I did quite a bit of expansion on this chapter thanks in part to my awesome beta reader's suggestions! I've been looking forward to this chapter for months.
Julia52
The Comte offered a weak smile as he trudged behind Erik. I looked back at him once as we made our way to the lobby, but Erik nudged my shoulder and nodded ahead. I had no idea what had transpired and clearly neither man planned on explaining our strange new fellowship.
I cleaned my hand as best I could with cool water in the hotel lavatory just off the lobby while the Comte ordered his carriage and Erik sat alone outside. My hands trembled as I dried and dressed it once more, but thankfully the bleeding had stopped.
Drizzle had started once more when I walked out front and found Erik sitting with his head down and hands clasped in his lap. He had gone completely silent and I knew he needed a moment to himself. He needed to mourn what he had lost—even if he realized this wasn't what he wanted.
To my surprise, the Comte waited for me in the lobby with his hands clasped behind his back and an enigmatic smile on his face. He looked horribly drained, his face haggard.
"I wish to apologize to you, Madame," he said. "And compensate you for treatment," he added softly as he looked at my hand and wrinkled his nose.
"I've dealt with worse injuries," I answered.
He stared at me for a long moment as though wondering if it I spoke of wounds to myself.
"I was a nurse for a time," I explained.
He nodded, his eyes narrowed as he looked me over. "I'm sure you've seen much."
My eyes widened and I wondered if he dared to insult Erik. "I beg your pardon, Comte de Chagny, but what do you mean to insinuate?"
His mouth dropped open. "That was not my intent."
"Four nights ago I stitched up a horrible laceration to a man's head, which was likely your doing. What was most horrific about this wound was not that it was deep or covered previous scar material, Comte. What most disturbed me was that grown, gentile men who would otherwise consider themselves civil had no reservations about leaving their victim to die in an alley," I said tightly as I stepped toward him.
He held my gaze but didn't speak, which was fortunate for him.
"May I remind you, Monsieur Kire showed a great deal of undo mercy this evening considering the extent of his injuries at your hands?"
He looked taken aback by my words but didn't protest. "I have never engaged in such…cruelty before," he said, picking his words carefully. Regret passed through his gaze and he visibly shuddered.
"You seemed rather skilled at beating a man nearly to death."
"I had no idea he was injured so badly."
"Comte, I am no fool. What precisely did you think would happen when the odds were three men against one?"
He nodded and sighed. "You are correct, Madame. I sincerely regret my actions, especially seeing him now."
"Now?" I scoffed.
He lowered his gaze. "I meant to run him off not…kill him."
Drunken men were prone to ignorance, I wanted to say. This was something I knew painfully well. "I'm not the person to confess to, Comte."
Again he nodded. "I suspect he's told you of our past relations," he said. He grunted. "Or rather our boundless hatred and disrespect for one another."
Erik hadn't told me nearly as much as the Comte most likely assumed. I shrugged and waited for him to continue.
"He is not what I expected," he said, his voice low. He pursed his lips briefly. "He's…human, I suppose."
It seemed like an odd but fitting description considering the evening. I couldn't remember Erik mentioning Raoul de Chagny other than a derogatory 'the boy'. All I had learned of this man came from the newspaper. In print, at least, he was a humanitarian with a thick pocketbook and boundless wealth stemming from his parents, who supported the arts and had put forth a great deal of money in hospitals and supporting orphans. If I were to believe the newspapers, this man was a saint, his wife was an angel, and Erik was dead.
"My wife has never hurt anyone before," he said suddenly. "At least not…other than…" he stammered.
His lips parted as though he wanted to elaborate, but he shook his head. I thought back to our original meeting in the lobby and knew he had much to hide from the world. Their lives would have been considerably different if the public knew of her illness. I had no doubt she had used her fits against him, both mentally and physically.
The carriage driver appeared and cleared his throat, which garnered the Comte's attention. He excused himself and I walked through the vacant lobby and toward Erik.
"Do you want me to take you home?" he asked as I sat beside him. There was something up against the outside of his thigh, but I didn't question him. I honestly didn't want to know.
"I just want to find Alex," I answered, stifling a yawn.
"It's very late."
"I don't want to argue with you, Erik. I just want to see Alexandre and know he is safe," I snapped.
A long moment passed before he put his arm around me and squeezed me tighter. "Julia, I am sorry for this," he said gently.
