The amber hues of brandy did nothing but swirl gently around Philippe de Chagny's glass as he sat brooding in his desk chair, a pensive frown wrinkling his strong brow at the sight of his younger brother at the window. He was reminded of one of those forlorn men who would pine helplessly for their lover in the literature he so terribly disliked.
Philippe could not help pitying the poor boy at his inability to forgo his attachment to the Daaé girl. As much as he could not understand the appeal for such a dalliance, he could not help but feel hypocritical. He did, after all, enjoy his time spent with La Sorelli. Leaning back in his chair, he took a small sip of the brandy and smiled to himself. Now, there was a woman, he thought.
A sigh brought him back to the present and Philippe glanced over to his brother, whose arm now rested against the glass above his head.
"The rain cannot be that interesting," Philippe teased, but to no avail. "What has you so gloomy?"
"Today is the funeral for Christine's guardian," Raoul answered after swallowing thickly, his gaze flickering to anything that moved, anything that might distract him from his thoughts. "I should be there; I should be with her today."
"Why aren't you?" he asked, watching with curiosity as those blue eyes turned towards him and narrowed. "It is a simple enough question," he added.
With a grimace, Raoul faced the window again, spying carriages in the distance as they raced to escape the rain. He wondered if Christine was in one of them.
Taking his pocket watch out of his waistcoat, he glanced disinterestedly at the time before walking over and sinking down into the chair facing his brother. "You can stop looking for him," Raoul said, sensing Philippe's thoughts. "It's over."
"Why would I stop when I am so close?" he retorted, leaning forward in his seat, a determined glint in his eye. "And why should you want me to stop? I am doing this for you! He nearly killed you and that Persian fellow."
"And yet here we are," Raoul replied stubbornly, looking away towards the window briefly as memories of intolerable heat smouldered in his mind. Unconsciously, he fiddled with his collar.
"There are many who did not survive him," Philippe argued, pointing the rim of his glass towards Raoul, who eyed it. "Who knows how many have died at his hand. Is it wrong to want justice brought to the man responsible?"
"Not when justice has already been brought to him," Raoul said before he had a chance to catch himself. Huffing, he repositioned himself in his chair, feeling the urge to loosen the clothing around his neck under the sudden pressure of the humidity. Or, what he at least thought was the humidity. Yes, perhaps he should have told his brother sooner.
Putting his glass down on the desk before him, Philippe wracked his muddled mind to find a sensible explanation for Raoul's words. "What do you mean?" he eventually managed. "Tell me what you know."
"He is dead," his younger brother stated defiantly. "Christine told me herself when I last saw her."
Expecting Philippe to stir up quite the reaction, Raoul was then surprised to see him simply lean back in his chair, his face partially obscured by his steepled fingers. The subdued display before him even made Raoul wish for his own glass of cognac.
"And you believed her?" was Philippe's reply, not a whisper of emotion seeping into his distantly professional tone.
"Of course," Raoul answered quickly before rethinking. "Well, no... Not at first, anyway, but I was convinced and I remain so. When I asked her if she had seen him die, she became very distressed, and... Philippe, she said she buried him, shortly before she moved in with her guardian last month. Can you imagine having to do such a horrible thing?"
Philippe swept his eyes over his companion before reaching for his brandy once more. "She is an actress, is she not?"
At this, Raoul blanched. "What exactly are you insinuating?" he asked, leaning forward and curling one hand round the side of that monstrous desk. "You think she is lying?" The slight nod of his head was all it took for Raoul's blood to boil. "You dare to insult her? Why? Why would you say such a thing? Why would you think she is lying?"
"Because I have reason to believe that she is," was his steely reply. "My private ongoing investigation—oh, do not look at me like that, Raoul. Did you expect me to just sit here idly while my brother's attacker goes unpunished? You must have known I would use every resource available to me."
Raising his hand to his head, he pressed his fingers against his temple. "Why do I have the feeling you have withheld more information from me than I know?"
