Hello everyone! I'm finally getting back to posting, and I think we could all use some distraction right now from what's going on in the real world. Here is a good long chapter for you all. Our daughter is two months old now, and finally starting to sleep longer stretches at night. Her older brother was a terrible sleeper too; suffice it to say that there's a reason I was able to easily describe the effects of sleep deprivation in this story!

"It's just a love triangle, really." - Andrew Lloyd Webber, describing the plot line of POTO some years ago. Time for the re-entrance of the third member of the triangle. We couldn't let the first two have too much peace in their lives, after all, could we? The French navy should really do something about all these delays they keep having...

Chapter 42. July 1887.

"Saw them both, Monsieur. He took that horse right down the street and into the Opera House, bold as brass. Had her riding behind him on some contraption."

Raoul clenched his fists, trying not to weep. "And what did Mademoiselle Daae do?"

"Thought you said she ain't a Mademoiselle any longer? Didn't you say she'd married the other fellow?"

"It's not a legitimate marriage!" Raoul retorted. "She was forced. The Church and the law don't recognize that sort of farce of a marriage."

"Just as you like," said his informant, shrugging. "Maybe you're right. Forced or not, I'd say he beats her a good bit. She sure couldn't wait to get away from him once they were at the door."

Raoul raised anguished eyes to him, and the man went on, relishing the tale, "Yes, she started to run off, and he hauled her back and made her kiss him, and then she pulled away and was sick into the gutter, right there in the street. Looks like she don't care for him any too much."

"Oh, God," groaned Raoul, his stomach churning. Poor, poor Christine, to have to suffer that monster's foul touch! Why could the creature not see that she wanted nothing to do with him and his revolting advances?

"Yeeaaahhh," said his companion, dragging out the syllable insolently. "He picked her up and she kicked a bit, but then sorter gave up and just let him take her inside. Horse too. What's he doing dragging one of those around inside an Opera House, anyway?"

"They use them in the performances," said Raoul, waving one hand dismissively and putting the other over his eyes. "You are sure of all this?" he asked weakly.

"Yep. Oh – forgot something. Her dress was all torn to rags. Don't know what he was doing to her all day, but it looked like she put up a fight."

Raoul's lungs spasmed, suddenly and uncontrollably, and he could not keep himself from audibly gasping. Shrinking with mortification under the informant's amused gaze, he put his hand over his mouth, swallowing hard as foul-tasting bile rose in the back of his throat, harsh and burning. With difficulty, he mastered himself after a few moments, and made himself ask, "What else have you found out?" His voice came out in a whisper, which embarrassed him further.

"Well," said the other man, sticking his thumbs in the pockets of the mustard yellow waistcoat that strained at the seams, "Your rival, he's been in and out a lot lately. He don't only go out at night, you know, it's not like you said. Usually he's with that Persian bloke. He's been to and from this one place that's for rent, several times. Looks like he's aiming to set up housekeeping with his girl, I'd say."

Raoul gritted his teeth. That treacherous Persian! He'd acted as though he were trying to help Raoul and Christine, and all the time he was sympathetic to Erik! And now he appeared to be fully on Erik's side. Had Erik deceived the man with lies about Christine's true feelings, or had the Persian been deceiving Raoul that disastrous night? He had seemed to be an honourable man, for all that he was an Oriental, but perhaps Raoul had been too gullible. The thought made him furious, and the anger flowed like brandy through his veins, giving him back a bit of strength. He must, he must gain control over his passions just now. He needed to know if this man had any more to tell him.

The informant leaned against the dirty side of the building they were standing next to, and spat into the mess that was already in the gutter. Raoul averted his eyes. He hated having to spend time in this part of the city, but he could not be seen conversing with this odious man by anyone who knew him. So they must meet here, far away from the decent parts of Paris. He'd put on his oldest clothes one day, which still were sufficiently fine as to make him a marked man in these parts, and come here on foot, as he could not let their coachman know his intentions. Then he'd simply picked this fellow out of the bedraggled nameless massespassing by, mostly because he looked more sly than the rest, which seemed a helpful trait for the task Raoul needed done.