There would be time to apologize later, when we were both thinking with more clarity. "Don't be sorry. Just find him," I murmured, as I rested my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes.
Footsteps signaled the Comte's approach. He stood at a distance and waited for his carriage without making a sound. The rain had stopped, but it was cold and uncomfortably damp, which made me wonder why he chose to stand outside the carriage station.
No one spoke until we were inside the carriage and halfway down the street, though it hardly seemed uncomfortable. Erik stared at his clasped hands while the Comte gazed out the window, his expression sullen.
The Comte was the first to break the silence. "How is your hand…Madame?"
"Madame Louis Seuratti," I mumbled without thinking.
The Comte blinked at me. "You're a widow?" he asked, sounding surprised.
I felt Erik pull away from me before I answered with only a nod, hoping the Comte wouldn't question me further. After all I had witnessed, I wasn't sure who I was any longer; a widow, a mistress, or a neighbor caught in some hellish nightmare.
With no conversation forthcoming, I closed my tired eyes. I focused on Erik's breathing and the creak of the wheels and springs as the carriage lurched ahead. My hand throbbed and my head pounded. I couldn't remember ever feeling so drained in my life.
When the carriage paused, I woke with a start and rubbed my eyes. Erik looked sadly at me and asked one last time if I wanted to return home, but I refused. If anything were to happen to Alex, I didn't want these two men taking out their anger on one another.
The Comte exited first, followed by Erik who helped me out and made certain I stayed at his side. He walked stiffly, grimacing as he tested his legs after a much needed rest.
"This way," he said with a nod.
We had no choice but to follow Erik, who walked toward the building as though he still remembered every entrance, which I assumed he still did. He briskly rounded the corner and pressed me up against the building.
"Quiet," he whispered.
Gendarmes passed on horseback, too engaged in conversation to know we stood in the shadows. The Comte's eyes bulged from his head while Erik stood coolly, nonplussed by their presence.
Once they passed, he strolled forward and paused before the admission booth.
The opera house had been closed since the fire, its original beauty diminished to boarded-up rubble. In the faint light, I saw Erik look over the rotting wooden planks and posters nailed to the makeshift walls. He looked remorseful as he examined the remains of his past.
"This is the closest entrance," he said.
"To what?" I asked.
"The cellar," he mumbled as he reached into his coat and produced two taper candles.
The Comte and I exchanged looks.
"Compliments of the Wisteria," Erik answered as he lit both wicks and handed me one. The scent of sulfur made me wrinkle my nose as he blew out the match.
"I hadn't even thought of that," The Comte admitted. He lifted a board Erik had loosened and together we entered the abandoned building. "Are we…safe?"
"I have no idea," Erik answered.
It certainly didn't look or feel safe entering a building in ruins. Glass covered broken marble. Cobwebs clung to the high ceiling and along statues that had been broken in half or had cracked limbs strewn across the floor. Parts of chandeliers hung crooked within the lobby, threatening to crash down at any moment. The Comte stared warily as we stood beneath a smaller one.
"I'll walk first, then Julia and lastly you, Monsieur de Chagny," Erik said.
"Call me Raoul," he insisted nervously. He placed the board back as it was and peered ahead. "We've known each other, or at least of each other, long enough, I think."
The Comte walked gingerly across the floor, his gaze sweeping back and forth as though he expected the ground to slide out from underneath him. His cautious nature made it nearly impossible to look away.
"It smells…dead," I commented.
"Musty. The ceiling is damaged," Erik answered as he lifted his candle and looked around. "The fire weakened it."
Slowly we made our way up several steps and into the lobby. Birds squawked somewhere high above in unseen nests while rats scratched and scurried into hiding. I held my breath and momentarily froze. Debris fell from another chandelier and onto discarded seats from the auditorium.
"This way," Erik said as he led us through the arched doors.
I wished I had seen the theater in its prime, when operas and special performances took place nightly. The velvet curtain still hung down, though it was ragged and burned in spots. Some of the seats had survived, though they were rotting and covered in dust. It still smelled like a fire, which seemed odd considering how many years had passed since the disaster. Despite the devastation, a great deal had remained behind, both within the theater and outside.
I started toward the stage and glanced back, finding both men side by side. Neither of them looked at one another, but they both stared at the opera boxes.
The Comte shifted his gaze to Erik, who found him staring and frowned.
"It was the best view in the house," the Comte said under his breath. "I see why you favored it."