A hearty chuckle floated through the air and Raoul found himself staring at his brother for laughing at him. "You are far too headstrong for your own good. I feared what you would do," Philippe explained. "Raoul, your skin still burns at the very memory of that chamber." But no sooner than the words had left his mouth had remorse taken over him. Shaking his head, he stared down at his lap. "Forgive me," he pleaded. "I did not mean to bring it up, but do you see my point? You would have done anything to protect that girl and you would have acted first and thought through it later."
"Tell me," Raoul insisted, not wanting to allow Philippe to change the topic of conversation. "Your investigation, what has led you to believe that he is still alive?"
"Ah," he said, exhaling the word in a weary sigh. "I have been sending gendarme—covertly of course—underneath the Opéra. Ever since your attempts at retrieving Mademoiselle Daaé failed, I have seen to my own. It was a relentless task at first. No one wished to take the journey and those who did ended up lost in the darkness, sometimes for hours. Even the building's schematic did not seem quite right. Few made it as far as the third cellar, but after a while, paths were forged and remembered. It would have been a swift job, but as it turns out, those officers are easily spooked. It is odd, no? How grown men can be so frightened by ghosts. Those who managed to progress further, however, reported back to me quite recently that they had found something. Evidence of life in that dark pit."
Leaning forward, Raoul rested his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped before his furrowed brow in curiosity. "What was it?"
"Music," Philippe replied, enunciating the word as though God Himself had whispered it to him.
Raoul, on the other hand, was far from impressed. "Is that all?"
"You are not surprised," he said, raising his eyebrow.
"No," he replied, thinking over the most logical explanation. "It seemed likely that there would have been music. Christine is a singer and he was her teacher. She once told me that you could hear music from anywhere in the Opéra, even five cellars below."
Philippe grinned. "But does it seem likely that that music would continue after she had buried him and left?"
"What?" Raoul exclaimed in disbelief. "That... No, they must be mistaken. How can you even trust the credibility of these men? You are paying them, yes? Who knows what they could say for money?"
"Enough, Raoul," Philippe silenced. "I believe their claims and I now believe that she is harbouring him; that she is protecting him." Eyeing his younger brother, he then asked, "Do you know of a reason as to why she would do such a thing?"
Yes, Raoul knew of a reason, but he would be damned if he ever admitted it to Philippe, or even himself. And if what his brother had told him were true, if he was truly still alive, then he would be destroying the happiness of the woman he loved simply by opening his mouth. Raoul could not very well swallow the truth of Christine's allegiance, but neither could he stand to be the cause of her unhappiness.
"Why do you not jump at this chance?" Philippe probed when all he received was a shake of Raoul's head.
"She is free. That was all I ever wanted for her," he whispered solemnly before rising to his feet and staring down at his brother. "You do not understand, Philippe. You do not understand love." His words were bitter and he knew that regret would soon follow them, but at this moment Raoul did not care. His silence had been bought by the prospect of Christine's happiness. He knew now that he would never be able to accept her decision, but he would never betray her confidence.
Striding to the door, he missed the slightest of grimaces twitch on Philippe's face—the tiniest glimpse of emotion that he seldom showed—before he suddenly stopped, his hand resting on the open door.
Though wanting to look back and apologise, Raoul simply stood there, lingering in between rooms before inhaling deeply, feeling his pride slowly returning to him. "I think I shall send her flowers," he said to the empty corridor. "Yellow roses."
o0o
The heavy pattering of rain did not cease overnight and soon a small storm began to rage over the streets of Paris, its fierce winds scattering leaves and branches about the roads as sections of pavement were submerged in water. Many avoided venturing outside, opting instead to stay inside the protecting nature of their homes and perhaps sit by the fire, waiting impatiently for the storm to pass.
It was not advised to travel, especially on foot, yet Erik found the weather inconsequential next to the storm that had begun to gather in his heart. Christine's welfare was his highest priority and now he set out, risking his own health to ensure hers. Was this what love was?
