A/N Please review! And many, many thanks to my loyal readers and bigger thanks to those who leave a review! Anyway I'm quite happy with how this chapter turned out (many thanks to my lovely sister and beta whatswiththemustache) and I'd love to hear your thoughts!
Raoul walked up the steps of the Opera Populaire, deep in thought.
The songbird has been caged. Withdraw.
What on God's green Earth could that possibly refer to? Written in Swedish as well!
Raoul sighed.
He hoped he could figure it out soon. What if it was something time sensitive? He needed to take care of this E as soon as he possibly could.
Ah well, he had other business to attend to now. He looked up at the extravagant building and thought of Christine. Although it was certainly beautiful, she didn't belong here, trapped under the theater's green dome. He understood that she loved to sing and preform, although he couldn't understand it in the least, but she belonged in the country, among the flora and fauna. Not in the city, lost in a sea of faces. Well, with any luck that would change soon enough. Raoul walked between the tall marble columns, pulled open the huge elaborately carved doors and stepped inside the lobby of the Populaire.
Raoul removed his hat and coat and handed it to a nearby porter. He took a deep breath and walked into the inner foyer.
Once inside, Raoul stopped suddenly and blinked in surprise.
There were people… everywhere. Like black bees in a golden hive they scurried in a mad rush to go to their destinations, clustering and swarming frantically. Workers running here and there, performers huddled in small groups talking amongst themselves, and… the Gendarmerie? What could they possibly be doing here?
Something was very wrong.
Raoul briskly walked towards and up the marble staircase, heading towards the managers' offices.
As he feared, the populace recognized their patron and a chorus of voices rose up in greeting.
"Monsuir de Chagny!"
"Viscount de Chagny, what is to be done?"
"Monsuir le Viscount, have you heard?"
Raoul raised a hand in recognition to his public but dare not stop. He knew that he looked the part of a massive prick in the eyes of all there, but if he stopped to greet anyone, stopped to answer any question, he would be swarmed with questions to which he had no answer.
He ran up the marble staircase and darted into the nearby corridor to the administrative wing of the opera. To Raoul's luck, by the time most people were too busy to take a closer look to the man who hid his face with his sleeve and those who did recognize Raoul found that by the time they lifted their eyes to verify that it was indeed the Viscount de Chagny, he was already gone.
Raoul breathed a sigh of relief as he neared the managers' offices. But, as he turned into the bright, elaborately decorated hallway, he was dismayed to find a horde of people at the door of the managers' office, banging on the pristine gold doors and shouting for the cowards to show themselves to their employee. Raoul's gut clenched at the thought of pushing himself into that mad crowd.
But what other choice did he have?
Raoul steeled himself and pushed through the large crowd. His walking cane, something that Phillippe insisted Raoul use out in public, came in useful for once. He was able to pry open a direct, albeit tight, passage through the mass of angry bodies and reached his elusive prize – the door to the office.
He gripped the cane once again and used the shiny brass head to rap on the the door.
Raoul attempted to make his voice distinguishable from the din.
"Firman? Andre? It's Raoul. Open the door." He shouted.
The people closest to Raoul stopped their own shouting to look at Raoul in surprise. A millisecond of stillness in his immediate vicinity, then they started descending on Raoul, pulling at his clothes and demanding answers to questions Raoul couldn't hear or understand.
He struck the door with even greater force and furiously tried the knob.
"Andre! It's me! Raoul de Chagny!"
The fervor rapidly spread and frighteningly soon, it was Raoul who was surrounded entirely by a screaming, furious crowd.
After several more attempts, Raoul finally saw the door crack open.
"It is you Raoul! Come in quickly."
Raoul needed no further invitation. He frantically pulled away from the mob and launched himself into the room before him.
As soon as Raoul made it past the door, Andre slammed the door and deftly locked it.
Thankfully, the shouts were now distinctly muffled.
Raoul sighed in relief, sat down in the chair opposite Andre's immediately polished desk, and mopped his face with his handkerchief.
"Ah Andre, thank you."
Andre slumped onto his leather chair and rubbed his temples.
"No, Monsieur de Chagny, it is I who owes you a great deal of gratitude. Thank you for coming. If you hadn't, I would be in more trouble than I already am in."
Raoul placed his elbows on the desk and leaned toward the ashen Andre.
"You wrote to me that your problem was of a delicate nature and you couldn't commit it to ink. Well, I am here now. What's your trouble? And what happened to merit all," he gestured to the door, "this?"
Andre's reedy lips tightened into a thin line.
"Well, for one thing, a stage hand has been found dead. His name was…" Andre picked up a pile of papers and shuffled though them.
Raoul sat up in shock.
"Dead? Here at the Populaire?"
"Yes, dead."
Andre suddenly paused and frowned at some paper in the stack. As Raoul sat there stock-still, not yet having fully processed the morbid news, Raoul heard Andre mutter to himself.
"Caesar? He was stolen last night as well?"
Andre turned his head and called out,
"Rémy!"
A more than slightly rumpled, but nevertheless well-dressed young man with rather thick, gold rimmed specacles burst in through the door that connected Andre to the other administrative offices.
"You called, Monsieur Andre?"
"Why wasn't I told that one of our horses was stolen?"
"Ah, Mon-Monsieur, with all due respect you were. You're holding the paper right now in your hand."
"There is too many damned notes for my taste! Next time an incident of this magnitude occurs, heaven forbid, tell me yourself!"
Andre dramatically slumped into his confortable chair and massaged his temples. With a wave of his hand, he dismisssed the unfortunate Rémy.
