Thank you guys!! Your reviews always brighten up my mornings.
To those pissed off at Christine (Hey look, I hate her too), you gotta look at it this way - Raoul himself even said "She loves us both Monsieur Le Fantôme,"
I think the reason why she's so cold is she'd dead scared of him. And not because he could harm her, but because...Well...Think of Point of No Return, think of Music of the Night, think of the Phantom song...She's supposed to be married to Raoul, she's supposed to be faithful to Raoul, she kind of doesn't need this crap right now.
Chapter Ten.
Crimson poured through the bars of the cell as the new day was born, and spilled onto the cold cement floor. Raoul had huddled into himself on his cell bed, shaking slightly from the cold – and the trepidation which befell him for his upcoming sentence. Thoughts of the night before polarised themselves behind his eyes - the Phantom throwing him against the wall…He had gone to his wife, what had happened? He tried not to think about the Phantom's arms entwined around his Lotte, like what had taken place all those years ago on the stage while they performed the man's opera. He tried not to think about the spell the Phantom had always seemed to conjure over her. And instead his thoughts cast upon that wretched night that he had murdered his brother.
Murder – to wilfully take a life – he had not meant for it to happen, he had loved his brother – but Philippe was dead nonetheless. And he himself was the only one responsible.
A small opening on the bottom of the cell door unbolted and came ajar, and a dish with porridge slid through.
"Might be your last meal, eh Chagny?" came the sneer of the guard, and before Raoul had time to throw a reply back (if he had even thought to do so) the footsteps of the guard faded away.
Raoul remained where he was – he barely touched the food they brought him, even when his wife had given them money to persuade them to raise the standard of the fare. Her brow creased with anxiety when she looked upon his sallow and gaunt cheeks. She pleaded him to take better care of himself, and her worry managed to penetrate into his anesthetised state. He promised her he would eat what he was given, but whenever she left, his resolve always seemed to melt as well. What was the point? Didn't he deserve death anyway?
A shudder went through his body when he thought of his brother again. His only brother, who – it could even be fair to say – had raised him more than his own Father had.
Philippe…
All the little boy could see were trousers. Trousers and polished shoes, and the occasional dress with silk slippers poking out from underneath. He looked up at his brother beside him, and tugged at his pant leg.
"Philippe," he wailed, "I cannot see!"
His older brother looked down at the five year old child, and a small smile of indulgence crept over his face when he saw the ice-cream smears over Raoul's mouth.
"Here hold these. But be careful," he said firmly as he handed a pair of scarlet binoculars, rimmed with gold.
Raoul took the treasured object as carefully as if it were china – knowing his life would be all but over if he was responsible for the tiniest scratch on them. When he had hold of them, Philippe picked the boy up and placed him on his shoulders.
"Can you see now, Raoul?" he asked.
"Yes!" Raoul said eagerly, bouncing up and down in excitement.
Philippe took the binoculars back and placed them to his own eyes, "You won't tell Mother I let you bet a franc on Number 14?" he asked once again, as he surveyed the green of the race-track.
"No," Raoul shook his head adamantly, "I promised remember?"
"Good lad," Philippe said absentmindedly, "Oh look! The race is about to start!"
Everybody had gone strangely quiet, and Raoul watched intensely the gates where the horses waited behind. With a bang of the gun, the gates were opened, and more than a dozen pure-bred horses sprinted down the track, the jockeys whipping their sides, enticing their beasts to go as fast as they could. Raoul followed Number 14 who was in third place, neck in neck to a pure white. He clutched a tuft of Philippe's hair in exhilaration, and because Philippe was in agony himself over who would win (he had placed a lot more than a franc on the same beast), he didn't notice. Number 14 sped along, and was soon in second place and soon ---
Raoul let out a shout when it crossed the finishing line in first place, in childish delight. Philippe grabbed him from his shoulders and tossed him in the air, then caught him, crushing him close.
"We won my boy, we won!" he laughed, and Raoul pleased with such an unusual boisterous public show of affection from his adored sibling, laughed along too.
"Can I have another ice-cream, Philippe?" he asked fervently.
"Of course you can, Raoul. You can have as many as you like," Philippe chuckled over his little brother's innocent desire, "But you know the rules,"
Raoul nodded eagerly, "Don't tell Maman!"
Ten year old Raoul De Chagny sat in utter despair on the doorstep of his Father's mansion. He had just returned to Paris from his Family's annual holiday by the sea, and he had met the girl he intended to marry.
Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing…
The little girl, a couple of years younger than he, with wild chocolate curls and a gleeful smile. He had met her as her Father played his violin for passer-byers on a street, and she had clasped her hands in his and had danced as her Father's violin summoned a spell to make Raoul's feet move light-heartedly. His sisters had smiled dotingly at the forwardness of this street urchin who had bid their little brother to dance.
"Will you dance with me again?" she had asked, looking up at him, as he moved away.
"Yes, do you often come here?" he had asked.
She had smiled, "Every day," and then she took another child's hand, twirling with them as their parents laughed, tossing coins at her feet.
A twisted cold bout of jealousy knifed the young boy as he watched her with the other child. He would come dance with her every day.
"I'm going to marry her," he had told Philippe later, who was puffing on his pipe on the terrace of their holiday home as dusk blanketed the horizon.
"Is that so?" Philippe murmured vaguely, "Pray, do tell me the girl's name,"
Raoul hesitated, "I…I do not know…" he admitted ashamed, blushing.
"Well," Philippe blew a smoke-ring and then tapped the ash of his pipe out on the ground, "That might come in handy,"
And so he had sought out her name – Christine Daae, though he called her his Lotte, from one of her Father's stories that she loved. And through that Summer, and a couple more in the future, they were inseparable. He had told her of his intentions to marry her, and she had giggled, "Father said the Angel of Music will not allow me to marry,"
"Well, I'm sure he will change his mind," Raoul said quickly.
"Maybe," she had said, and then standing on tiptoe she quickly pecked his cheek with her mouth, and scurried back off to her house.
He had given her an oriental fan of peacock blue and a violet bracelet of beads that he found in the markets, and she had given him her most treasured shell that she had found on the beach, to mark their parting.
He toyed with it as he sat by himself, and did not turn as his twenty-seven year old brother sat down next to him. He tousled Raoul's hair with a sigh, "Raoul…You may as well learn this young – you should not put your hopes on girls. They will have forgotten you the moment you walk away for more than a minute,"
Raoul said nothing for a moment, then said stubbornly, "She'll be there next year,"
Philippe smiled, "For the Summer, yes. Best to think of her as a sweetener in your holiday. Come, get that pout off your face and let's go fishing,"
Raoul stood obediently, but looked down at Philippe, "You're wrong Philippe," then he pocketed the shell and stepped into the house.
Oh, but how it pained him, the year he turned fourteen and he went once again to the sea, to the Daae cottage which was boarded up and abandoned. He stood there, his brother squeezing his shoulder, "It was nice while it lasted, right Raoul?"
He watched as the young boy trundled off to the beach and threw the shell into the calamitous waves of dark cerulean. And then he took his arm and introduced him to a lover which would never fail him – a mug of beer.
Raoul stumbled from the tavern afterwards, uncertain of the leaden way his body seemed to move. He was on his knees in an instant, hurling up the contents of his stomach. Philippe laughed good-naturedly as he hauled his brother up, who gasped and panted, "I feel so sick…"
Philippe clapped him on the back reassuringly, "You'll get a taste for it soon, my lad,"
"Chagny, half an hour until court," the Guard banged onto his cell door.
Raoul did not answer, but covered his face with his hands hopelessly as the last memory he would ever have with Philippe came crashing over him…