Christine was, to put it bluntly, terrified. She paced the room, trying to figure out what to do. If she said yes, she would be signing away her freedom. If no, then there would be no freedom for her anyway, not in this world. What is life without freedom? What is freedom without life?
She walked every inch in the room, seeing everything, yet not caring. She pulled at her hair and scratched at her cheeks in despair. She let out a small sigh of grief and flopped onto the bed. She suddenly stiffened, experiencing an epiphany.
Her mind flew through all the memories of her search of the cave, to where she had hidden her emergency bag. A small smile crept to Christine's lips in the hopes of all her torments ending. She peered out from the curtains, and saw with glee the Phantom had gone.
She crept over to the small nook where she had stowed the satchel, and with delight, discovered it was still there. She left it there in case he returned, and half leapt off the platform onto the lower levels, landing catlike below. She retraced the walls and the floors, finding once again, nothing.
Her hope began to fade, and she sat softly onto a dining chair. She looked about her, wondering if she would stay here forever, sighing as two months had been an eternity here already. Her eyes wandered upwards as she tried to let her mind feel the sun once again. Though she could see the sun's yellow heat in her memory, still she froze solid.
Her eyes had spotted a gloom resonating from the corner of the ceiling, with a sort of makeshift ledge carved into the rock. Christine felt violently sick as she remembered the countless times she had dined in that spot all alone.
Perhaps not so alone after all.
She sprinted over to the wall the balcony was on, and scoured it desperately for foot holes, or perhaps a hidden rope. When the wall revealed nothing, she began to think more like the man she had lived with for those past months.
She began to rub at the walls with her palms, the rough rock cutting into her flesh. The rewards, though, were worth it, as sure enough, the rock began to pull away in some parts. She stifled a laugh of triumph as she tested out some of the holes, and ran back to collect the bag. She began to climb, but stopped.
'That poor man,' she thought, thinking about Erik, trapped in the Phantom's evil body. 'He does not know what he has done to me, and for that I could not leave him. He deserves to know how I feel about him.' She made sure the Phantom was not close, and picked up a pen and paper, scribbling her heart's deepest secrets to him.
Erik,
I am sorry. I have to go. And I doubt you shall ever see me again. I could not remain trapped in here any longer. I must be free! Free to feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. Surely freedom is all you'd want for me? I know all you have ever done is love me, and in any other circumstance that would be wonderful. But I cannot live like you Erik, I just can't. I have to live my life. Please let me do it, I cannot be that Anne Boleyn or the Angel of music that you yearn for. Please forgive me, I cannot bear to break your heart.
I'm going to go far away, and never return to Paris. Please don't try to find me, for I know it will break both of our heart's.
Christine.
The tears ran, fast and furious, as she sealed the envelope and left it on the keys of the great organ. She rubbed her face hastily, and returned to the hidden balcony. She scrambled up, easier than she would have guessed and clambered onto the ledge, which revealed a long deep tunnel.
She found a small torch hung above her, and she warily entered the gloom. She held in her screams and gasps as rats scampered over her feet and a slight breeze would suddenly pick up. She wandered through the darkness, unsure of where the tunnel might lead, when she spotted dots of light coming from the ceiling up ahead.
She picked up her speed, breathless in the knowledge she would soon be free. She looked up to the brightness, and squinted, adjusting to the sudden change from gloom to light. She heard rumbling carts and street sellers calling out to passers by. Christine almost danced in glee as she pushed at the grid that she was under.
It came away easily, and dust fell into her hair and face. She lifted herself up through the gap and wriggled her legs and bag out, replacing the grid haphazardly after her. She got to her feet, and stared at the sights and goings on of a normal market day, as tears streamed from her eyes. She breathed out, finally feeling the warmth of the Parisian sun on her face.
It took her a few moments to see an elderly gentleman staring at her through half moon spectacles. She bowed her head to him, and began to walk away. "Wait, mademoiselle!" He cried, hobbling after her. Christine stopped and turned to him, anxious that he had something to do with Erik.
"I saw you come through the grid," He began, his wrinkled face turned up to her. "Tell me, mademoiselle, what were you doing down there in the sewers?" Christine was taken aback, trying to formulate a suitable excuse in her overjoyed head. "Pardon monsieur, I was retrieving something." She lied. She had hoped it was an acceptable lie, but the old man's face wrinkled in scepticism and amusement.
