotic, deadly power of it. Christine had warned him, beneath Apollo's Lyre, but it was not until he heard it for himself did he truly understand her words. His voice, Raoul… I cannot explain it. When he speaks or sings, it is as though I have no will of my own – I become his slave!

Raoul shuddered at the memory, the frenzied, desperate look in her eyes when she had clasped his arm. I should have saved her, but instead I blamed her. His heart was bleeding for the wrong she had received, and he felt the bitterest shame and remorse that it should have come from his hand. What had compelled him to think so lowly of her? Didn't he know better by now? Her very nature was sweetness and virtue. She had no equal. He had a kind of holy love for her, and was stunned at himself that he could have thought her capable of any wrong. She was dearer to him than life itself.

She was the only family he had left. Other than two sisters who were more concerned about maintaining their respective statuses in the high echelons of Parisian society life than mourning their own brother, Raoul was overwhelmingly aware of his loneliness without Christine's soft and guiding presence in his life. Without her, his life was a dull spectacle, a repetitive mundanity of dizzying waltzes and serenades and society balls, moving through an endless sea of voices, faces, names. How easy it would have been to follow the path of vice as his brother had, to throw himself into the hedonistic and earthly diversions that money and the distinction of their family name could so easily buy. A pang struck his heart when he thought of Philippe, Philippe whom he had loved, for all his faults. That man, bold and sensuous, living the dual existence of outward respectability and inner depravity… that too would have been Raoul de Chagny but for the strength of his own nature and the timely renewal of his acquaintance with Christine. Her artless candour had come like a ray of sunlight into the cultured tedium of his existence. Her sweet innocence and undisguised sincerity reminded him of everything that was good and true in this world, when it would have been easy to descend into the shallow iniquity of the vain society he inhabited. Now that she was in his life, Raoul wondered how he could ever have lived without her.

It had been nothing more than a mere courtesy – one suggested by Philippe no less, whose affiliations with the Parisian Opera House were of a somewhat less reputable nature – to offer his patronage to the Opera Populaire. He never could have known that a visit paid as a simple formality would change the very course of his existence. Until then, Christine Daae had been only a sweet memory of days' past, a fond nostalgic remembrance of childhood and innocence. He had missed her, yes, but only intermittently, since he had never expected to see her again. That performance of Hannibal had changed everything.

The carriage lurched to an unsteady halt. Raoul had opened the door and stepped out before his man could come round to assist him, and he shook away the help with a dismissive wave of his gloved hand. The morning was windless, the snow drifting down from a cold, bleak sky. The townhouse, grey with early winter frost, lay beneath dark clouds that hung heavy with the promise of more snow to come. Raoul made the terraced steps at a bound, his desire to see her overriding all else. He brought the doorknocker down, the dull clanging doing little to ease the headache brought about from being up all night. All he wanted was to see her face, her smile, enfold her in his arms and promise never to hurt her again –

He was startled from his musings when the door was wrenched open with an energy that startled him. He found himself face to face with Madame Giry, and a slender, girlish form that moved in the darkness of the hall… Raoul's heart rose then quickly fell when he realised it was only her daughter.

Antoinette was a more than a little annoyed to see only one of the guilty party present, but on seeing the chaise outside, realised grimly that Christine must have hesitated at the idea of facing her guardian so soon. So be it. She would speak to her later. The sight of the Vicomte having evidently undergone a sleepless night did nothing to thaw her icy disposition towards him.

"Well," she said, without even the courtesy of a greeting once he had entered the house, "I hope you are here to explain yourself, Monsieur."

Raoul started in surprise at the frosty reception and at the severe expression on her countenance. He felt a momentary pang of hurt at the thought that Christine had seen fit to tell Madame Giry of last night's quarrel. Recalling some of the words that had passed between them, it cast a rather poor reflection on him, and he thought it no surprise the older woman was looking so stern.

"Perhaps it would be best if we spoke alone."

