(A/N: This story was originally published in French about a year ago: I am uploading this translation with the author's permission because I feel that it deserves a wider circulation. Subsequent chapters will be uploaded as and when I finish translating them. Credit for the characters and situations belongs to Chamidontrachiva: any infelicities in style are my own!

For a link to the original, see my profile. (And for my own Phantom/Love Never Dies stories, see my profile also...)

IX / Only for him

Things were becoming heated in the star dressing room at the Theatre. Pressed for time, the two lovers should have torn themselves away from each other and planned their flight, postponing for later the wave of desire which was overwhelming them. But they had not done so.

With a trembling hand, the Vicomte loosened the laces - far too many - which fastened Christine's robe; she, far from making this task easier for him, arched backwards under his touch, eyes closed, with little cries like those of a kitten. The hands of the clock advanced inexorably, but neither of them paid heed.

Clad only in her undergarments, Christine was pressed back against the big armchair in her dressing room, her breath coming in gasps, striving eagerly to tear off her lover's carefully buttoned shirt. She ran hot hands across his body then down his back, savouring the slightest caress as if it were their last. It had been so long! That hastily-hired hotel room and that first time she had shared with him, those moments which had seemed lost in the past, all woke back to life beneath their kisses. He murmured muffled words into the hollow of her neck, filling her with delicious shivers.

Yet there was something at the very back of her mind which held her back a little, kept her trembling legs from wrapping themselves around Raoul's waist and made her hands constantly thrust away those of the young man when the latter approached too close to the top of her white stockings. But she could put no words to this vague sensation. Her mind was turning slowly, and gave back only kisses and moans.

For his part Raoul was far from any such concern. He had at last managed to pull off Christine's chemise and was kissing her throat and the dawning swell of her breasts with passion. When the clock struck the half-hour, the soprano barely opened her eyes in response.

It was the three rapid knocks on the door that brought her out of her daze. She gently pushed away Raoul's enterprising explorations and tried to come out with some excuse to send away the inopportune visitor. Unfortunately her breath was coming so quickly that she had to thrust Raoul right off and get to her feet in order to regain her composure.

"Y... yes?"

Her robe had been cast off onto the floor. She slipped it on to cover her half-clad form and opened the door a few centimetres. "Wh... what is it?" she murmured before recognising the visitor.

It was none other than her husband, out of breath as if he had just run through the whole Theatre, his shirt untucked and locks of black hair tumbling into his eyes.

"Christine! It's getting late and Gustave has vani-"

But he broke off on seeing the state of his wife. Her hair was coming down, rouge from her lips was smeared across her face and her trembling hands could barely grasp his shoulders. He completely misinterpreted her agitation.

"My God! Are you hurt? Were you attacked? If I find the wretch who has dared to lay a hand on you I'll kill him with my own hands!" Still uttering threats and without giving her the time to make a denial (and to say what? To lie again?), he opened the door and came into the dressing room, determined to administer first aid if she was injured or suffering from shock.

But it was he who suffered the shock. His rival, who had not expected this entry, was sitting at his ease in the armchair, stripped to the waist with the chemise of his wife in one hand. The visible half of Erik's face went from white to scarlet. More ashamed than ever, the young woman took one step forward, not daring to come any closer, and waited anxiously for the storm to burst.

To their surprise, Erik did no such thing. He simply let out a deep breath, perhaps out of weariness or simply in order to calm himself, and said quietly, his eyes fixed on the undergarment that Raoul had to no avail set down: "Gustave has disappeared. I've searched for him everywhere. He's not in the Theatre. While you were busy indulging yourself in adultery, my son whom you left unwatched has vanished into thin air."

He stared at his wife, who felt tears of panic flood into her beautiful brown eyes.

"What I shall do now is to go and find him. I have no time to spare for your childish and irresponsible actions."

And he turned to leave with a slow step and blank features, as if his heart and mind, overtaken by emotions too violent to bear, had decided to lay down the struggle. What he assumed would be his final words to the couple consisted of a simple announcement.

"There was some debate between us as to who was the true father of this child... I don't think that was the heart of the problem. It would have been better to ask whether the child had a mother at all."

In too much shock to defend herself, too ashamed even to think of it, Christine felt her knees give way and collapsed to the ground. Raoul rushed out of the dressing room, but she didn't bother to ask where he was going.

Left alone, the one thought that kept returning behind her tears and her heaving sobs was that she had just lost the two most important people in her life. And it was her own fault.