A/N - I can't apologise enough for the ridiculous time lag in my getting this chapter written. I can only plead writer's block and hope that you aren't all too miffed. It's a nice long chapter to make up :) The reason it's so late is that I've been trying to write Christine's reaction and the reaction of those around her (largely Philippe and St Cyr) and it just didn't work.
Ooh - and since writing the last chapter, I've read The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy, and have discovered that St. Cyr was really not a very nice guy; so I've figured out my St. Cyr's ancestry as follows:
Armand rescued the daughter of St. Cyr (the one with whom he was in love) and they got married. My St. Cyr is descended from their line (and is as such related by marriage to Percy and by blood to Marguerite! Yay!) I do realise that names are only passed on through the male side of the family; but this was the best I could come up with!
Oh yes, and Erik's cat's name ... sorry. Not terribly original. I'm just on a bit of a Pimpernel kick at the moment!
Will be impressed if anyone spots the significance of Matthew Carl's name!!
T'eyla Minh - wondered if anyone would spot that ;)
Hugs and lots of love to all my reviewers!!
* * * * * *
Erik had been back in Paris for several days before he plucked up the courage to go to visit Nadir. He knew his friend had probably been frantic with worry in the weeks after his sudden departure from Paris, and that his own curt note from the docks bidding him adieu had probably done little to allay Nadir's anxiety. He knew Nadir would welcome a visit.
When they finally had met, it had been just as Erik had anticipated; slightly awkward at first, Nadir still suffering from his infernal conscience and anxiety over whether his actions the last night they had met had been beyond reproach, and Erik reticent as ever; but after a few glasses of brandy, they had gradually become easy together again, and when Nadir produced the chessboard, and Erik proceeded to win and consequently refuse to accept several large sums of money from his friend, it was as if nothing had changed at all.
However, Nadir had noticed the change in his friend; despite Erik's customary nonchalance, he knew how he was missing Christine. But Nadir found himself unable to alleviate his suffering; even had Erik been less determined to rebuff every attempt of Nadir's to bring up the subject of Christine or the Opera, he still would not have known what to say. Erik had of course not told Nadir about his meetings with Christine in England; she was a demon which he alone could exorcise, and her presence an exquisite torture which he could not bear to share.
* * *
It was a warm day in mid-July, and Erik and Nadir were seated in Nadir's flat, frowning over the chess board. Nadir had seemed unusually edgy all morning, and had lost every game to Erik. This in itself was hardly unusual; but he seemed so unusually tense that Erik, always hyper-sensitive to unease in others, was growing uncomfortable himself.
When there came a knock at a neighbour's door, and Nadir started so badly that he knocked Erik's glass of brandy over, Erik finally threw down his bishop, exasperated.
"Nadir, I do wish you would tell me, if you want me to go that badly," he said with irritation. "You're worse than one of Madame Giry's ballet rats."
He rose to leave, taking his cloak from the hands of Darius, silent as ever in his presence, and tipped his hat with slightly ironic courtesy to his oldest friend.
"Erik."
Erik turned back to see that Nadir had too risen from his seat, and was unconsciously grasping at thin air as he always did when agitated.
"Please," he began in a strained voice, gesturing to the chair Erik had just vacated. "Sit down."
The blank white mask hiding his bemusement, Erik sat down slowly, draping his cloak over the back of an armchair, ignoring Darius' silent passage behind him to pick it up and tidy it away with the obsessive neatness of one who cannot bear disorder.
Nadir sat too, but almost immediately rose again and began to pace the room, turning occasionally to bestow an agitated glance upon Erik, who remained silent, knowing that his friend was more likely to offer whatever information so distressed him without external pressure.
"How can I know if I am right in this?" he asked finally, turning to look his friend full in the face for the first time all afternoon.
"There is presumably only one way to establish that," Erik said slowly, icy fingers of cold fear beginning to tingle up his spine.
Nadir looked at him for another long moment, then nodded, and, as if drawing on some resolve, bent to the small wicker open-topped basket which served as home to his papers. He withdrew a newspaper and opened it to an article several pages in, drawing another deep breath and offering it to Erik. Erik took it abruptly, not allowing their fingers to touch, and turned away from Nadir to read it.
When he turned back, the visible part of his face had gone white.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice trembling despite his efforts to stop it. "Is this ... a rumour, a joke ...?"
Nadir shook his head silently, watching his friend closely. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and barely able to think straight, Erik turned away from him again and sank into an armchair, reading over the article again.
The page was headed with a large black and white photograph of Christine and Raoul beaming into the camera on their wedding day. Below the picture, the article read:
London and Paris are fellow cities in mourning today, for it has just been announced that French nobleman and recent sensation in London society Raoul de Chagny was last night involved in an accident which cost him and a manservant their lives.
