As her husband approached the study, Christine made an attempt at standing up, intending to confront him about the girl he'd mentioned the day before. It was only as she stood and felt her strong, dancer's legs wavering beneath her that she realized how drunk she was. It took all of her strength not to fall across the floor, though in order to catch herself she had to flop across the table she had set the wine bottle and her glass on. The glass crashed to the floor, sending a spray of broken glass across the rug as well as a lovely splotch of purple-red wine.

As she pulled herself back into the chair, she knocked the wine bottle over, and it spilled down into her lap before falling to the floor. She heard her husband cry out for her, followed by heavy footsteps rapidly approaching the study. "Christine!" Raoul hollered from the doorway, "Oh God, no! Christine? Christine!"

He flew to her side, mistaking the wine that stained her dress for blood and obviously not noticing the bottle that had rolled under the chair. It wasn't until Christine began laughing at him that he realized her drunken state wasn't the life quickly leaving her body from some unseen mortal wound.

It took him a bit longer to recognize the scent of wine on her breath, and when he did he was incredibly angry. He had fought with himself to stay sober all day so he could have a level head when he tried to speak to her again, and here Christine was, drunk as a deacon on holiday. "So this is how you spent your day?" he growled, and he let her slump over in the chair, still laughing at him. She said something to him, but her speech was so slurred that he could barely tell that she was even trying to form words.

"I suppose you'll need help getting to bed then," he asked, glaring at her, clearly disgusted with what she had done. He hardly had any room to be disgusted with her behavior from one night though, and he knew it. She was drunk because of his actions. She hadn't chosen it as a pass-time the way he had.

The viscomte sighed and picked his wife up, cradling her in front of him as he carefully carried her out of the study and down the hall to their bedroom. Despite her loud protestations and half-hearted flailing, he undressed her and dumped her unceremoniously on their bed.

Christine wouldn't remember what happened that night. Raoul was counting on that.


In the catacombs, Erik finally found himself 'alone,' even though he was surrounded by people on every side. One by one, his newfound companions stretched out across the floor and fell asleep. There were two people who were chosen to keep watch for the first half of the night, and they stood near the ladder that Erik had used to trespass into their realm. Joanna had tried hard to get him to come and sleep near her and her friend- a young girl of maybe fourteen named Emmalyn, who also held herself like a dancer- but he'd refused, insisting that he didn't need to sleep that often.

It was true, he didn't generally have a need for as much sleep as most people did, but the girl seemed hurt by his response. If he knew where the girls had gone off to, he might've gone and sat near them, but he still didn't know whether it was even wise to trust the girl who had seemed to know just the right words to say to ensure that his life was spared.

Eventually, Erik did doze off, but not for more than a couple hours at most. When he woke, he saw two small figures sneaking through the sea of sleeping bodies. In the dim light given off by the few lanterns still scattered about, Erik could make out Joanna's long, curly brown hair and the pink shawl she'd been wearing the previous day.


Christine woke late in the morning, her head pounding and her body feeling like she'd been bucked from a horse and then trampled. She'd never felt so ill. It was hell to even roll over.

When she came face to face with her sleeping husband, it no longer mattered how much she ached. She flew from the bed, backing against the wall in horror. It took feeling the cool wood against the skin of her back for her to realize she was nude. A horrible wail escaped her lips as she tore the blanket off the bed- and off Raoul- to cover herself. "How dare you?" she shrieked, "How dare you?"

Raoul opened his eyes slowly, yawning and stretching as he did. It took him a moment to acknowledge Christine or her screeched words. "Good morning," he said.

"You're mad," Christine howled, "Why did I ever agree to marry you? What hell have I wrought upon myself?" She was very near hysterics at this point, her voice growing higher with every word. Raoul got up when he realized how upset she was, when he realized it wasn't just her still being drunk and loud the way she had during the night.

"Christine, Christine calm down, everything's all right," Raoul said, trying to sound soothing. It had the exact opposite effect on her, and Christine stumbled out into the hall, the blanket wrapped tightly around her body. Her head was pounding and her thoughts were screaming at her. Everything was too bright and nothing made sense. "Christine!" Raoul's cries grew more desperate as she stumbled down the hall toward the stairs. Raoul gave chase, but before he could catch up to her, he watched in horror as her hand slipped and she tumbled forward down the stairs.

"Christine!"