"Guess he's tired of living underground," the spy went on. "Suppose he can't move into Notre Dame, it's already got a troll of its own, don't it?" The man laughed loudly at his own joke, but the Vicomte saw nothing funny about it.

"What is the address?" Raoul demanded hoarsely. The informant gave it. "Anything else?" Raoul pressed, hoping there might be more useful information.

"Yep," said the man, grinning from ear to ear and showing several missing teeth, "But it'll cost you."

Without hesitation, Raoul took out his wallet and peeled off several large bills. Thank God Philippe had believed him when he said he wanted to bet on some horses; if anything, his brother was probably relieved that Raoul appeared to be turning to the normal pursuits of a nobleman. If only he had already reached his majority, and had access to the money that was to be his! But that was still several months off, and he could not leave Christine that long. Who knew what the monster might do to her, if he took a mind to? Raoul was going to have to find a way to get the necessary funds to mount the rescue attempt which must be undertaken, and just at the moment he had no idea how.

The informant counted the money, and folded it tidily away into a waistcoat pocket. Then he said smugly, "She's expecting."

The words took Raoul's breath away again, and he could not speak at all. Now even the despairing half-hope that Erik's capricious veneration of Christine might somehow have prevented him from committing the worst crime of all, was destroyed. It was done; it had happened.

The other man went on, "Yep. Heard that Giry woman talking to her daughter about it, one evening when they were going home. You hang around an Opera House long enough, you hear lots of interestin' things."

Raoul bit his lip until he tasted blood. He wished the man would leave, so that, like Christine, he could go quietly into an alleyway and vomit. Oh, Christine, why did you go back to him?

"You should hear the things I've found out about the managers. P'raps somebody else'll have a use for that information," said the man meditatively. "You got anythin' else you want me to find out about these two?"

"Yes," said Raoul, swallowing. "If he's renting a house, then they'll be moving soon. Keep watch and let me know when they do so. And then I'll want you to find out their habits, too; specifically, when he's absent."

"Meaning to run off with her, are you?" asked the informant, scratching himself. "Should've done it a while ago. She's got a kid coming now. Gonna raise another man's brat?"

"None of your affair," snapped Raoul. "If you want to be paid any more, you have to get me my information. And that's all you need to know."

"Suit yourself," said the other man, standing up straight and making a mocking bow. "Monsieur." Raoul jerked his chin irritably, and the informant moved off into the street. Raoul set off as well, in another direction; he walked quickly, for it did not do to be in this section of town after dark, and the shadows were getting long. He strode along furiously, his mind roiling with disgust and horror.

Gone completely were the nascent beginnings of acceptance that Christine might have genuinely chosen to marry her teacher, as other women had done before her. That she might – improbable though it seemed to Raoul – be happy. Madame Giry had insisted that this was the truth of the matter, when Raoul caught up to her in the street a week ago, four days after he had visited her at home and left a letter with her, as he could think of no other way to contact Christine. Mama Valerius was too senile now to be trusted to follow any directions, and so he had chosen to approach the widow, knowing that Christine was friends with both her and her eldest daughter. He had received no response whatsoever to his urgent message, and could not wait any longer for news of Christine.

"Madame – Madame Giry!"

The widow, who had been making short work of her trip home from her job, halted her swift pace, looking startled. "Monsieur le Vicomte!" Belatedly she curtsied, and Raoul made a dismissive gesture. Just at present he could not care less about such niceties.

"Christine, Madame! Christine?"

"Monsieur…Christine came to see me, as I told you she was expected to do. I gave her the letter you left with me. She did read it; I know this, Monsieur, for she did so right in front of me."

"And? And?"

"My apologies, Monsieur, but…your letter was not welcome to her. She does not wish to renew her friendship with you."