At Erik's prompting, he clopped across the damp carpeting thanks to a night of rain. When he looked down, he appeared disgusted.
"What a shame," the Comte mumbled.
Erik nodded before he strode toward me and motioned for me to pause. He stepped in front of me and stomped on the floor in various places before he stepped off stage and waited for us to catch up. I could still hear him pounding on the floor.
"Monsieur…Raoul, if you will," Erik said as he held open a narrow door leading to a spiral staircase.
I took one last look at the opera house from the stage. The orchestra pit was still filled with broken pieces of instruments as well as what looked like burnt props. Glass was scattered everywhere, as well as pieces of metal from where the chandelier had fallen on the final night. I looked up at the ceiling and the holes where rain dripped down.
We descended into a musty, cold level with pools of stagnant water on the stone floor. All three of us sloshed through, guided only by the meager candlelight. I walked slowly behind Erik, shivering at the temperature change as well as the surroundings. The theater itself was opulent; the level below dank and unwelcoming, like an underground prison.
The Comte broke the uneasy silence with a ragged sigh. "So now you know," he said, his voice echoing off the stone.
Erik glanced back but made no comment. There was nothing to say, only words needing to be heard from this man invited on a peculiar descent.
I ducked to avoid what looked like a stage prop of a tree and realized we were surrounded by artifacts from previous shows. There was scenery along the far wall, backdrops of a forest and part of what looked like a castle. Partially hidden behind the sets were jugs and glass bottles of wine, some of them still full.
"I suppose you now find there is nothing envious about my life. With our life." The Comte sidled up alongside me and frowned. "She's not always this…sick. There are good days," he added quickly.
Erik briefly paused and looked over his shoulder. He looked annoyed but held his tongue and pressed forward. It surprised me that he made no attempt to silence him, and I wondered if it was curiosity on his part or if knowing the truth brought him peace.
"There have been…episodes…for a while, longer than you know. Of course no one really understood because she was a dancer. All dancers have their fits, and singers? Yes, when she was a young singer it was worse and no one was any wiser. She was a diva—she is a diva. Her fits are expected." His voice turned low as if what he had to say had become a secret he was afraid to speak. "She's been ill for a while, even before she gave up Alexandre."
Erik abruptly paused, his lips a thin, straight line. "Watch your step, sir, before you fall into a hole."
The Comte froze, looking around the shadows, and I did the same.
"Holes?" I questioned. The ground looked solid enough.
"Trap doors," Erik said.
"Trap doors? But we aren't even near the stage."
"No, we're not," Erik agreed.
Knowing he wouldn't elaborate, I nodded and looked at the Comte, who appeared flustered because his cathartic moment had been interrupted.
"She was ill before she gave up her son?" I asked.
He nodded. "That made it worse for her, I think. She never told me why, but she disappeared for several months, which now I realize was because she was closer to Alex's birth. She was different when she returned." He paused and swallowed hard. "I accepted it without question…I was a fool."
Erik had stopped as well and stood with his hand on the door frame. He favored his right leg and grimaced when he put his full weight on it.
"Suzette's death, which you knew about, had the same effect. You did know of my daughter, didn't you?," the Comte pressed on, his attention on Erik. "She passed as an infant. In Africa. She would be seven this year."
"Madeline and Meg," Erik answered quietly.
I still remembered the night Erik had told me of this child's death, how heartbroken he was on behalf of a woman who had completely shut him out of her life. I knew little of their relationship back then, only that he had loved and lost his son's mother.
I had never expected this.
"Ah, of course. Madeline—or Madame Giry—it's difficult to call her by her first name. I saw the note you sent her, the one with the brown ink. Lemons, wasn't it?"
Erik merely lifted his chin. He didn't bother to glance in my direction.
"Very clever. I assume she did write you back, but who knows? What was I saying? Oh, Madame. Well she knew Christine's father. She knew how his sickness progressed and how…it was very difficult for Christine to see him bedridden."
"What happened to him?" I interrupted.
The Comte's lips parted and Erik finally looked at me.
"Smallpox," the Comte answered as he turned to Erik for clarification.
Erik nodded, his eyes cast down as listened to the Comte speak.
"If I remember correctly, there was a horrible outbreak and it claimed her younger siblings, then her father. It was perhaps six weeks at the most and they were all ill."
"Her mother?"
He sighed and looked at Erik, who shook his head as though he wasn't aware of the details.