Madame Giry went to speak, but her daughter interposed impudently, "If you have nothing to be ashamed of, Monsieur, then you will have no reservations about speaking in my presence."

Boldness, it seemed, was a Giry family trait. Seeing the resemblance of the daughter to the mother made him little wonder that Monsieur Giry had been driven to an early grave. A high-spirited girl, he thought. Passionate. Raoul clenched his gloved hands slightly, too much of a gentleman to show his impatience. He glanced at Madame Giry, expecting her to chide her unruly daughter, but instead, something of a smile flickered across the edges of the older woman's mouth, and she said, "Meg is right. Be seated, Monsieur, and we will have to see about putting this matter to rights."

He sighed, and attempted some form of explanation. Aware of his culpability in the matter, his tone was one of utmost deference and respect. "Madame Giry, I'm not sure how much you know of what took place last night –"

"I know enough," she retorted icily. "And I am more disappointed in your conduct than I can say."

Raoul swallowed uneasily, wondering just how Christine had represented the events of the preceding night. Was it so bad that even now, she could not bear the thought of seeing him herself, instead leaving her guardian to reprimand him for his rash and hasty words? "I know my behaviour towards Christine was reprehensible, after everything she underwent. I admit I was out of line. Believe me, Madame, it was not my intention to let things get so out of hand."

The appealing tones of his smooth voice, the earnest expression on his youthful, handsome face would have won over any nature less rigid and indomitable than Antoinette Giry's. Her eyes lost none of their steel. "Christine is an honest girl and to show such a lack of respect towards her is degrading, both to her and yourself. You must realise the state of her position and reputable standing has been jeopardised by your total disregard for respectability!"

Raoul stared at her, shocked almost into disbelieving laughter at her words. They had quarreled, yes, but once he saw Christine, he was confident things could be resolved between them. Being accustomed to deferential treatment from most of his acquaintances, he was also becoming increasingly annoyed that she refused to speak to him politely.

"Now, I care for Christine like a daughter –"

"I mean no offence," said Raoul, with all the coolness of tone that clearly implied he did. "But what takes place between myself and Christine is our affair."

"Not while she remains unmarried! Until such time, she is under my guardianship – and will remain so – until she becomes your wife."

"She's as good as!" returned Raoul.

This insinuation was almost more than Madame Giry could bear. "Which is no excuse for your lack of discretion!"

Watching the increasingly heated exchange, Meg winced, remembering the dressing down she had received when her mother had caught her kissing a stagehand in the orchestra pit. It had been one of their fiercest fights and she still bore the scars of that verbal lashing. Despite a wicked impulse of curiosity to see how well the Vicomte could hold his own against such an adversary, she actually liked Raoul, and so was on the verge of intervening on his behalf, when her mother said, "Now, tell Christine to come in, so I may speak to you both."

Raoul stared.

"I – what?"

"Christine," she repeated, a thin thread of irritation in her voice. "Let her come inside, so I can speak to her."

"I don't understand," said Raoul weakly. "Is this a jest?"

"I am not in a laughing mood, Monsieur. Neither do I like to be kept waiting."

Raoul could feel the low, steady rhythm of his heartbeat in his ears. This had to be a misunderstanding. It seemed to take a while to form the necessary words.

"You mean… she's not with you?"

"My patience is tiring," she said sternly.

He struggled to ignore the pounding insistence in his head, the icy sensation penetrating his heart that told him something was terribly wrong. He leaned forward, intent, anxious. "You don't understand. Christine left me last night; it would have been no later than ten o'clock. Are you telling me she hasn't come home?"

Madame Giry turned white – deathly white. He took a swift step forward; fearful she was about to fall. The woman spoke with a terrible sort of finality, not even noticing him. "I haven't seen her since she left yesterday evening."

"Then where –?"

"My God," she whispered. "What has happened?"