Raoul stopped dead and looked into Madame Giry's embarrassed eyes. All the nervous energy that had been sustaining him ever since the meeting with Christine in the park, had gone suddenly out of him, and he felt as limp as a rag. This was the same thing as what had been contained within the few lines of the strange note Christine had sent him immediately after the debacle underground. But it still confounded him.

"Madame…" He trailed off, unsure what to say. There were people going past on either side of them, and he was suddenly acutely aware of how improper it was to be having such a conversation in the street.

Giry was looking at him with a certain amount of sympathy in her eyes. "Monsieur, Christine is a married woman. Your letter upset her. I am sure that you can understand that, given your history together, it would not be appropriate for her to continue to see you now. It would cause trouble between her and her husband."

"Oh yes, her husband!" said Raoul bitterly. "You mean her jailer!"

"No, Monsieur, I do not," said Giry, ruffling. "Erik is no jailer, not anymore. He experienced a great change of heart, as you know better than me as you witnessed it, whereas I have only been told of it. He repented of his crimes and released you both, abandoning his dreadful intentions. Anyone who is a Christian must rejoice in such a miracle, Monsieur."

Her tone had stayed just this side of impertinence, as it must when someone talked to a person so far above them as Raoul was above Giry, but he felt the accusation in the words all the same and flinched. Hoping he had not done so visibly, he said, more humbly than was typical for him, "My letter upset her?"

"Yes, Monsieur. She told me she would write you again and tell you so once more, and that she hoped you would honour it this time. Please; I spoke with her for some time. There can be no possible doubt of where her feelings lie. I am sure of it."

"But I met her in the park…"

"She told me of it," answered Giry.

"She did not seem like a woman who is happy with her choice!" Raoul flung back at her.

"Yes, I know. Christine was mortified to meet you again, after she married another. She knows you fell in love in her, and that she encouraged it, and that it must have hurt you when she broke off your engagement. That is why she behaved as she did."

"So she still cares for me that much, at least?"

"Monsieur…"

"What did she say about it? I mean, what else did she say, if you spoke with her at length? Please, Madame, I must know!"

Now it was the widow's turn to look discomfited. "Monsieur le Vicomte…this whole sorry business is really none of my affair, and I have already said more than I ought. She told me she would write you a letter and tell you again to find another on whom to bestow your regard."

"I have received nothing yet."

"It has only been a few days. Wait a little longer and surely her message will arrive; and even if it doesn't…Monsieur, forgive me, but you have already received one note from her on this subject. Another will merely repeat the same thing as the first did. The situation, and her affections, have not changed in the interim."

Raoul stood gazing blankly out at nothing, trying manfully to master his emotions. A great many things were going through his mind, most of which he could not possibly say out loud. He started several times to say something, and then thought better of it and stopped. Finally he managed, "Madame, will you swear to me that Christine is happy? And that she is not…that she is in no danger of…from…him?"

"Yes," said Giry gently. "I swear it. She is no longer the Christine Daae you knew. She is another man's wife, a state which she willingly chose. And yes, she is in no danger. He would never hurt her now."

"I wish – " Raoul began quickly, and then stopped. He wished for much, but what he had been going to say was 'I wish I could be as sure of that as you are,' and he thought it would be unworthy of him if he did say it. It really was unconscionable to be carrying on such a discussion in the street, and the curious glances of passers-by were embarrassing him greatly. He said haltingly, "I…I see. I will do as she asks, then, if it is what she wishes."

"It is."

"Please, do not tell her of our meeting to-day. If my letter already upset her, I do not want to bother her even more."

"That would be best, Monsieur. I will say nothing to Christine."

That evening had found the Vicomte in his shirt-sleeves sitting with his elbows on the small table in the corner of his bedroom, staring blankly at a bottle of expensive cognac, whose contents had diminished alarmingly over the last couple of hours. He had refused dinner, and spoken rudely to his brother when the Comte invited him out to a cabaret.

"Just as you like," Philippe had said haughtily. "Stay in here and moulder, then." And he had gone out on his own. Raoul had been glad of the chance to be alone and think matters over, though he rather wished now that he had not drunk quite so much cognac; the task would have been easier.