The Vicomte de Chagny was recently married and living in London with his new bride, former opera diva Christine DaaƩ. There had been significant opposition to the match in the shape of Philippe, the Comte de Chagny and Raoul's brother and only living relative, but those close to the couple say that Philippe had in the end decided to stand by whatever decision his brother might make, however impractical.
It is reported that de Chagny was on his way back from a late-night business meeting with an acquaintance when his carriage was run off the road by a hired cab whose driver was somewhat the worse for alcohol. The driver of this cab, who has not yet been named, is being held by the police and will appear in court tomorrow morning.
de Chagny's widow was not available for comment; close family friend the Marquis de St Cyr issued a statement on her behalf, saying, "We are all deeply upset at this tragedy. The family have asked me to thank you for the kind wishes they have received but beg that they be left in privacy to recover from this nightmare as they see best fit." Upon enquiries after the former diva's health, he replied, "She is in perfect health but clearly devastated by this blow. She and Raoul were very much in love and this has of course been very hard on her. She has not yet made a decision on whether she will remain in England or return to her native France." Questions about the will and de Chagny's financial state were ignored, as were those about his relationship with his brother.
There followed several paragraphs of speculation about the de Chagny fortune and the disposal thereof, ending with a deeply insincere note of well-wishing to "all those this tragedy has left bereaved".
Erik lowered the paper to his lap, unable to think, his mind in turmoil. He realised that Nadir was still watching him anxiously and rose, making a show of checking his pocket-watch.
"I hadn't realised it was quite so late," he said with unconvincing composure. "I really must be getting along."
"Sit down, Erik," Nadir said anxiously, "have a drink; you can't go out alone like this."
"Don't be absurd, daroga," Erik said coolly. "Much though the death of yet another aristocratic teenager clearly distresses me, I do believe I am still capable of walking the streets of Paris without an escort."
Nadir remained silent.
"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked finally, knowing from long and bitter experience that attempts to prise that from Erik which he did not wish to discuss were utterly pointless.
"Of course I'm all right," he said expressionlessly. "Really, daroga, I do wish you wouldn't fuss so. When have I ever given you cause to worry?"
It said a lot for the depth of Erik's distress, Nadir thought, that Erik said this without the faintest hint of irony.
* * *
Erik strode blindly down the Rue de Rivoli, feeling the pain of guilt and vicarious grief sear through him. No matter how hard he tried to suppress it, he could still feel that tight little knot of elation screaming to be heard, deep in his heart; much though his heart ached at the thought of Christine's pain, he could not deny that he had hated Raoul more than anyone he had ever known.
And much though he loathed himself for feeling so at such a time for Christine, a tiny part of him could only think that she was free again.
Unfettered by the bonds of her church's marriage ...
No!
He locked the door of his flat behind himself and sat down on the hard wooden floor he had not yet bothered to have carpeted.
The fact that the man she had loved was dead did not lessen the fact that she had hated him in the slightest, he told himself fiercely. He could still hear her voice in his head, edged with tears, cold with terrified anger, seeking to hurt; at times, it seemed he would never be able to quiet it.
The madness of hope was one he could not allow himself if he wanted to retain any claim whatsoever to his sanity.
He buried his face in his hands, feeling the scar tissue rough under his fingers where it emerged from under the mask into his hair.
On a sudden whim, he moved with fierce vigour into the bedroom, where he withdrew the one mirror he possessed from its locked drawer with suddenly clumsy fingers.
He stared into it for a long moment, then, painfully slowly, with fingers that he could not keep from shaking, he unfastened the mask and drew it slowly away from his face.
The first sight of his face almost undid him, and he felt the pain tear through him, lacerating what was left of his heart with the despair of hopelessness.
Erik bit his lip until the blood flowed, his hands clenched into bloodless fists as he raised the mirror to the ruin of his face again, relentless punishment for the weakness of his heart.
He repeated the process mercilessly upon himself until he was shaking from the onslaught and hopeless, clenching his fists into such painfully tight knots that his nails dug into the skin of his palms, his shoulders locked with tension.
His hands were bleeding and his heart raw before the mirror finally slipped from his hands to shatter on the floor, and when he looked down to see himself reflected a hundred times in a hundred tiny shards of cruelty, his last reserves of strength deserted him.
He had begun to dream of her again only nights after his return to France. As he slept, she came to him again, and on the first night he awoke from her arms to find himself quite alone in the cold darkness of his bed, the sheer despair of his loneliness had almost undone him.
At first, the unendurable sweetness of his sleep only exacerbated the anguish that returned as soon as he awoke; but, ever used to accepting what was never enough, those fleeting moments of sleeping happiness had recently been enough to sustain him throughout the endless lonely days.
