Chapter 82 Lamentation
To even think about sleeping was a waste of his time. He could, of course, go back to his home and steadily become as drunk as Emilie was determined to get that night, but there was no way in hell he'd be incapacitated while the Vicomte was still walking around above him. Erik changed from his costume into his usual clothes and added a heavy cloak, finding he no longer had the heart to parade as Red Death amongst them all, no matter how much more that 'look' would have terrified anybody he came into contact with as he moved again to the top floors of the Opera House.
He did, however, continue wearing his sword. If de Chagny had taken to carrying one around like some frustrated pirate, then he was determined to do the same. There was no way on earth he'd ever be unprepared if he happened to come upon the fool on his own; even if the Vicomte's untimely death would instantly be attributed to him. A fact, no doubt, that Emilie would immediately make known to the local Police. The thought of his own hanging for that particular crime filled him with nothing but satisfaction; for at least he'd die knowing he'd taken the Vicomte to the grave with him. Even if that would mean leaving Christine completely alone.
He stalked determinedly down the corridor that ran alongside her dormitory and slowed once he neared the few open windows. There was an inexplicable need within him simply to hear her breathe. He may be at the cusp of losing her forever, but he couldn't deny himself every opportunity to be near her, while she still remained in the Opera House.
He settled down quietly against the wall underneath her window, pulling his cloak around him; shielding himself from the cold winds whipping along the passageway. 'How precious,' he thought bitterly. Christine had her Vicomte on one side, while he was on the other. Such devotion from her fiancé would be quite touching, if it wasn't him that de Chagny was protecting her from.
Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes and listened. He sorted through the faint rustlings, coughs and exhalations of air until he pinpointed hers in his mind. His eyes opened. She wasn't asleep either. Every other girl around her was either already deep within their dreams, or just about to fall. But even though she was still, it was almost as if he could feel her heart racing as her breath came in quick gasps.
At least she wasn't crying, thank God. He couldn't have borne being responsible for any more of her tears, as much as he deserved that pain, after humiliating and hurting her - both physically and mentally - that night. If he could have done it silently, he would have dashed his head against the bricks to take away the anguish his own stupidity had caused. To think he'd marked the back of her neck - perhaps even cut her skin? He hung his head in shame.
It was no wonder she sought the safety and security of the Vicomte's arms. For what a wholly more suitable husband he would be. He doubted de Chagny had ever raised his voice in his life. Possibly not even as a child. And even though he'd been ready to fight that night for Christine's honour, Erik knew that same hand would never be raised against Christine. Her life with him would be steady and peaceful.
And though his mind raged at the thought, he knew that was what she deserved. A life of comfort and privilege with her predictable and reliable Vicomte. Yet his heart would never stop fighting against that outcome.
He looked up suddenly towards the grated window. She was moving. Her bed creaked softly as she stood from it and he heard her footsteps go across the room, away from him. Leaping up from the ground, he looked into the dormitory through the window as she went quietly out of the door. He just had time to notice the Vicomte was deeply asleep in his chair at the top of the dormitory stairs, before she silently shut the door behind her.
Where was she going? Was she about to leave with de Chagny now? Did she go to him to perhaps wake him and - his stomach churned - continue the nightly liaisons between them that had been occurring the whole three months she'd been away?
He raced down the corridor. Even if his latter thought proved to be the case and the next time he saw her she'd be making love to another man, he couldn't stop himself from following her every move.
-oo000oo-
Christine let go of the breath she'd been holding as she turned from the dormitory steps and walked quickly through to the back of the Opera House. She hadn't woken Raoul, thank God for small mercies. She could well imagine what he'd say and do, if he knew where she was going. He may not intend it, but his idea of love was suffocating her. That he'd positioned himself outside of her dormitory for the entire night was infuriating. Had his intention been not only to stop anyone coming into her room, but to stop her going out as well? She fumed at the thought. She'd hoped to be free of him once she'd returned, now he held her even tighter in his fingers, threatening to crush her completely.
Clutching her blanket closer to her, she stepped out of the corridor into the warmth of the stables. The sun was on the cusp of rising and she knew there'd already be workers around who could help her. She wanted to get away from him, to breathe freely, to have time to think what on earth she could do next. If he intended to take her to the Dechanet estate again that morning, it would be last free moment she may ever have.
Without her Angel, there was nowhere left to turn. She'd thought he might try and come for her in the night, yet he hadn't appeared. Didn't he know how much she'd missed him? How much she needed him? Hearing his voice again, feeling his presence around her, it had been all she'd thought of on the journey back to Paris. Had all that hope been for nothing?
Catching the eye of one of the coachmen, she went up to him and gave him a purse full of coins. All the money she had in the world; but what did that matter now? By tomorrow she would be a Vicomtesse and would never need worry about money again. Where once that would have been a relief, the idea now chilled her. Once she may have dreamed of fortune, but not like this. Not with him.
She left the coachman to count his money while she went back inside to find the costume racks. There were few dresses modest enough for where she was going, but she took one from down and went to change. Her eye was caught by a bunch of red roses, some blooms within the bunch were already withering and dying. She looked upon her fate and knew, now more than ever, that there was no escape.