Could it be true that Christine was indeed happy being married to Erik? How could it be? And yet…and yet, Giry had been so sure. And she was the one who had spoken to Christine herself about it.

And yet Raoul had done so as well, that fateful day in the park. And Christine had stammered and wept, and she'd said, 'I must go back to him,' and 'I can't escape from him.' Those did not sound like the words of a woman who loved her husband. Raoul reiterated them in his mind; no, they did not. She had not said she wanted to return to Erik, only that she had to.

But she had also been shocked, and upset. Was it possible that she had simply spoken unthinkingly? She had apparently told Giry that she did in fact want to stay with that creature.

How could she? And after everything that had happened underground, and before that even…after all that Raoul had suffered in her name…Could he trust that she'd chosen the direct opposite of what she had claimed to want and what all reason said she should not want, and done so rationally and independently?

"Take me by force if necessary…"

There was, quite simply, no way for Raoul to be sure. Not after hearing that phrase from her very lips. Perhaps it was wrong of him…but Christine herself had told him that she was not to be trusted where Erik was concerned. Who, after all, could blame him if he took her at her word?

He must determine for himself where her heart truly lay. Only then could he in good conscience abandon her to the unpredictable mercies of his rival. Raoul picked up his glass and took a despairing drink as he pictured the actual moment of sacrifice; it would be dreadful. But then…that was no more than what Erik himself had done for Christine, was it?

Qualms of conscience prickled uncomfortably. Erik had changed his mind at the end of that terrible twenty-four hours which Raoul and the Persian had spent below the Opera. He had released the two men, and he had given up all claim to Christine. And he had not only done these things, but gone and fetched Raoul out of the dungeon in which he'd imprisoned the Vicomte – Raoul had never been so afraid in his entire life as he had been that moment when the door opened and he saw the fiend's tall skeletal shape outlined in its frame – brought him back to the house by the lake, and back to Christine. All this, Erik had done.

It was incredible, that after all that had transpired…the torture chamber, the threats, the violence, the hours and hours they all had spent underground, held prisoner by Erik's crazed determination to make Christine his wife…after all that, in the end he had, very simply, let them go. How he had wept, though! The man's grief had been terrible to see, even though his back had been to Raoul (and Raoul could not help but be glad that just then he had not been obliged to look at the hideous visage while Erik gasped and sobbed into Christine's skirts). The Persian had been gone by then; Erik had said that he'd carried the man to his own front door, during the time when Raoul was lying unconscious on his opponent's couch before being taken to the place which Erik, laughing, had called the 'Communards' Cavern.' When he was laughing, Raoul could hate him, but no one with a heart could fail to be moved by his tears.

The lines from the Bible about repentant sinners were running, unbidden, through Raoul's mind. God rejoiced in such a thing…

Had Erik really repented? Was that even possible for such an evilmonster as he? But if it were…oh, if it were…

Raoul could not bear the thought of being less honourable than that creature, that half-human beast. It was not to be borne. A de Chagny could not do such a thing. If Giry proved to be right, then Raoul would – oh God – step gracefully away.

But first he had to be sure.

And now, after hearing the informant's damning testimony, Raoul was sure only that it had been a fatal mistake to have left Christine in Erik's clutches this long. Hearing what the informant had observed, Raoul was now convinced that his instincts had been right all along. Christine was not happy in her marriage. Circumstances could not be more different, obviously; she was filled with horror instead, and struggling gallantly but vainly against her captor, even as she suffered under his vile treatment of her. The Vicomte was writhing with hot shame that he hadn't been able to save Christine from a situation that was clearly odious to her. He was the only hero she had, as a woman all alone in the world with only the feeble Mama Valerius as chaperone. And he had failed her. He had not been man enough to come to her aid in time, nor to prevent her from ultimately falling into the monster's clutches. Bitterly he reproached himself for having blurted out Erik's plan to end his life; had Raoul not done so…oh, he would have been able to get Christine safely away, he would have, and she would not have known of Erik's intentions until the deed was done! He was to blame for all of this. And he should never have just stood uselessly by and left her to her dreadful fate.