Meg, who had formerly been observing the scene with a certain impish amusement dancing in her eyes, sat bolt upright at the turn the conversation had now taken. Displaying none of the apprehension so apparent in her companions despite her affection for Christine, she looked at Raoul and said bluntly, "What is it you're suggesting? That Christine is missing?"

He flinched at her directness. Thoughts, fears, possibilities began racing through his mind. Be reasonable, he told himself. Likely this is just a silly mistake, a misunderstanding. She'll show up soon and laugh at us all for being such fools. There is no need for this panic. Raoul bit his lip, taking a deep breath before speaking. "Let us not jump to conclusions. Is it possible that she may have just – I don't know – lost track of time?"

"You and I both know Christine better than that," Madame Giry retorted at once. "Imaginative she may be, but the girl has sense. Something must have happened. When did your carriage leave last night?"

Raoul visibly flushed, conscious of a fault. "Well it – ah – didn't exactly –"

Her eyes flashed. "Can I be hearing this? You mean to say you let her leave your house at that time of night alone? What on earth were you thinking?"

"Look!" he said heatedly. She wanted someone to blame. Fair enough. But he wasn't about to present himself as a scapegoat for her satisfaction. Whatever reproaches he might heap on himself would be done later, and away from watching eyes. "It wasn't my – look, we had a slight… disagreement." He paused a brief moment before something occurred to him. "Wait." His head jerked up, an uncommon fire in his blue eyes. "When Christine didn't return home last night, did you think that I – we –" Raoul's lips thinned as he turned white with anger. He rose up, all the proud nobility of his nature expressing itself in the flash of his eyes and firm set of his features. "Christine is a respectable girl. What do you take me for, Madame? Do you think I could have offered such a disgraceful insult to her, loving her as I do? Would I have dared show my face here if that were the case?"

Meg cast her mother a knowing look that quite clearly said what did I tell you? Madame Giry had the grace to look slightly remorseful. "Forgive me, but I have the girl's best interests at heart. If I did come to the wrong conclusion –"

"You did," said Raoul coolly.

"Then I apologise."

"We have more important problems at hand." Once again, Meg spoke up. Raoul glanced at her in surprise. She had risen to her feet; the softness of her bright hair and prettily-dressed figure belied by the resolute expression in her hazel eyes. She was fairly glowing with indignation. "From what you say, Christine must have been missing for over twelve hours."

Madame Giry regarded Raoul, no longer seeking to disguise any unease she was feeling. "You know this isn't her. I think –" Her thin, weathered frame visibly tensed – "I think this is a matter for the police."


Three hours later, Meg – who had alternately been pacing the floor and tapping her feet impatiently at the window – flew to the front door before the echoes of the first knock had even died away. Raoul. At last. She invited him in, choking back an exclamation of surprise as he stepped into the hall, shaking snow from the collars of his greatcoat. She had never known him to be other than serene, collected and contented. In essence, he remained the same, tall and slender, fair-haired and handsome, but the hollows of his cheeks were startlingly visible in the pallor of his face, his eyes deeply shadowed.

"That vile man!" he burst out in a betrayal of uncharacteristic anger. It was only the presence of Meg Giry that prevented him from expressing his opinion more strongly.

"What happened? Maman! The Vicomte is back! Come inside, you look frozen. Sit down. Are the police doing anything?"

Raoul sank wearily into a chair, his long body barely up to the task of maintaining a respectable posture among company. He would have sold his entire estate for a glass of brandy, but none appeared to be forthcoming; not that he had expected it from this somewhat Puritan household. He concerted himself to an effort as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Just anything for a moment's peace. He had barely had time to think since all this had started. How strange it all was, how removed from reality. He knew – because it could hardly be a deception – that Christine was missing. Yet he could not feel anything except this odd sort of coldness. How long had it been now? Hours? Surely, he should feel something? Anything? He pressed his face against his hands, cool fingers slightly alleviating the pain in his temples. God, he hoped never to repeat an hour like that ever again.