"Now get back to whatever it was you were doing."
"Yes, I was j-just writing a draft for a press statement, sir!" M. Rémy squeaked before dashing back to the safety behind the door.
Andre settled back into his papers.
"Terribly sorry you had to witness that, Viscount. I am unfortunate enough to employ the greatest buffoon in Paris." He murmured.
"Ah, yes. Buquet. Joseph Buquet was murdered. He worked the backdrops. He was found hung behind an old set piece for Le roi de Lahore. He –"
"Hung?"
"Yes Viscount. Found hung by the neck. The poor man's neck was broken. But Raoul, that's not why I called you here… I… Forgive me, but where were you last night?"
Raoul cocked his head in confusion.
"Surely you don't suspect me?"
"Mon-Monsieur le Viscount, of course I do not," Andre hastily replied, "but if…if you will tell me where you were, I will explain my reasons for asking."
Raoul narrowed his eyes suddenly feeling as if there were too many eyes examining him intently. He ignored the feeling, trying not to take offense at Andre's insinuation – but of course, it was silly to read into this too much! This was probably just some sort of hypothetical question – a rhetorical query – surely, that was it. Raoul took a breath, keeping his tone mild and unoffended as he spoke.
"I was a home. I supped, worked in my study, and retired at about eleven in the evening."
Andre's eager face visible sunk. In a distraught voice, he replied, "So you have absolutely no one to vouch for your whereabouts last night?"
"I have my brother and some of the servants."
Andre rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Well, that's better than no one, I suppose. Did you at least see Mademoiselle Daaé last night?"
Did I see…?
This time, Raoul could not keep the indignation and sudden irritation he felt from appearing in his expression. He scowled at Andre, rising from his chair and leaning slightly over the desk. Now, this was going too far! Even for a theoretical sort of question, to actually imply that Raoul would…? As if Christine was...? Preposterous! To even think of the idea that Andre could assume Christine was to Raoul what Sorrelli was to Phillipe! It sent a sharp surge of anger through him, abrupt and unanticipated.
Raoul scowled at Andre, stood up, and leaned over the desk.
Apparnently, Raoul's anger suprised Andre as much as it did himself. Before the situation could escalate, the manager raised his hands in mock submission and hastily continued,
"Monsieur le Viscount, please forgive my implication, but the situation is desperate. If she can testify to your whereabouts last night, it would greatly help."
Andre's apology seemed thin to Raoul, and then man's words also seemed to make the situation seem more serious than he'd thought. But with the insult to Christine still fresh in his mind, Raoul ignored the fact that he was beginning to feel more than slightly wrong-footed in this conversation. Instead, he replied in a low voice,
"No, I did not and I do resent your implication. For the record, I treat Mademoiselle Daaé with the utmost respectability. It would never cross my mind to infringe on her modesty. She was tired after last night's performance so she, I assume, went home early."
Raoul paused, distracted. Much of his anger quickly receided as he remembered his love. Puzzeled, Raoul looked around the office as if Christine were hiding behind one of the fixtures before turning to Andre, head cocked, and continuing.
"Speaking of Mademoiselle Daaé, where is she?"
Andre reached back to nervously rub the back of his head.
"Er, she's… Well… Monsieur… We…We haven't seen her since last night's performance. We assumed that she was with you, but if she isn't…"
Andre studied the nearby wall as if it held the answer to the mysteries of the universe. Raoul was almost tempted to glance at it too, but for only a moment. After that – Andre's words registered with him slowly, their implications and assumptions slow to unfold. Before Raoul could speak, Andre continued.
"You see Monsieur de Chagny, we haven't been able to find Christine Daaé anywhere. This morning, her dressing room was found ransacked and nearly empty of her personal effects. And you see… The reason I had you come out here personally…"
Andre lifted his eyes to gaze at Raoul with a curious mix of sympathy and fear.
"I'm so sorry."
A booming voice behind Raoul was suddenly entered the conversation.
"You see Monsieur le Viscount, Joseph Buquet was found dead with this in his hand."
A crumpled piece of off white cloth was thrown in front of Raoul onto the bright, caramel wood.
Raoul hesitantly touched it, finding it pleasantly soft for such a foreboding object.
Seconds ticked by, and the sinking feeling in the pit of Raoul's stomach only grew. He was not a man easily afraid, having stared into the cold eyes of death multiple times out at sea, but this little bit of cloth curiously had the power to challenge any and all bravery Raoul ever dared lay claim to. Raoul turned his head to see who had spoken earlier and the dispair in his chest intensified at the sight of not one, but three armed Gendarmerie. Raoul presumed that they had listened to the entire exchange between Andre and himself. Andre…
A thick lump formed in Raoul's throat. He had been tricked! That bastard Andre had tricked Raoul into coming here! He had been duped into walking straight into the lion's den! With no knowledge at all as to his supposed crime!To which his guilt presumably hinged on what evidence the Gendarmerie had found.
The evidence…
His gaze fell once more on the immaculate fabric.
He would have to find out eventually…
Raoul gritted his teeth and summoned each and every bit of courage remaining in his body before he picked the small cloth up and began to unfold it.
A second passed and suddenly Raoul's hands moved of their own accord to violently fling it away, anything to distance himself from it.
Raoul slumped into his chair in shock and horror.
But even then Raoul couldn't escape the terrifying sight. The seemingly innocent fabric lay stretched out on the desk, revealing its secrets in their entirety for all present to see.
Three damning words were skillfully embroidered into a corner of the creased handkerchief:
Raoul de Chagny