If only this had not taken so long. If only, if only he'd been able to rescue Christine before that evil son of a bitch got her with child! Why had she not allowed Raoul to take her away that afternoon at the park? She'd been lucky enough to meet up with him; why did she not seize the opportunity of escape? That damnable policeman. If he hadn't interfered, Raoul could have simply dragged Christine off to safety, and she could have protested all she liked; it was clear now that she could not tell what was best for her. She was a woman, after all, and like all women she needed her decisions made for her by a strong and capable man. Raoul took out the silk glove of hers which she'd dropped in the park, and which he now carried everywhere with him, flattering himself that it was like the favours which knights errant had taken into battle with them. He caressed it miserably, wishing he could comfort Christine herself instead.

She was the sweetest and most beautiful woman he'd ever known, which was why he loved her…but a woman nonetheless, fickle and childish. And she'd never been able to know her own mind where Erik was concerned. She'd needed Raoul for that. And now she needed him far more; he was the only one who could rescue her from her terrible predicament. How could he have doubted that? Mama Valerius was far too old and sick to see to Christine's welfare, and there was no one else to look after the poor girl. Madame Giry was now useless; she too was utterly in the monster's thrall, as had been made obvious to Raoul when he went to her to find out what Christine's reaction to his letter had been. The widow had also been taken in by Erik's tricks, as she believed that Christine was staying with him willingly. No help was to be gained there. Well, Madame was a woman too, and apparently no more sensible than Christine. Raoul had thought her wiser than that, but it seemed he'd been wrong. He would not go to her for assistance with the situation again.

What he needed to do was clear; he had to get Christine away from Erik, and then waste no time in setting up a trap for him when he came after them, as he unquestionably would. At first Raoul had thought to simply flee with Christine and make a life with her in some other country, but then he had realised that Erik would stop at nothing to reclaim the woman he was obsessed with. And he was a formidable adversary. Terrifyingly intelligent, extraordinarily resourceful, and fully prepared to commit any crime he thought necessary; no, with him on their trail, they could not stop running unless they knew he was dead. That was no life for Christine, always petrified of being recaptured; Raoul must find a way to eliminate her tormentor instead. And besides, who knew how many other people Erik might kill, to get them out of his way while in the process of pursuing her?

But how to do it? That was the question which he had been agonizing over for some time. Philippe would not help him. If anything, he'd lock him up again if he got wind that Raoul was planning to try to go after Christine again. The police had been no use thus far, as, alas, they believed Philippe's version of events, and not Raoul's. And the Persian evidently could no longer be trusted. But what else could Raoul do?

Could he simply make off with Christine, and then challenge Erik when he appeared? Out of his Opera House and his fiendish labyrinth, might the man be less dangerous, in a place where he did not have his traps and his infernal darkness to sneak up on people with? Perhaps Raoul could defend himself and Christine with a sword; surely he was more skilled with that weapon than Erik, who had presumably not had a nobleman's upbringing. And Raoul was at least thirty years younger than his opponent.

But Erik would have the advantage of height and length of arm, and those were important considerations. And who knew whether he would agree to the proper rules of duelling, or, having once agreed, keep to his promise? He was nothing that could even come close to being called an honourable man. Why should Raoul trust him an inch? Perhaps a pistol was the better solution. Shooting one's rival like a dog was hardly the behaviour of a gentleman, but then Erik did not deserve the consideration of being treated like anything other than an animal. Not after the horrible deeds he had committed. And to think, Raoul had actually entertained the notion that the fiend had really repented! Well, even if he had, it certainly had not been for long. If he had been sincere in his remorse for his actions…he surely would have already done away with himself by the time Christine got back to him.

