A/N:  Still working on revising this story, so if this and the next chapter don't seem to tie in at the moment then please bear with me, all will soon be sorted!!

Don Juan And What Followed

"Cchhhrrriissstine, oh my, I can hardly believe it, you're here, and on the very day they've finally found HIM, you're back!".
A flourish of movement and colour bombarded Christine and forced her mind back to the present, all thoughts of Erik scattered in the face of reality once more.

She silently reprimanded herself for being so unguarded and absent minded as to let a moment's nostalgia deter her from maintaining her anonymous air. She was, however, pleased that Meg had been the one to discover her. She was also silently grateful that her old friend seemed willing to overlook the fact that for two whole years she had never once contacted her. She doubted that everyone would be as forgiving as Meg, and so appreciated her friend all the more.

Two years had barely touched Meg; she was still young looking, and pretty in her own way, but with an air of experience that belied her youthful appearance.
Her face was a picture of unguarded delight at happening upon her old friend again, and she flew forward, enveloping the startled Christine in a warm embrace that more than made up for what they had not shared in the two years of her absence. Finally the two girls separated.
"Meg, oh, I'm so pleased you're here, I'm so sorry for not contacting you sooner, I was so stupid" Christine blurted, so overjoyed that her friend had not turned against her after her hasty departure.
For all the relief that ran through her Christine was vaguely puzzled and uneasy at Meg's ominous mention of 'HIM'. Perceiving that the younger girl was eager to tell her something she prompted her to elaborate, hoping but not quite believing that she wasn't about to broach the subject that Christine herself dared not.

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It was a bleak fact that had plagued her day and night; that she had been the cause of Erik's almost certain demise. Mulling it over in her mind until she had completely convinced herself she was right, she was consumed as usual by an immense sense of guilt. Guilt so strong that it had compelled her to return to the opera to seek out the truth once and for all.

"Christine, I don't mean to alarm you but I'm not sure you should be here, I mean, of course you should be here, I'm so happy to see you, but if they know you're back, they may drag you into this. After all, you're the only one who really knew him, the only one who would know for sure. Just think, the reign of terror finally closed forever." Meg gabbled, dramatic accentuation on her final words, as she herded Christine along dismal, labyrinthine corridors towards her old dressing room, trying to gain as much privacy as she could, and as much time to relate recent events to her long-absent friend.

Christine flooded with horror as she caught snatches of Meg's excited chatter, and the colour drained from her face, leaving her pasty white, the perfect shadow of her former self.

Overcome by weakness she sought the chair by the dressing table, trying to make sense of a thousand emotions the hastily spoken words evoked.
"Meg, slow down, please, tell me again, and tell me slowly, but, most importantly of all, tell me this isn't something to do with what happened here two years ago!" Christine grasped her friend's arm to still her for only a few minutes, still grappling with the possibility that Erik was the cause of this tumult.
Meg took the other seat, startled at the ethereal glaze in Christine's gaping eyes.  She sensed the despair that touched her friend, and longed to alleviate the pain as much as possible.
"Do forgive me, talking away as though you never left, you know what I'm like" Meg paused for a moment, rolling her eyes in self-derision before, with a decisive glance she began her narrative of all that had happened in the last two years.

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The two friends remained engrossed in reminiscing conversation deep into the night. Christine absorbed all that Meg told her with growing horror and wonder.  She was astounded that, although she'd followed progress at the opera house there was so much that until now, she could never have imagined.

The mob had gained entrance to the underground lair just as she and Raoul fled in Erik's boat.
The Phantom, living up his name to the bitter end, seemingly vanished without a trace, eluding capture and leaving several hundred men anxious for retribution.
Eager to vent their anger, they had ransacked the lair that had harboured their nemesis in secret for too long.

So vigorous had they been in their wilful act of destruction that they'd all but taken the place apart, the result being that for some time afterwards the foundations of the whole opera house had been deemed unsafe. Rock falls had rendered the cellars and basements of the grand building useless; they'd been blocked off entirely.
The managers had been keen to overlook this for a length of time, but finally, yet another freak rock fall claimed the lives of many of the men who'd worked in various capacities below the opera house. There was, inevitably, a public outcry.

The Opera Populaire faced closure; word of the untimely deaths circulated freely and ticket sales plummeted. It seemed to mark the beginning of the end, especially after the scandal surrounding the Opera Ghost.  People often remarked that visiting the opera was taking your life in your hands, and, should you chance it, to avoid taking a seat too near to the chandeliers. 
The managers were forced to admit that whatever the cost, repair work must be carried out and the battle commenced to save the rapidly failing theatre. The only realistic way to achieve suitable levels of safety was to close the theatre while work progressed, and it was with heavy hearts and long faces that the managers announced their intentions to the sea of employees, wondering whether the Opera Ghost was indeed laughing at them from some secret and unknown place, having finally exacted the revenge that he'd always seemed to believe he was entitled to.

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Three long, tedious months later the revamped Opera Populaire threw open it's doors once more to an inquisitive public.
Despite all that had happened people were eager to experience the 'all new' opera for themselves, and it was with delight the managers welcomed hoards of enthusiastic theatregoers. French Aristocracy travelled from far and wide as never before. The performers played constantly to a full house.  It would appear that the gamble had paid off.

Common gossip soon tired of the reinvented, thriving new theatre; success is rarely relished by those who indulge in idle chat, and attention once more returned to speculation the old Opera Ghost. 

Since the infamous Don Juan, and all that followed, nothing had been seen or heard of him, and it became popular belief that he had died in solitary desolation of a broken heart at the loss of the young ingénue whose mind and soul he had failed to capture.
It was through such gossip that the Phantom was transformed from a terrifying monster with no heart or soul into a tragic, romantic figure of all that was wrong and unfeeling in relationships of the day. That anyone could drive someone to death through love seemed preposterous.
In truth, people were capricious, ready to accept the latest piece of chitchat even if it was completely opposed to yesterday's speculation.
However, the Opera Populaire certainly benefited from the widespread change of opinion. People flocked into the opera house, driven by inquisitiveness possibly more than a love of the theatre; they wanted to see the place that the tragic Phantom had called home.

And so the opera, by fair means or foul, had been restored to its former social status. Life resumed its old and familiar pace and it appeared that the trying and difficult times could finally be laid to rest.

How naïve to tempt fate by believing that anything would ever be normal again.