The scarf wrapped tightly around his head was unpleasant, its wet fibres sinking into whatever patches of his skin were visible. The cheap material scratched and rubbed incessantly at his face, yet every time he came close to ripping it from him and letting it drown in a puddle at his feet, he remembered his little love and how she was depending on him to come to her. This thought alone drove him forward, through the slight wreckage of the streets, ignoring the hellish feeling of water seeping into his shoes as he came ever closer to the Rue Saint-Honoré.
Had it been under other circumstances, Erik could have imagined that he was now returning to his own home and into the arms of his lovely wife. But he knew better than to think of such fantasies. After all it was delusions like this one that failed to ground him to reality.
Squinting, Erik looked up at the familiar outline of Christine's balcony through the heavy rain. The wind threatened to knock his thin frame over as he studied the distance to his goal. The short journey up usually took him no time at all, his years of running along the rafters at the Opéra making any other precarious climb seem like child's play. Yet as he stared at the slippery surfaces, he wondered if he would have difficulty in maintaining his grip.
All rational thought disappeared from his head, however, as soon as a flicker of light appeared beyond the balcony, the small pulse of the candle luring him in like a siren. The structure of the building was more trying to hold on to, but the adrenaline of being so close to her managed to give him the added strength to hoist himself over the balustrade.
His fingers eagerly reached for the handle, only to pause and instead rap his knuckles lightly on the glass. His eyes, blurry from the storm, took in the sight of the drawn curtains in front of him and a sudden stirring of worry flowed through him.
Impatiently, he waited as the rain continued to fall, each heavy droplet landing on his person like another beat of a fist until the creak of the door reached his ears.
A small hand edged its way out, its fingers recoiling slightly at the sensation of the cold rain and bitter gale before they latched onto the front of his coat and dragged him steadily into the light.
The sound of the door shutting behind him made him whirl around to see Christine leaning against the curtains, a black shawl draped loosely around her body.
A chill that ran up the length of his spine alerted Erik to the absence of a fire in the hearth, and he hastily gripped the shoulders of his mousy love, bringing her to him. "The fire is not lit, Christine. Why isn't the—Oh!" Remembering himself, he quickly tore away from her, his body shaking with guilt at the sight of tiny beads of water now glistening against her skin. Looking down at himself, he was tempted to curse his idiocy. "Forgive me!"
Wasting no time at all, he busied himself with stoking a fire until he had succeeded in flooding the room with warmth. Once satisfied, he rose to his feet and turned. A frown appeared beneath his mask as he realised that Christine had not moved, nor had she said anything since he had entered the room. "Christine, what's wrong?"
When she did not reply, Erik cautiously approached her and, forgetting momentarily about his damp clothes, roughly took her in his arms. The sudden jolt of those arms encircling her again was enough to breathe life back into her and she grabbed fistfuls of his cloak at the same time her head buried into his shoulder. She shivered when he held her tighter, the soaked material of his skirt wetting her cheek unpleasantly, but she did not care.
They stood there as the seconds slowly ticked by until Erik held her at arm's length and surveyed her carefully. Her face glistened slightly in the light of the fire and, gingerly, he reached into the folds of his jacket to bring out a dry handkerchief. Slowly, he wiped the damp from her skin and tilted her chin up with his finger only to see despair in her eyes.
"I am to blame for her death," she told him as irritation towards herself made her shift on the spot. "It is my fault for not doing more, for not being strong enough for Mamma."
"Christine, you are not to blame," he cried, shaking his head and daring to slide his finger across her jaw to hold her attention. "You are not to blame for her death. You are not a flawed human being. You are perfect."
"But I am not perfect, Erik!" she cried back, her voice impassioned by the woe of her guilt. A small tremor passed over her features before she shook her head and turned towards the fireplace, wrapping her arms around her body. "No one is perfect," she said, her tone softer now. "The sooner you start seeing that, the sooner you will learn to see yourself through my eyes."
