Notes: There's a stunning piece of artwork that goes with this chapter that is up as a Gift with this story on AO3. The artist is amazing! Go check it out. :)
Chapter 76 Inexorable
'Heaven couldn't possibly contain a joy such as this,' Raoul thought as he waltzed Christine around the room. The ball was a little over half-way through, and they'd been in each other's arms the entire night. With only short breaks to refresh themselves with a glass or two of punch and perhaps a bite to eat, they'd only missed participating in one dance so far.
Christine no longer had to concentrate on counting out movements in her head as she danced. It had only taken her a few days to learn all the dances that Isabelle knew and for the rest of the time she'd helped coach Adele, who didn't seem to have the patience or ability to learn as she herself did. She was sure she hadn't put a foot wrong all night, but she couldn't possibly be stared at more if she'd brought a servant to dance with, and not her finance.
Beatrice had been right of course; both she and Isabelle were under intense scrutiny. Isabelle though, showed nothing of the nerves she might be feeling. She seemed to move effortlessly through the crowd, assuring all her guests were properly attended too, looking relaxed and resplendent in a light gold gown, holding everybody in the palm of her hand. Philippe was constantly at her side, unable to tear his eyes away from her, his mere presence commanding the attention of all in the room.
So instead, their scorn was heaped upon Christine and the animosity towards her was palpable. Isabelle was managing to turn around any less-than-kind comment and come out smiling, winning people over with the guileless goodness of her nature. But Christine was a common upstart who had snatched Philippe's hugely eligible brother right out from under their noses, a fact that in their eyes was unforgivable.
There were many turning their disappointment to vitriol, gossiping behind gloved hands and heavily decorated fans at the common-looking girl in Raoul's arms. He was oblivious to any comments whispered as they went by, but Christine couldn't miss the unbridled hatred in their narrowed eyes, as they looked her up and down with complete contempt.
How she longed for the adoration of the stage then, when all the faces looking up at her had been filled with admiration and delight. If only Raoul would ask even one of their daughters to dance, but her repeated requests for him to do so were met with his usual dismissive chuckle, as if the very thought was absurd.
She'd tried not to embarrass him, learning the dances faithfully, watching those around her to learn any etiquette she might be missing and using Raoul's money yet again to order a deep sapphire gown. She knew she looked the part, but her act could not fool these caviling strangers. And she was so very tired of acting. She longed for the Opera House with every fibre of her being then, where she could always disappear if she needed to. Or where any attention was a spotlight or applause, not this harsh, unforgiving judgement.
As they finished a particularly energetic polka, Christine asked if she might take some air. With Raoul off looking for drinks to refresh them both, she extricated herself quickly from the crowd and went through to the back of the house and out onto the terrace.
The night air enveloped her immediately, cooling the slight sheen of sweat on her skin. Braziers had been lit at each corner of the terrace that gave out some light, but she couldn't make out the faces of the few entwined couples who were also out there. In deference to their desire for privacy, she walked over to the far side of the terrace, where she stood alone and leaned on the balustrade, looking out into the night.
Far away from the noise of the ballroom, with the terrace doors firmly shut, the only sounds were the quiet giggles and noises made by the amorous couples across from her. She sighed with immense relief and watched the breeze blow some leaves down the terrace steps to her left, hoping that it would take Raoul quite some time to find them drinks and get back to her through the crowds, so that she could enjoy even just a few moments alone.
She put a hand to the bottom of her throat, bending her head in thought, and inadvertently touched the necklace Raoul had presented her with that night, before the ball. It was a string of pearls, with a sapphire pendant in the middle, with earrings to match the set. She'd been stunned by the extravagance of the gift; but now all she could think of were the earrings she'd worn the night of the Gala, for the third act. Her breath caught with guilt when she realised, without a doubt, that her Angel had been the man who'd given her those. And that the jewels she wore now were not the first she'd received from a man.
As the days had passed into weeks and now months, more and more pieces fell into place in her mind. Once she'd unmasked him - she still wanted to cry with impotent rage at herself for doing so – so many of his actions had become clear. Why they met in secret, at the beginning of the day. Why he could never sing for her outside of the Chapel walls. Why he'd never wanted her to see his face. And the more she thought upon him, the more other occurrences became clearer as well. Only moments before, she'd realised he'd given her the jewelry and from her discovery of the painting in his home, she already knew he'd given her the dress.
He made everything perfect for her. She'd told him she wanted to be a star and he gave her the stage. She told him she wanted him to appear before her and he came to her through the mirror. How much that decision must have cost him, knowing that he still wanted to hide from her – and yet he, again, did as she asked.