Somewhere in the real world, he and Christine were dining in Le Pharamond, watching the snow fall outside, warm and comfortable within as people passed by the gold-framed mirrors and the wine flowed rich and heady among the many courses. What had happened since last night? How had the blissful dream of their engagement turned into this?

Madame Giry entered the parlour and both mother and daughter began with a similar tirade of questions.

"Did you speak to the police, Monsieur?"

"Is there a search taking place?"

"Did you tell them everything?"

"Can we do anything to help?"

"Enough!" said Raoul sharply, shocking them both into silence. He knew that his behaviour was odious, especially in their house, but right now, he was beyond caring. Blue spirals rose from the end of his cigarette – smoking was a habit he rarely indulged in, but this was a time for it if ever there was one. "Yes, I've spoken to them. Well, the Chief Inspector mainly. A man named Moreau who, frankly, is a discredit to the police force. He didn't take my claims too seriously, saying nothing much could be done as Christine hasn't yet been missing for twenty-four hours." He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. Then a grim smile ghosted over his features. "At least, that was until I said I was prepared to help in any way; money, resources, whatever was required. There is a search going on now. Detectives are combing Paris."

Madame Giry did not attempt to hide her scepticism. "Are you sure they can do their job reliably?"

"Oh, yes. Moreau's a repulsive fellow, but at the prospect of money, he'll get the job done. I know his type. I was actually impressed at how quickly he had the officers out searching." Raoul spoke wearily. Tiredness was beginning to set in, which was a relief, because he knew if he remained awake and idle in this state, his thoughts would turn inevitably towards Christine, and if that happened… if he allowed himself even for a moment to acknowledge what had happened… no, he must distract himself. Remain active. Noble courage was something instinctive in Raoul – he had never known what it was to fear any man – the only fear he had ever known was where Christine was concerned.

"That's a small mercy, at least," Madame Giry breathed.

"Can we not do anything?" said Meg impatiently. "Shouldn't we be – I don't know – out there searching?"

"That's what I'm about to do. I gave the gendarmerie your address, as it's closer. They'll come here when they have some news for us." Raoul stubbed out his cigarette, the sharp acridness of the smoke somewhat dispelling the feeling of tiredness in his body. It didn't matter that he was numb and near-blinded with exhaustion. Christine was out there somewhere, and while he was in this half-deadened condition, hopefully it would prevent him from descending into a mindless state of panic. He just needed to keep it subdued until this – this strange nightmare of a situation was resolved. His heart was behaving queerly; fluctuating with an unpleasant, stuttering rhythm. If he threw himself into the task at hand, perhaps he could hope to ignore it. He had done it before, in the aftermath of Philippe's death – buried all sentiment, walked as one utterly emotionless and dead inside. It was terrible, this – not feeling, but he knew the alternative was far worse.

Madame Giry caught his arm as he made to rise. "You are not going anywhere, Monsieur, in your current state. You need to rest and – have you even eaten today?"

"I need to help," he said, with hollow conviction. His strong, slender hand clenched. Even the unprecedented situation of having Madame Giry acting like a doting mother – something that the Raoul of former days would have laughed at merrily – passed by him unnoticed.

"You need to sleep," she retorted sharply, with a momentary return of her old formidability. "There is nothing we can do but wait. It's plain they want us here so they can contact us as soon as there is news."

Raoul looked at her with haunted eyes. Watching from the doorway, Meg shivered. She rarely indulged in contemplation, but something about him in that instant held her. She was unable to look away. His strong features in the pale winter sunlight looked hollowed and worn. For a moment, he appeared older and more wearied than the woman in front of him. She thought his heart was actually broken. He had already gone through more heartache and adversity than most men twice his age. His nature was too good, too kind and benign for this. His was not a spirit made to endure hardship. For someone who had once had everything, his world was rapidly falling apart.

"Fine," he said in a lifeless tone. "I just hope to God it's soon."