-oo000oo-
What in the devil's name did she think she was doing? At this time of the morning? And alone? Erik would walk over hot coals before he ever let her be driven by some unwashed - and more importantly unarmed - driver through the streets of Paris. He dispatched the man forthwith, leaving him unconscious in one of the empty stalls. Thankful for the crisp winter morning, he huddled down into his cloak, working quickly to ready the horse's reins, and was in place in the high front seat when Christine came out of the stables and stepped into the coach.
He nodded at her instruction before spurring the horses into life, almost dizzy at the prospects this opportunity afforded him. They could leave now; nobody would ever know. He could take her somewhere far from here, tell Emilie to send her things after the fact. Transfer his money to a local bank; perhaps hire a coach to bring some of his furniture? They could be married that day - she could be within his arms that very night. The images that thought conjured up almost caused him to lose his grip upon the reins. Driving horses was thoroughly different to riding one and he had to concentrate with such precious cargo.
That would be incumbent though, upon her acceptance of his proposal. And he didn't even have a ring to present her with. He fumed silently at his own lack of foresight - but then how could he have guessed such a situation would arise? His heart was light at the thought. He could never have orchestrated anything as glorious as the fact that he now had Christine's fate completely within his own hands, as they sped out across the frosted fields. The sun rose lazily in the distance, as if it wanted to stay within the warmth of its bed for just a moment longer.
Christine couldn't look at the forest they passed through; the bare and blackened branches seemed like nothing more than ice-covered claws reaching out, trying to pull her back from whence she came. To marry Raoul when her soul belonged to another was a far greater sin than anything her Angel had ever done in her name. She was truly damned. For she knew now that she'd ruined the one chance she'd had to prove her love to her Angel. He wouldn't save her from the situation her own immature fear had placed her in. She had no one to blame but herself for her continual betrayals of his love and trust.
If only she'd been able to find him before the ball and make him listen to what she needed to say. She could have explained away Raoul's ring and reassured him that her heart still entirely belonged to only one man - him. Now her whole life would be spent wishing for endless 'if onlys' that would never come true. She'd be married to Raoul before he even gave her a moment to object, she was sure of that. And then he'd take her from Paris forever.
She took a deep breath of the cold air, wanting to wash away the abject misery she felt with its icy crispness. The Saint-Ouen Cemetery loomed large in the distance. How many months had it been since she'd been there? Almost twelve. Yet she felt no guilt at such neglect. She knew her father had never wanted her to mourn him as she had or spend her time pining for him on the steps of his mausoleum. She sought his spirit that morning to help give her the strength to leave. Raoul had forbidden her to ever set foot in the Opera Chapel again, so she went to the only other place that was a sanctuary to her – her father's grave.
The coach pulled to a stop outside the cemetery gates. Christine picked up the bouquet of flowers she'd brought with her and thanked the driver. "Could you return for me in an hour, please?" she asked. "I wish to be alone until then."
The man merely nodded his head at her request, before moving off.
She went slowly through the gates. She could have asked the coachman to use the south entrance, so much nearer to her father's grave, but she wanted time to walk through the silence of snow, as it had begun to softly fall. It was the first in the longest time that she was completely alone, and she intended to relish it for as long as the world allowed. Yet how could she hope the peace of these aging graves could lead to peace in her tormented heart?
Hearing bells in the distance chiming the early hour, she realised that it was because she'd been so immersed in her grief for her father that she'd spent so much time in the Opera Chapel. Which, in turn, had led to her finding her Angel.
Each man in her life, her father, her Angel and Raoul were all linked by one common thread apart from herself - The Angel of Music. Her father had told the stories that Raoul had believed, when he'd been a child. And her Angel himself had become the embodiment of the spirit she'd requested. And so much more. Simple fate alone had opened the door to her heart. An answered prayer of a frightened child had shown her to a man worthy of love. Perhaps that was what her father had intended all along? Was her Angel a part of her destiny that her father had always intended?
She continued her slow walk through the gravestones and looming statues, testament to the love still held for people who'd gone long before. Lost in misery she, again, wished for if only - if only her father had still been alive, he could have seen that Raoul was not the man she should be marrying. But if he'd still been alive, would she have even met her Angel? Would she ever have known of the man who'd lived alone in darkness beneath her feet all these years?
To think of a life without him now was more than she could bear. But would he even care? She shivered as she remembered the flash of hatred in his eyes as he'd torn Raoul's ring from her. Her soul craved the love he'd freely given to her before. And if he still felt any of that love, how it must have crucified him to believe that she loved Raoul and actually wanted to be his wife. Was that why he'd turned his anger on her, yet again? To mask the pain she herself had caused?
If only she hadn't run like a frightened child into Raoul's arms that fateful night. If only she'd refused his offers of protection and marriage. But she hadn't. The flare of anger at her own stupidity was again extinguished by overwhelming despair. It would be so easy to be angry at Raoul, but his heart was the most innocent of them all. He thought he was marrying a woman who loved him as wholly as he loved her. He deserved the happiness he wanted the years ahead to bring them both. But she knew now that what he needed was not something she could ever hope to give him.
The endless years stretched out before her. Her life had been wasted in misery before her Angel had found her and would be again, now that she'd lost him.
She could no more change the past than she could her future. Her father had been torn away from her just as her Angel was about to be torn away from her - Raoul would see to that. There was nobody left to rescue her. Only her Angel might have taken that chance, and now he no longer cared. Couldn't he somehow hear her prayer? Couldn't he forgive her mistakes as she forgave his own?