"Indeed." He replied. "Well, Madame, I can see you do not wish to tell an old stranger like me, and I suppose that that is your decision. But please, to put my mind at ease, might I give you a ride to wherever it is you want to go? And perhaps a bite to eat?" Christine felt new tears springing to her eyes by the old man's act of kindness. She nodded, smiling, and took his extended arm.
He opened the carriage door for her, and she stepped daintily inside while the man got in the opposite side. "Now my dear," he spoke kindly, with a gentle quiver in his frail voice. "Tell me where you would like to go." Christine stopped, looking out the window thoughtfully. She had not thought of a plan when she had got out of the lair. She thought England, Italy, Spain, Meg. Meg! And Madame Giry! Christine whipped around to see the man.
"To the Opera Populaire, please, monsieur." he nodded, and knocked the front driver's seat with his umbrella. "I heard the woman, monsieur." the driver said, speaking in a Cockney accent. The carriage started abruptly, and drove away from the hustle and bustle of buyers and sellers.
"So," Christine began, eager to talk to someone after all that time. "What is your name, monsieur?" The man seemed to have woken from a slight daydream, and answered simply; "Marc." He smiled again, and stared at her, waiting for another question. "And what do you do? I mean for a living? This certainly is a fine carriage."
"You mean what did I do! My dear, look at how old I am! I was a very rich man in my youth, all inherited from my father. I didn't do anything really, except invest in small companies. Though I stopped doing that once my wife, Marguerite, died around twenty years ago." He fell silent, reminiscing about his wife.
Christine's heart sank as he saw the kind old man remember his wife that he had lost so many years ago. Her mind drifted onto Erik, and what he would do when he read the letter, but she shook that out of her mind. "I am sorry to hear that, monsieur. May I ask-"
"Childbirth." He replied, brought out of his memories. "Yes, my second son. I doubt he seemed to get over it, not even until his death." Christine cringed in horror and guilt at bringing up such pain for the man she had known not five minutes! She looked away from Marc, her cheeks flaring. "I am so sorry monsieur." She said quietly.
They sat there in silence for five minutes, until Marc broke it. "So, my dear, you have not told me your name." Christine laughed at her impoliteness, and Marc shook slightly violently in his own fit of laughter.
"I am sorry monsieur, my name is Christine. Christine Daee." Marc sat straight up, his eyes bulging and his mouth open. "Arrêt!" He shouted to the English driver, and the coach stopped suddenly. "Daee?" He whispered, as Christine edged towards the door in fear. "Oui, monsieur." She replied timidly, averting the man's gaze. "Christine…Raoul." The man said, almost to himself, and it was Christine's turn to freeze in amazement. "You knew him?" She asked, excitedly, grabbing the man's slight hands and staring frantically at him." Marc nodded, retrieving his hands from Christine's cold grasp. "He was…my son."
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Christine stared with a thousand emotions running through her mind. Confusion, safety, misery, happiness, bewilderment. "Your son?" She repeated. "He, he was my-"
"Your fiancé, I know." He replied, staring in amazement. He looked away, then looked back and grabbed Christine's shoulders, and pulled her close. "Christine," He said urgently. "I need you to tell me what happened to my son. He was stabbed in the graveyard, and he was alone. Christine, do you know who killed him?"
She opened her mouth to tell him, but saw Erik, running about the lair, shouting and calling for her, loving her. She knew she couldn't condemn him to death, though he had condemned her true love to his. Marc was still staring frantically at her, and she closed her mouth. "Where have you been these months? No one has seen or spoken a word of you! And where is my son's killer? Tell me everything."
She sighed, and began to tell him what had happened. She spoke truthfully, apart from telling him that Erik was Raoul's killer. She told him that Raoul was alone when she was taken, and she was not there when he was murdered. Neither did she tell Marc where she had been or who she was kidnapped by. She told him what went on between her and her kidnapper, and how she escaped.
By that time the coach had restarted and had arrived at the Opera House. Marc instructed her to pack all her belongings, inform Madame Giry of what had happened and return within the hour. The coach would then pick Christine up and take her to Marc's summer home in Chantilly, where she would be able to stay as long as she liked. Christine thanked her would-be father in law and disappeared up the steps of the Opera House.