Kneeling before the fire, Christine sighed as she heard Erik's sluggish footsteps drawing close behind her, each step a cautious decision, almost as if he was afraid of a reproach. And perhaps he had reason to assume such a thing, for she, herself, could not have predicted her next move at that moment.
She waited until she saw the flutter of black and white beside her, heard the gentle rubbing of linen against the floor and Erik's heavy whispers in her ear before she looked at him, a dullness hanging in the brown of her eyes.
"Am I truly not to blame?" she asked.
"How could you think that?" he insisted, never taking his determined gaze away from her. If she had become blind to the truth, then Erik felt responsible to make her see sense. "Did you not tell me that you did all that you could to help, whether that be preparing meals or completing menial, yet important, chores about this household?" Hesitantly, she nodded. "And were you not the one who defied the expectations of those women, even defying your own expectations in how far you were wiling to push yourself for your guardian's care?"
Christine opened and closed her mouth at a loss for words until she ran her hand over her face and pulled her shawl closer to her. "I still felt helpless, weak..."
"You are not weak, my dear," he said with a knowing smile, raising her chin once more so that she could see the truth in his eyes. His fingers moved to stroke her cheek and his heart leapt as she leaned into his tentative touch. "It is your strength, your good heart, that I fell in love with, Christine Daaé. Do not forget that."
Turning her face into his palm, she nuzzled his skin in thought before a grimace contorted her features. "I do not feel very strong."
"That is not to say your strength has left you." Cupping her face with both hands, Erik stared at her in wonder. This woman held more power over him in her little finger than monarchs had over entire kingdoms. She had given him a purpose to his life and had made him wish to atone for each of his sins, crying to the heavens until his voice became hoarse. Her strength was his strength, and whatever she felt lacking now, he was obliged to return to her.
"You have seen yourself through hardships before," he continued, "why should this one be any different?"
Tears filled her already misty eyes and before he could utter another word, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Erik's hands dropped to his lap as they parted but was pleased to see the ghost of a smile on her mouth.
"I want you to see something," she told him then, shuffling over to the chair, her little hands groping between the sides until she recovered an object—it was something that Erik had never seen before in her possession. "It was my mother's," she explained, sitting back down beside him as she presented the cross in her palm, her fingers spread wide in a retaliation. "Do you remember the day that was meant to be our wedding day? How we rode and rode and finally I had you stop and you told me we were on this very street? When I spoke to Mamma then, she gave me this. She told me to keep it as a reminder of God and, for a long time, I did. I even made certain that you would not see it for I did not wish for your anger." She peered down at her hand. "It is such a little thing, after all. But now the mere sight of it discourages me. Even now, as we speak, I can feel it searing my flesh." A laugh escaped her, short and slow. "How mad I sound."
How mad, indeed, Erik thought as he sat so rigidly that he trembled at her words, white hot anger flowing through his veins, fuelling an urge to snatch the object from her hand and be rid of it. It was the cause of her distress, of her slip from sanity, and he wanted it gone from their sight before she fell deeper into its spell.
"I... I even thought about casting it into the flames and watching it burn," she said, feeling as though she was confessing before the fires of Hell. "But how could I? After everything you have said, I have something to prove to myself, and this isn't the answer."
His eyes softened, his hand unfurling to slide over hers and wrap her fingers around the cross. "Erik has strayed from the path his whole life. The longer you wander, the more lost you are, and Erik thought himself lost until he met you. Your faith is precious, Christine, as is your integrity and your want to do good. You are many things, but you are not a lost soul."
"How can you be so certain of that?" she murmured, bringing the cross close to her, cradling it as if it were a babe. "What could possibly have made you speak such words?"
She turned to him with a look that would have brought him to his knees if he hadn't already been kneeling. Tilting his head, he sighed and simply answered, "You."
Swallowing her indignations, she laid the cross down before them and quickly turned to bury herself against Erik's shirt, not caring when the dampness of his clothes made her shiver once more. He held her close, sweeping his lips and fingers over her hair, and, for only the third time in her life, she fell asleep in his arms.