"Christine was with her mother at the time, which saved her life. They were in Switzerland, I believe, and received word of the outbreak. Monsieur Daae begged her not to return and sent his love to his wife and daughter. She kept that letter for a long time," he said. "It disappeared perhaps six months ago and it bothered her greatly."
The Comte wiped his face with his hand. "Her mother returned to their family home upon his death. She was too stricken with grief to care for her daughter, which is how Christine found her way here." He looked around at the ceiling and cold stone walls, his gaze filled with overwhelming sadness. "I believe she was cared for after that in a…home," he answered uncomfortably. "At least that was what my parents explained."
Most likely she had ended up within an asylum, a woman driven to the brink of her sanity after the loss of her husband and smaller children. With her father and sibling dead, her mother despondent, and her disposal at the opera house, I had no doubt this had affected the Comte's wife. I suspected being sent to an unfamiliar place teeming with strangers was more than enough to drive a young girl mad.
"You've known her all of your life then?" I asked.
"We didn't see each other for many years, but we played together as small children. When I saw her again here…it brought back memories." The Comte cleared his throat and continued. "Before that summer, she was happy. A vibrant girl, Little Lotte, bright-eyed and just simply happy to run around and cause trouble. That's how I remembered her." He pursed his lips. "That's how I will always remember her."
I stared ahead and watched Erik. He had turned away from us, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. He walked down the first steps of a spiral staircase and mumbled for us to make haste.
Rats darted past us and I swallowed a scream. The air smelled of vermin, the stench so overpowering I held my sleeve over my nose.
"When she started all this nonsense about her father sending an Angel of Music I just assumed it was something she dreamed up. If you had known her back then you would have known she had quite an imagination. Always saying she heard brownies in the attic—the Green Man—have you heard of the Green Man?"
Erik only nodded. His complete silence made it impossible to tell if he welcomed or dreaded these memories, these little moments of Christine's life the Comte willingly shared. I wondered how much of what the Comte shared he already knew.
"Yes, yes, she was very fond of the Green Man, faeries, anything at all. So the Angel of Music was just one of those little tales. But then she swore that this thing—this angel—was a real person, a real man who lived behind the glass. And he was strict!" He chuckled, though it sounded nervous. "Very strict, she said to me with this stern expression.
"But I didn't say anything because it upset her when anyone told her something wasn't real. She needed to have her father send an angel, I suppose, some ethereal being to make her feel like she wasn't alone. It's really quite sad, this beautiful little girl living a strange dream."
"You blame Erik for this?" I chimed in. My tone gave away my complete and utter boredom on his monologue regarding Christine.
Erik met my eye but didn't speak. He looked at me strangely, as though it came as a complete shock that I had defended him.
"No," the Comte said quickly. "He never intended to hurt her. Even when I hoped to save her from something evil, I knew in my heart he would never put her in harm's way. He had no way of knowing. She hid it well for fear of being sent away."
It made me wonder if she knew what had happened to her mother. The opera house had to be more appealing to her than the thought of being committed to an asylum.
The Comte looked Erik in the eye when he spoke. "You never knew she was so devastated by her father's death. You knew she was lonely, I think, but you didn't know she…was ill, did you?"
Erik solemnly shook his head. He turned so that I only saw the unmasked side of his face and the vacant look in his eye. For many years I had wondered what had drawn him to her in the first place, what had started this madness and obsession, and now I knew.
He had come to her because she was alone. Perhaps in her suffering he saw part of himself, and in curing her loneliness he wished to alleviate his own. In his overwhelming despair, he had wanted to save her from the fate he'd been assigned.
That was why he couldn't walk away from her; it was as though leaving her made him abandon himself. He had continued to search for the broken pieces of his heart, still drawn to her, still needing to repair something he simply couldn't fix. Neither man was capable of mending Christine.
"I didn't know the extent," Erik replied.
"There are days when I still don't know the extent," the Comte replied.
No one spoke as we trudged ahead. The further we traveled into the opera house vaults, the more spiders, millipedes, and rats appeared at our feet and within the crevices of broken and uneven stones.
The Comte cleared his throat after a while. He coughed into his sleeve as the air thickened with dampness, while I covered my face with my hand and attempted to block out the smell.
"I don't want your pity," the Comte said suddenly.
Erik stopped and stared at him again, just as he had done before. He nodded once, then sighed, his patience waning.
