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3. Past the Point of No Return . . .
"Wildly my mind beats against you . . . but the soul obeys . . . "
Raoul stood at the railing, staring out over the grey sea, wondering what on Earth possessed him to do what he was doing. The winds blew furiously around him, and the waves seemed angry as they tour at the boat. He knew they were perfectly safe – the boat to France was large enough to sustain the mild beating it received from the sea, but the sea seemed to reflect his mood.
Somehow he had been persuaded to take Christine to Paris with him.
He had only returned to London three days earlier and he was already returning to where he had left. But he knew that he had to. His father had died the week before, and Raoul knew that he couldn't leave his mother alone for long . . . she had been distraught when he had left her. But he had had to leave – he had already been away from home for a month.
He hadn't really accepted that his father was dead. He had been expecting to fly into a fit of rage and grief . . . but he had just nodded silently when the doctor told him. Perhaps the rage was yet to come . . . perhaps it was all yet to sink in . . . he didn't know how to react to it. He had never lost someone that he loved so dearly.
He had returned to his house in London expecting to find his wife in bed, pale and weak, unable to get up or do anything. But she had been at the door to welcome him home . . . she had laughed and kissed him lightly on the cheek as if she had never been so terribly ill as she had been . . .
The next couple of days had gone by very quickly. Christine had insisted that she had recovered greatly since he had left and even Lucy had supported her story and even offered to join them in Paris to make sure that Christine remained well. Whenever he had questioned Martha about it she had tried to change the subject. Christine certainly did look much better . . . but he could tell that she had not fully recovered. She still seemed constantly tired and she would wake up pale, and he would think that everything else had merely been a dream, but then she would rise and act as if she never felt better.
Of course he was happy that she was recovering . . . but part of him knew that she was not being entirely truthful with him. And it worried him. Was she lying to him so that she might return to Paris? Why? She had insisted that she only wished to accompany him because he would need her following his father's death. She claimed that she also longed to see her old friend, Meg Giry, whom she hadn't seen since the premier of that monster's opera . . . but he didn't know what to think.
He was terrified that he would somehow lose here . . . that she'd been swallowed up by a darkness that neither of them could fight. He knew that the creature – her 'Angel' – had escaped that night, Meg Giry had told him that. The mob hadn't killed him as Raoul had hoped . . .
"But he let her go . . . surely that means something?" Little Meg had written to him, shortly after they had fled the country.
But he knew that it meant nothing. He didn't know what that creature had been playing at that night, but all Raoul could think of was that he had killed all those people . . . and had almost taken Christine from him forever. He still felt the burning of the Punjab Lasso around his neck . . . and saw the monster clutching his Christine to his side as she fought him off. Those images plagued his mind every day . . . but the image that filled him with horror constantly was that of Christine kissing that inhumane beast.
He knew that she had only done it to save him . . . he would have been strangled to death otherwise . . . but it still filled him with such a loathing that it made him feel ill. The thought of those deformed lips on Christine's perfect ones filled him with such a rage that he thought it would utterly consume him. That monster did not deserve human love . . . and Raoul knew that if they ever crossed paths again, only Raoul would come out alive. He would kill him without a second thought. He would have done that night had he had a sword . . . but he had to escape with Christine as quickly as possible. He needed to get her away from the Opera Populaire . . . he needed to get her out of the country itself. He couldn't imagine what torments that thing had put her through . . .
Raoul pulled his coat around him tighter and turned away from the sea towards their private cabin, where Christine was taking a nap while Lucy kept an eye one here. He didn't know what awaited them in Paris, but all he knew was that he had to keep watch over Christine at all times . . . he wouldn't let anyone or anything take her away from him.
Christine wiped a tear from her frozen cheek as she sat on the snow-covered step leading up to the mausoleum. She felt the coldness bite at her and she pulled her cloak tighter around her shivering body. She knew that she was there for a reason but she couldn't remember it . . . all she knew was that she missed someone with such a longing that her heart physically hurt . . .
She stared around at the vast cemetery that she sat in. The faces of the stone angels gave no comfort to her – they were cold and unyielding, staring down at her with no love in their eyes.
In the corner of her eye she caught sight of a small, but warm light appearing in the closed mausoleum above her. She turned her head towards it and slowly stood, mesmerized by the orange glow. What was it that had lit this fire? Had it been one of the angels? But they had seemed so cold before . . . their had been no warmth in their gaze . . .
Suddenly she smiled to herself and mounted the first step. She knew who it was . . . it was the person that she was here to find . . . the person that she had missed so much that she thought that she would burst with the pain . . .
She saw the figure appear out of the darkness of the tomb, holding a hand out towards her . . . beckoning her to him. Some part of her of her was telling her that it was wrong, that she should be running instead of going towards him . . .
"Wildly my mind beats against you . . . yet the soul obeys . . .
Angel of Music, I denied you . . . turning from true beauty . . . "
A soft voice from within the tomb seemed to answer her as she laid her bare hands against the cold railings that stood before her . . .
"Christine . . . Christine . . . "
She was there, there was no need to call her anymore . . . she had answered.
"Christine . . . "
Why do you call my name when I am here? Why do you not open these gates so that I might reach you? She thought wildly, reaching a hand through, trying desperately to reach his . . .
"Christine . . . Christine . . ."
"Come to me strange angel!" She screamed, rattling the iron bars.
"Christ-"
"-ine! Christine, please wake up!"
Christine's eyes flew open as she sat up in bed and tried to struggle free of the arms that were locked around her. She beat her clenched fists weakly against the chest of the person who held her, not even bothering to see who it was.
"Christine, please! Please calm down . . . it was only a dream . . . just a bad dream!" Raoul shouted, holding her back from him by the shoulders so that he might look at her properly.
