Disclaimer: Philippe is neglected.  So no one will object if I take him, right?  Right?  Oh, fine – he does not belong officially to me.  But his heart is mine!        

"All right," said the woman in black.  Five minutes later, she and Philippe were standing on the shores of the hidden underground lake where the Phantom resided.  "I can go no further."

"Neither can I," Philippe pointed out, "without a boat." 

"There is a boat," said the woman, rolling her eyes, and disappeared back into the darkness of the underground.

"Oh," said Philippe, feeling sheepish, and stepped into the small boat.  He was prepared to row, but the boat immediately started to propel itself across the lake in a vaguely mystic fashion.

"Well, this is convenient," said Philippe, lowering himself down on the seat with a sigh.  There was a loud crack.  Philippe winced and rose again, looking down.  Apparently he'd broken the Phantom's –

"Fishing rod?" he said aloud.  Well, he supposed it made sense – men were men the world over, and there were very few men he'd ever met who didn't enjoy some fishing now and then.

"All right, you'll pay for that," said a mysterious voice out of the darkness.  "In cash, preferably.  That was state-of-the-art."

Philippe was getting very sick of mysterious voices.  "If that's the Phantom of the Opera," he called out, "then you already owe me for leaving me with the tenor's body.  So we're even."

"But you came down in order to defeat me," the Phantom pointed out.  Underneath, Philippe felt the boat hit the far shore and slide to a halt.  Then it started to move out again; he got out hastily, before he could be carried all the way back, and tripped over his own shoe.  The Phantom snickered.

"Oh, shut up," said Philippe wearily, "and use your head for a minute, will you?  Honestly, you're as bad as Raoul.  If I wanted to kill you, I'd have waited for the angry mob, wouldn't I?   I'm just here to get my brother back.  You can keep Christine for all I care – as a matter of fact, please do."

The Phantom's voice sounded quite puzzled.  "You don't want to rescue Christine?"

"Why on earth should I care about Christine?  Obsessively operatic showgirls with father fixations really aren't my cup of tea, thanks all the same.  You have to understand – with the echoes in the de Chagny manor, the slightest noise is magnified tenfold."  Philippe shuddered expressively.  "It's hard enough getting work done with Raoul around randomly singing, and he's a tenor. I dread to think what will happen with a soprano on the loose – the only thing worse would be if Raoul fell in love with Carlotta."

"I happen to like Christine's singing," said the Phantom, rather huffily.

That, thought Philippe, was the understatement of the century.  "Fine," he said aloud.  "Each to his own.  I just don't want her living with me."

The Phantom sighed and, finally, stepped out into the open.  Philippe relaxed slightly.  "Well, as it happens, you're already too late."

Philippe stiffened.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean you arrived a little behind schedule, lordling; I already let Christine go with Raoul, so it looks like you're going to be stuck with her."

Philippe cursed briefly and creatively.  There were advantages to having a brother who was a sailor; even Raoul couldn't help picking a few things up.

"Oh, by the way," added the Phantom casually, "I told your brother you were dead.  I hope you don't mind?"

Philippe stopped cursing and stared at the Phantom.  "Why on earth would you do that?"

"It seemed to upset him, and I was rather trying to upset him at the time."  The Phantom shrugged.  "I didn't think it would matter much – I was expecting him to be dead soon in any case."

"Well, you could have been more considerate," said Philippe crossly.  "Now he's probably gone home and started throwing away all the family money on an elaborate funeral ceremony that's completely pointless and that we can't afford anyway, and – oh, God, he's going to buy me a pink casket, I can tell -"

"Well, you'd better run along and tell him not to," said the Phantom, with a sigh.  "The angry mob's going to be here any minute to kill me, in any case."

Philippe blinked.  "And you're just going to let them?"

"Why not?  Christine's gone; what else have I got to live for?"  The Phantom sighed again.  "They think I'm a monster up there; my operatic career's finished before it's even begun, thanks to the entire Piangi business . . ."

"Yes, and I've still got a score to settle with you about that," said Philippe, "but that's besides the point.  You're being ridiculous in true operatic style.  There are dozens of things you can do besides die.  Raoul's been talking about your tortured genius for ages – I've always wondered why you didn't go into law school, actually."

The Phantom's brow furrowed.  "Law school?"

"Yes, of course!"  Philippe was beginning to warm to his subject.  "I trained as a lawyer before our father died; it's always been sort of a family tradition, ever since Grandfather Marius' time.  Of course, I had to give it all up when I inherited the de Chagny estate, but I can tell you now, it's a wonderful career.  I often wish I could go back -"

"Wait a minute – I just had a flash of that tortured genius," the Phantom interrupted. "You needn't take up the reins of the de Chagny estate again, you know.  Raoul and Christine think you're dead – there's no reason you couldn't go back to law -"  He grinned.  "You could come with me!  We could set up as a pair of traveling lawyers, making our living from town to town throughout Europe -"

Philippe was tempted to dismiss the plan as mad.  Slowly, however, with each new word, he found himself considering it more and more in earnest.  Did he really want to return to mastery of the de Chagny estates?  To accounts and an irate butler, to cooing servants and a rather frighteningly silly brother and a soprano echoing through the ancient halls for the rest of his life?  He winced.  Surely that was a fate worse than death.  And, after all, why shouldn't he go with the Phantom?  He had no personal enmity against him; in fact, they had an interest in common, in that neither of them particularly wanted to see Christine with Raoul . . .

"But you must decide now," continued the Phantom earnestly.  "Don't you hear the angry mob?"

And, indeed, faint strains of "Death to the Phantom!" and "Revenge for Piangi!", as well as a rather incongruous "I want my dress back, you bastard!" were drifting across the underground lake.

Philippe quirked an eyebrow.  "I thought my brother was the only one around here who wore other people's dresses."

"Oh," said the Phantom, slightly embarrassed, "that would be Meg Giry; I . . . erm . . . borrowed hers to make my costume for the masquerade."  Hastily, he added, "but that's besides the point.  Will you come with me and live the life of a traveling lawyer, free from worry and hardship and sopranos whose names begin with C?"

For once in his life, Philippe threw caution to the winds.  After all, what, really, did he have to lose? 

He smiled at the Phantom.  "I think," he said, "that this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."