"You don't want my pity and I don't want yours," the Comte continued. "I didn't tell you this for you to feel sorry for us. I love her. With all of my heart, I do love her and I would never, ever abandon her. She needs me, I think. She needs someone to watch over her."
He spoke with melancholy fondness for her. I had stayed with Louis because I was too afraid to leave and when I looked at the Comte, I wondered if he had similar feelings. Perhaps he feared walking out on her would ruin her.
"And she's not a bad person…she's not." His voice trailed off and I wondered how many more years he could continue at this destructive pace. Eventually she would either harm him severely or injure their children. "Deep in her soul she is good. She gets confused. When she takes her medicine, when she's…."
He wiped his glassy eyes and inhaled sharply. "She's everything to me," he finished at last.
His words saddened me. I looked away and frowned, knowing precisely what it felt like to want something more.
We walked awhile in silence until I was certain we would never see sunlight again. I had no idea how Alex would have ever found his way into this maze nor what would have driven him into this abyss.
"How do you know he's been here?" I asked.
"He is," Erik said with more certainty than I expected. He rounded yet another corner, his pace quickening. How he managed to navigate his way through the cellars I had no idea, especially after ten years. Each cellar looked exactly like the one above it, aside from different inhabitance lurking in shadows and scurrying past our feet.
The Comte exhaled sharply, the sound echoing through the cold stone confines. "I'm surprised."
"By?" Erik asked after a long silence. Despite speaking a single word, I knew he was irritated by the Comte's constant rambling. He stood rigid, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek.
He looked away from Erik and visibly swallowed. His cheeks flushed when he spoke. "I expected you would gloat or use this against us."
"He is not spiteful," I snapped. The moment I spoke I regretted my words, especially when I looked at the Comte and saw him standing with his head bowed. He expected humiliation from the man he considered his enemy.
"Serves no purpose," Erik said under his breath. He glanced at me and offered a faint smile as though hoping for my approval.
My candle had dwindled down to a stub and I held it at an angle to allow the wax to drip down. It seemed as though we should have been in the center of the earth judging by how long it had taken us to travel down each flight of narrow stairs and through long, winding tunnels.
"Are we close?" I asked.
Erik nodded. "We're here."
He ducked through a doorway I hadn't noticed and the Comte slowly followed into the abyss. He peered around the cellar with its cobwebs and damp stone ceiling and shook his head.
"I had forgotten this place," he said, his voice low. "Forgotten it almost completely."
"What is this?" I asked. It looked like a tomb, the least likely place to find Alexandre. We would have never found it without Erik guiding the way, which made it seem entirely impossible for a boy to discover it on his own.
The Comte didn't look at me when he spoke. "This is where he lived. This was his…kingdom beneath the opera house."
The thought made shudder. I held out the candle and ducked through the doorway, peering into the Phantom's lair.
Despite all of the accounts of a man who lived beneath the opera house, I had always thought it was an outrageous tale. Perhaps it was because Erik seemed to enjoy his room on the second level where he could survey the night at will that I refused to believe he would ever live literally beneath the earth. I expected he hid in a back room, distanced from the other people who lived within the theater but not so far removed.
My heart ached for him, for the years he'd spent in complete solitude. There was no sign of human life in this place, no sounds from the orchestra pit or stage as they were too far above us. This was a place to dwell alone, to remain unbothered and undiscovered.
I doubted anyone bothered to travel past the second cellar where incinerators had once burned day and night. He was perfectly hidden away from world, five levels beneath humanity.
Standing there, I knew why he was so terribly awkward during our first meetings, why he initially struggled to hold a conversation. There had been no one in his life. This talented, shy, mysterious man had chosen this place over ridicule—and it was all based on his appearance.
The depths of his loneliness were far greater than I had ever imagined and I understood what it meant for me to remove his mask, to take away what he had always hidden. He had fought for his dignity more than a shield.
"Madame? Are you unwell?" the Comte questioned. He clutched my elbow and I realized I was leaning against the wall. I quickly pulled away and he stepped back, allowing me into the shadowy caverns Erik had called his home.
"Did you know?" the Comte questioned, his eyes narrowed.
I failed to answer. The moment I looked up, I spotted Alex sitting far in the distance with his back to us and Erik standing behind him, paralyzed by the sight of his son.
"Oh, thank God," I whispered, feeling as though I could breathe at last.