She stopped fighting and looked into her husband's face, only realising who it was for the first time. What had happened . . . she had been in the cemetery only moments before . . . and she hadn't been reaching for Raoul's arms . . . how had she ended up in his embrace?
Breathing deeply she looked around. She was in a small, but comfortable looking room and the sound of the wind seemed to be everywhere. Lucy stood in the corner of the room with both fear and worry in her eyes, wringing her hands together in a gesture of desperation.
Christine felt warmth prickle in her eyes. She was on the boat to France . . . not in the cemetery. She was with Raoul . . . not with him. But the dream had been so terribly real . . . she could still almost feel the bitter cold against her skin, even though the room that she was in was warm.
She looked into Raoul's face, etched with concern.
"What happened . . . how did you know to wake me?" She whispered.
Raoul sighed and turned to Lucy who still stood shaking in the corner and then turned back to Christine.
"Lucy called me in. I had been outside on the deck and she came out to tell me that you were . . . well . . . " he looked away, uncomfortably, as if he was embarrassed.
Christine firmly grabbed his shoulder and made him turn back towards her.
"What? What was I doing, Raoul?"
She could see that even though he was worried for her, he was angry too. His shoulders were tense and his face was hard. He took a deep breath and stood up. "You were singing in your sleep, Christine."
She stared at him in disbelief, who on Earth sang in their sleep? "Singing? But Raoul . . . I haven't sung since-"
She stopped herself from continuing in front of Lucy. The girl didn't know of Christine's past in the Opera Populaire and she wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible.
"I know, Christine, but you were. You were singing as if you were awake. I couldn't believe it when I came in . . . but you were. And neither of us could wake you . . . we kept calling and calling your name . . . "
Why do you call my name when I am here? It hadn't been who she had thought it had been.
" . . . and then your singing turned to screaming . . . and then we finally managed to wake you . . . "
He was looking at her, trying to analyse her expression, but she was looking away from him, deep in confused thought.
"You sounded so desperate, Christine . . . and do you know who you were calling for?" He whispered, his voice drenched with bitterness.
Oh God, Christine thought, he knows as well as I do who it was I was calling out for . . .
When she didn't answer, he continued. "You were calling out for you Angel of Music . . ."
She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself down. What could she do? Should she tell him that she hated having these dreams - that they dug up memories that she wanted nothing more than to bury for good? Should she tell him that the dreams plagued her night and day . . . that she was going to Paris to find a way to stop them?
No, of course she couldn't. He'd never accept it.
She opened her eyes and tried to mask any sign of regret on her face. She shook her head and placed her hand to her forehead in a gesture of clear desperation and confusion.
"I have no idea what you are talking about, Raoul . . . I can't even remember what I was dreaming about . . . it's all just blank . . ." she lied, praying that Raoul couldn't tell.
He stared down at her. She could see hurt flash in his eyes . . . he knew that she was lying. She bowed her head and took a deep breath.
"I can't remember Raoul . . . it's all so confusing . . ." she continued, trying to suppress the tears that welled in her eyes. "Don't look at me that way, Raoul . . . you look at me as if you don't know me."
He stood right beside her now, leaning over her ominously. She looked down, not daring to keep his gaze.
"I don't know you at the moment, Christine . . ." he whispered.
A sob rose in her throat at this remark. She had never wanted this . . . she didn't want to hurt him . . . but she had to stop these dreams . . . she had to.
When she didn't answer he turned away and walked swiftly towards the door. Christine's body shook as the tears began to fall freely down her cheeks. Just as he reached the door he turned to face her, his face and voice emotionless.
"When we reach France I am going to send you and Lucy on the next hip back to England . . . you are obviously not ready for this journey."
Christine leapt out off the bed and made towards her husband, almost stumbling in her hurry. He tried to leave but she grasped his arm firmly and made him look at her.
She must have looked a state. Tears still flowed from her tired eyes and she could tell that her hair was in no way tidy, but she didn't care – she had to make him understand.
"No, Raoul, no . . . you are not going to send me back. Not now, not after we are so close . . . I-"
"So close to what, Christine? Tell me that! You seem to be very anxious to reach Paris . . . but why?" He replied, shouting this time. Now he was the one gripping Christine by the arms.
She looked up at him in despair. Should she continue to lie to him? She wasn't completely lying . . . perhaps it was time to end the deceit.
No, she thought, he'd send me home straight away. I can't let that happen.
She shook her head and pulled herself away from him. She slowly went to go and sit back down on the small bed.
"I want to be there for you, Raoul . . . you shouldn't be alone." She hated herself . . . but what she was saying was true – that must make up for the lies, surely?
He just stared at her, no expression on his face revealing what he was thinking.
"That may be so, Christine, but whatever else you have planned - I will not let it happen. I don't know what's going on but once we are in Paris you will have no chance to go and visit anyone . . . I will not risk losing you again."
"I don't know what you are talking about, Raoul! I-"
"I will not let you go and see him! Not after all we've been through!" He was next to her again when he said this, shouting down at her as she cowered beneath him.
She just stared up at him, tears streaming down her face. All this time Lucy had been standing in the corner, but now she was making towards the couple, obviously scared that Christine was in danger.
"Sir, please! She is not up to this-"
"Thank you, Lucy, but I am done here . . . I will leave my wife to her rest."
And with that he turned round and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
"Raoul! Raoul, please . . . you must understand . . ." Christine sobbed, burying her face in her hands.
Part of her thought she should go straight back to London and forget everything . . . this was all too hard. But she knew she could never forget . . . she had to go on . . .
"Wildly my mind beats against you . . . but the soul obeys . . . "
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