In fact, could it be possible that Erik might have even deliberately used his sinister powers of persuasion to make sure that she would come back right away? Christine had told Raoul of how Erik could use his voice to control some people, and after the episode in Christine's dressing room the night of the Masquerade Ball, it had become unfortunately apparent that Raoul was susceptible to it, as was Christine herself. Raoul's memories of the time that had passed between being freed from the dungeon and finding himself making his way through the catacombs were rather hazy. Could Erik possibly have gone so far as to instruct Raoul, through mesmerism, to tell Christine of the false suicide attempt while they were still in his infernal labyrinth, when she could still get back to the underground house? Raoul was ready enough to find reasons to think even worse of Erik, as well as straws to grasp at in search of absolution for himself. Yes, that must be it. Erik had to have done it on purpose. There was no other explanation. And so…he had not really given her up, after all. The cat was merely letting the mouse think it was about to escape, before sharp claws seized the helpless creature again. It must have been all just the grand finale of his manipulation of her. Oh, it had been splendidly played! The pathos of the weeping monster joining the two lovers' hands together as they stood before him, the spectacle of his noble sacrifice at the last moment! How very…operatic. No wonder it had worked so well on Christine. It was just the sort of thing that did, and Erik must have known that all too well. All that had been lacking had been the remorseful villain's dramatic suicide at the end, and so he had supplied that too – but only a sham of it, enough to bring Christine flying back to him, not to actually cause his own death. That had not been part of the master puppeteer's plan. Oh yes, Erik was very clever indeed, thought Raoul furiously.

What a stunningly effective ploy, to make her compassion overwhelm her and trick her into thinking she had come back of her own accord. It had been the final nail in the coffin of her chance at freedom. And it had freed Erik to do anything he pleased to her, in the guise of "husband." Christine was a good and obedient girl; she would do as her husband bid her. And now she was going to suffer the consequences of Erik's depraved fixation on her. He had stolen not only her mind and her freedom, but her honour as well, all to sate his own foul lusts.

Raoul clenched his jaw, thinking of what Erik had done to a pure and virtuous woman. Her life could never return to what it once had been, no matter what happened now, and Erik deserved to die for his crimes. A gun might be the safest option, assuming that Raoul could fire it before Erik got a chance to use his lasso. Raoul was an excellent shot; if he used his best pistol, perhaps he could get it off from far enough away to be safe from that cursed, unnatural weapon. Erik was flesh and blood, Raoul knew that now; a bullet straight through his wicked heart would surely take care of him. But it would be a matter of careful planning and timing. Raoul must keep his wits about him and master his emotions, when the decisive moment came. He would have to keep a clear head, if this were to work. The least hesitation, the least miscalculation, and it would be Raoul who fell dead at his enemy's feet, and not Erik. And then Christine would be utterly alone in the world, with no one at all to save her.

The would-be white knight went on walking, heading back to the de Chagny townhouse as fast as he could, thinking hard. It was a stroke of luck that the two of them were moving out of the Opera House. Christine was reachable now. And if she resisted again, when Raoul came to take her away…well, she'd outright told him that he was to ignore any protestations she made, hadn't she? What more permission did he need, especially when he was intelligent and compassionate enough to see how terrible her situation was? And yet she claimed she wanted to be married to Erik! Clearly not. That was just Erik's control over her talking, and Raoul would take no notice of it, just as she had instructed him to do. Once he got her away from her captor, her reason would return, and oh, how grateful she would be to her rescuer after Raoul had killed Erik for her! The little Vicomte spent the rest of the time it took him to walk home caught up in a reverie, thinking of how beautiful her eyes would be as she thanked him, and how much more she would love him now, and never think of any other. It would be so satisfying to be the victor, to take her gently in his arms and see the touching relief on her face, and her pretty amazement at his bravery in saving her. She would think him the greatest hero in the world, and then she would be his wife. The child, if it lived, could be placed in a foster home; Christine would know that it was cared for, but would not have to look upon its face, which she would surely never want to do, as it would remind her of the horrors she had suffered. And it might well inherit its sire's defect; who knew? She would bear Raoul normal children, and forget about that one.

And the plan slowly grew in his mind.

O-O-O O-O-O