He even planned their future together and made the wedding dress of her dreams. And all she'd done in return was run from him.
She closed her eyes against the pain; hopelessness and despair washing over her.
"Mlle. Daae?"
Christine whirled around at the voice.
"I'm sorry," the man said, "I didn't mean to startle you."
"It's quite all right," she lied, wondering who, out of all the people she had been introduced to that night, this dark-eyed man before her was.
"My apologies," he said, with a bow. "Oscar Bereton, at your service, Mademoiselle."
She nodded at his introduction, without extending her hand. Something about the man unnerved her, though she couldn't explain why, and she tried to take a small step backwards without him noticing.
"You'll pardon the intrusion, I hope," Oscar smiled, looking her up and down. "But I saw your performance at the Populaire a few months ago, and I was quite enchanted."
Recognition. She hadn't even thought that somebody at the ball would've seen her at the Opera before now. She found it suddenly hard to breathe and looked at him with wide eyes as he advanced slightly towards her.
"Though that was not the first time I'd noticed you there, of course," he said, his voice lowering. "But it was a pleasant surprise to discover that you sing as well as you dance."
"Thank you," she managed. Was it just the fear coursing through her that made it seem as if his body was blocking out all the light from the house behind him, as he moved closer still? She stumbled slightly as her back hit against the balustrade behind her, preventing her from retreating any further.
"I often looked for you backstage," he said, running a finger down her bare arm, his body fully against hers now. "But you were always hiding." He looked down at her breasts, pushed up as they were in her gown, and bit his bottom lip. "Perfect," he said, thickly.
"I - I must," she said, trying to move out from under him. It felt as if he was stealing the air out of her lungs. The memory of Buquet holding her captive behind the costume racks set her heart racing. This man might be dressed finer than Buquet, but his true nature was just as easily revealed.
"And now I find you out here. All alone." His arms went around her waist, pulling her against him. "Perhaps we can take a walk together," he glanced to his left, the gardens below them were in complete darkness. "Somewhere we won't be disturbed."
She began to squirm frantically then. The shock of somebody discovering her hiding place at the Dechanet's was nothing to knowing that this man expected her to be free with her body, simply because she was a performer at the Opera Populaire. She'd seen him look towards the gardens, did he intend to drag her down there, where nobody would see what he might do?
"Like it rough, do you?" he said, quite amused by her ineffectual struggles. He grabbed her wrist and pulled it behind her back, forcing her body back against his. "I'll pay extra if I bruise you, don't worry. Just ask Roxanne how generous I can be."
"Let me go!" she hissed, cringing at the stench of drink upon his breath. She looked frantically around but realised if any of the other couples saw her situation, they'd never believe she needed help to escape him. It would only confirm what they all probably thought of her already.
"Don't play the coquette with me, girl," he growled, his eyes darkening with anger.
She pressed her other hand square against his chest and pushed with all her might.
Oscar took a step back then and laughed in her face. "You really are like Roxanne, aren't you? How delicious."
"Oscar!" Raoul called.
Oh, thank God. Christine clung to the balustrade behind her with both hands, knowing it was the only thing that was keeping her from collapsing with fear and relief.
"I didn't know you were here," Raoul said, coming across the terrace with a broad smile on his face. He handed Christine's drink to her without a second glance at her flushed face and shaking body. "How the devil have you been?"
Oscar let his hand be pumped firmly up and down by Raoul, fixing a smile upon his face. "Very well," he answered calmly. "And you?"
Christine had to stand there while the two friends caught up on the latest news of each other's lives. She tried to sip her drink and steady her nerves, but it felt like poison on her lips. Raoul had noticed nothing untoward as he'd emerged from the house. And yet the careful façade she'd painstakingly built since being there had just been completely shattered.
From the warm, familiar way the two men before her were speaking, it was obvious they were old friends. The idea that she would one day have to welcome Oscar Bereton into her home, as if nothing had just happened between them, made her sick to her stomach. Even as he spoke to Raoul, Oscar's eyes kept flitting back to her, looking over her body with barely disguised hunger.
How could Raoul not notice what he was doing - right in front of his eyes? Why wasn't he protecting her from this man, throwing him off the estate, vowing his revenge? As each minute passed, she felt more vulnerable and exposed. She swallowed back the tears forming in her eyes. Would this be how all of Raoul's friends would view her? Nothing more than a whore, like Roxanne? Would they all think she could service them as she had obviously served others, during her time at the Opera Populaire?
Oscar looked at her again, then very obviously licked his lips and she knew the smirk on his face was not at anything Raoul was saying.
"Please, excuse me," she said, going around Raoul and back towards the house.
