I saw her young man the following evening. Once again, unable to sleep, plagued by the demons men often refer to as memories, I draped my cloak over my shoulders, and slipped silently out into the Paris night. Yet, even as I stepped out from the confines of my subterranean home, away from the Opera House and my beloved, I could still sense her, her presence as palpable as the banquette beneath my boots. My senses had always been extraordinarily keen, which was often a blessing, but at times, such as that night, it was to be a curse. As I inhaled the fresh outside air, I also took in another scent. Her perfume had lingered upon the fabric of my cloak, a taunting, yet comforting ghost for the loneliest and vilest of men. Had Christine realized that even this sensory reminder of her caused my soul to suffocate in the prison of my body? All the rage, passion, love, and fear my heart could contain stirred like boiling water. She had completely consumed me. When I tried to compose, to write, to think of anything at all, she was there. Christine Daae had begun to replace even the foundations of my memories, vivid as they were in their violence and repulsion.
"I am only a man," I spoke to myself, making a quiet progress along the Rue de Rivoli, "how much can my soul contain before it destroys me?" I was tired, of life, of waiting for the love that would never come, sustained by only one reason. Breathing and composing if only for the sake of viewing those tender doll's eyes of hers. The blue eyes that seemed to know some sense of pain, and tried to understand. "For her. . .everything for her." It was a promise I made that night, as the wind whirled and whipped under my cloak, causing it to flare out in a wave of velvet trailing behind the click of my boots on the stone. Anything to have her, to make her happy. But, even then, I realized the pursuit and obtaining of her happiness might never hold for me the same mirth.
But, I was learning of love, even then, after years of solitude and violence, that love was not about the one who burned with its overpowering existence. Instead, to love someone was to sacrifice. It was not selfish, did not make demands. I only hoped that I could meet the requirements of loving someone truly, and not allow my own passion and jealousy overcome my resolve. I also knew, that night, as I had all my life, that I had never sacrificed anything of myself easily. I feared, because I had never loved anything or anyone, not even my music, as intensely as I did Christine Daae, that the task at hand- to trust her, to achieve her happiness a any cost, even if it meant my own death- would be nearly impossible.
I felt unworthy in the presence of my own emotions.
"Raoul, you can't leave just yet, you haven't paid for my wine, and that saucy coquette you left in the room upstairs!" A raucous laugh followed, as my attention jerked to the tavern doors not fifty feet in front of me. Immediately, I clung to the darkness of the wall- thankful for my ability to blend into darkness without effort.
Her young man, reeking of alcohol, his shirt half-open, cuffs undone, and belt all but falling from his waist, stumbled outside. His body undulated in a manner common to drunkenness, and his eyes shifted about, looking for the one who'd addressed him. I needn't have worried that he would catch sight of me. He was far too intoxicated to make any recognitions. I doubted, that in his state- he was wobbling back into the tavern, one hand bracing him as it held to the doorframe, the other grasping a half-finished bottle of port- he would be capable of recognizing the unfortunate women who'd given birth to him.
"I'm coming, Louis, just getting a whiff of the night!" His voice slurred, drool coursing unattractively down his too-chiseled chin. I was immediately filled with disgust. "And tell, Jeannette, Marie, whatever her name is, that she'll get her money when I'm done with her for the night." With a sudden burst of energy, he tore into the room, spilling his port as he took the stairs two at a time. Undoubtedly, he was going to finish the evening with some whore. All the better. My darling girl was safe from him tonight. I was safe from his handsome face and its effects upon my sweet unknowing temptress.
It was this event that led my mind to create a vivid picture of what life would inevitably be for Christine if she were to marry the Vicomte de Chagny and his millions. He would woo her with flowers of blushing pink, regale her with praise of her performances-though he knew nothing of music, other than the difference between a piano and a violin, and act the gentleman always. After all, he could play more lustful roles away from the manor home that he would create for them. She was to be his wife, the lovely bauble in a collection of pretty acquisitions that would make him feel more of a man. And like many countesses and other women wed to affluent men, she would one day be set aside for younger mistresses, expected to watch over the children and assume some tiresome hobby such as sewing buttons upon his shirts. For, once she married such a powerful man such as Raoul, there would be no more Opera. To introduce such scandal into the Chagny line would be abhorrent! Materially, she would want for nothing. Though, following the honeymoon, and the birth of the first child, Christine would not be content with the provincial customs of the bourgeoisie. Her soul wanted for more than wealth, and she would come to realize that her childhood amour, had been nothing more than that. A youthful flirtation that held no promises.
But, then, the picture of Raoul and his bride would seem much more appetizing to a beautiful young singer, or any female for that matter, than marriage to a monster who hid under the bowels of a theatre.
What could I offer her? What chance did I have? But, my stubborn soul had never been one to surrender. I had to try to win her love. For if I tried, I was not losing completely. No one can be completely defeated if they love someone. But, they can be broken.