"Yes, of course," Raoul answered, absentmindedly.
"A pleasure, Mlle. I assure you," Oscar turned his full attention to her, "one I hope will be repeated, very soon." He bowed again and smiled lasciviously as he straightened, knowing she would understand exactly what he meant. "Perhaps you would permit me to steal you away for a dance of our own in a moment?
"Absolutely," Raoul agreed.
"I fear your fiancé has tried to keep you to himself," Oscar said, smirking insolently. "And we won't permit him to do that forever, will we?"
She looked from Oscar to Raoul frantically, yet Raoul was more interested in his drink and seemed completely oblivious to the threat Oscar was blatantly making. Had he really just agreed to pass her around to his friends as if she were nothing more than a piece of meat? "If you'll excuse me," she said again, feeling sick to her stomach.
She hurried back to the house, trying not to draw attention to her haste, grateful to close the doors to the terrace behind her. Walking through the drawing room, she went into the hallway, but was pressed on all sides by the guests at the ball. The noise was horrendous; the band played on, people shrieked with laughter, men stood in groups, talking loudly and looking her over as she passed. Without the buffer of Raoul beside her women openly sneered and turned away, as if the very sight of her offended them. It felt as if the walls were closing in around her. She pushed through the crowd as politely as she could, desperate to get away before she started to scream.
She went out through the front doors as yet more people arrived, handing their cloaks to the footman standing there. Ducking down to the left, she grabbed hold of her skirts and lifted them up as she was swallowed by the darkness. She fled down the stairs and began to run.
It was a place she'd never dared to set foot in on the estate before now, yet even through the pitch-black night, she knew exactly where it was. She just hoped to God that the door was unlocked. Passing the ornamental rose garden, she turned left when she reached the beginning of the long pergola there and raced underneath it. The twisted vines and crackling leaves that in the daylight had seemed so peaceful, now seemed as if they were reaching out to catch her skirts and hold her captive to terror, as Oscar Bereton just had. She felt bile rise in her throat at the memory of him pressing himself against her and found the extra burst of speed she needed to make her fly through the night, out from under the arbor and down the small slope to the doors she'd been reaching for.
Wrenching them open with a cry, she tumbled into the Dechanet Church and slammed the door shut behind her.
Catching sight of a large plank of wood leaning to the side of the door, she used the last of her strength to heave it into place across the doorway, locking herself inside and the night out. Walking slowly backwards, down between the two rows of pews, her breath still coming in tear-filled gasps, she could not tear her eyes away from the door. Feeling along the edges of the pews with her outstretched hand, she met the last one and sank down into it, then put her head into her hands and broke down completely.
Nothing about being in the church frightened her, even though it was only half lit, with few candles and shadows moving in every corner. What she did fear was that at any moment, Oscar Bereton would burst through the doors and throw her to the floor, to rape her in front of God Himself, without a second thought - or even a moment of guilt. Why hadn't Raoul seen? Why didn't he realise the kind of man his friend was? Why hadn't he protected her - as he always said that he would?
She felt naked, exposed and hopelessly lost as the tears continued to fall. And even in such a place, she could not stop the wicked thought - her Angel would not have let this happen. He would not have let this happen.
He would've known instinctively that she was upset. That Oscar Bereton meant her considerable harm. He would've killed Oscar just as surely as he killed Buquet - and she would have been relieved, she would have been glad! She covered her mouth suddenly, gasping with horror through her tears. How could she have thought something so vile and sinful in a church? How could she wish that her Angel would kill for her again when she already had Buquet's death to answer for?
She must be wicked; she must be damned. Because she couldn't stop wanting it - even knowing where she was.
She couldn't stop wanting him either - to protect her, to love her, to be everything to her that Raoul was not.
No matter how hard she tried she couldn't feel the same way about Raoul as she did for her Angel. Raoul loved her; she knew that without doubt. But her heart was not her own to give to him in return. It already belonged firmly elsewhere. And yet one day soon she'd have to stand up before the eyes of God and promise that she did love only him. And the rest of her life would be a lie. For the rest of her life, she would be alone.
Her voice echoed off the four walls as she gave into her mounting grief until she lifted her head at last and looked up into the face of Jesus, hanging from a cross above the altar. He was carved simply in wood, yet the understanding and acceptance in His eyes made her breath catch in her throat.
She rose slowly from the pew, tears streaked down her upturned face, and went towards the effigy, unable to tear her eyes away from His. She'd never fully understood His sacrifice until that moment. There was pain in His eyes, so very much. And the loneliness of being the only one condemned to such an inevitable fate. And yet through both emotions, there was so much love. Christine put her hands upon the feet of the statue and began to pray.