But after that night, when he once again made himself fully aware that there never had been, and never would be, any shred of hope, the small comfort of his dreams of her once again became nightmares, horrific in their intensity, and he once again became accustomed to wake in tears, unable to keep himself from shaking.
His heart, lacerated and broken beyond repair, could no longer allow him even a few unconscious moments' happiness with her memory.
* * *
Carmen chewed nervously on her fingernail, twisting a thick dark curl between her fingers. She was started from her reverie by the de Chagnys' English butler Hudson, who looked round the door and nodded.
"All right, Carmen, they're ready for you now."
She stood up hastily, and stumbled. Hudson caught hold of her arm and held her for a moment.
"Steady, Carmen."
She drew a deep, shaking breath, and nodded, patting her hair down.
"Will I do?"
Hudson looked her up and down. "Perfect." He smiled suddenly. "Deep breaths now."
She flashed a nervous smile and followed Hudson cautiously into the room.
"Carmen is here, my lord."
She was greeted by the face of the Marquis de St. Cyr, a man she recognised as an old friend of the master's, God rest him, his face worn and weary, but forcing a smile to ease her nervousness.
"Carmen, come in, sit down."
She entered the room cautiously and sat down very tentatively on the very edge of the settee St. Cyr indicated, twisting her apron in her fingers.
St. Cyr noticed her nervousness and tried to set her at her ease, offering her a glass of wine. The horror in her face at this unprecedented display of equality was almost comical as she shook her head fervently, still staring down at her hands tightly folded in her lap.
Philippe was more direct. "How is she?"
Carmen looked up in alarm at his brusque tone, and was shocked and horrified at what she saw. Far from the handsome young man he had always appeared to her before, supremely confident in himself and those around him, Philippe looked exhausted beyond belief, his face that of a man suddenly grown old; the loss of such a beloved younger brother had hit him hard. As she watched, struck dumb with horror, Philippe walked stiffly around the table and poured himself a large glass of whisky. He offered the decanter to St. Cyr, who shook his head silently, worry filling his eyes as he watched Philippe swallow the contents of the glass with alarming speed.
Philippe looked up at Carmen, and spoke again, a touch of irritation in the words this time. "I asked you a question. How is my sister-in-law?"
Displaying such raw and purely human grief, Philippe suddenly ceased to be frightening to the tiny Spanish maid, who felt pity flood her heart at his great loss.
"I am afraid for her, sir," she whispered. "She has not eaten since ... since we heard the news, and Sophie in the kitchen does put in such a lot of effort, and she is really quite ..."
Philippe turned away with a gesture of impatience and took another swallow of whisky, and St. Cyr, seeing Philippe's impatience, hastily interceded.
"Thank you, Carmen," he said quickly. "Has she left her bed yet?"
Slightly subdued, the little maid continued, "She stands up, and she walks about the room, and she looks out the window, and then she cries, and she goes back to bed. I am afraid for her, Monsieur," she whispered, wiping away a tear with her apron.
St. Cyr leant forward wordlessly and handed her his handkerchief, giving her a moment or two to compose herself before he spoke.
"Thank you very much, Carmen," he said gently. "We know you're doing everything within your power to help restore Madame Christine to health, and we're very grateful."
He glanced to Philippe to see if he had any further questions for his sister-in-law's maid, but Philippe had sunk into an armchair and was staring emptily into the fire.
He dismissed Carmen gently, with assurances that they would indeed take very good
care of Madame Christine, and quietly came and took a seat by the fire next to Philippe.
Philippe sat up with some difficulty, and reached out towards the whisky decanter. "Drink?" he asked St. Cyr, his speech slightly slurred. St. Cyr shook his head, and gently took the decanter from his friend.
"Enough for you, Philippe," he said with gentle firmness. "You won't be able to get up in the morning if you take any more."
For a moment, it looked as if Philippe might argue, then he slumped back into the chair.
"I daresay you're right," he conceded wearily, pulling a hand backwards through his already rumpled hair. "So! My brother's little princess? What are we going to do with her?"
St. Cyr laughed shortly and sat down heavily in an armchair. "God knows."
"Well, you're her friend, aren't you?" Philippe asked, slightly irritably. "What's best for her?"
St. Cyr remained silent, deep in contemplation.
"Back to France, do you think?"
St. Cyr looked up and nodded. "Oh yes, no question. She's not been happy here ... I think she's been finding it harder than she anticipated to appear in Society." There was a brief pause before he continued, "I think that the Lady Claire has not made it easy for her ..."
Philippe nodded with wry understanding; Lady Claire Francis, wife of an important Conservative Member of Parliament, a woman with whom he was intimate for business reasons but disliked intensely, had taken it extremely badly that that darling de Chagny boy should have taken it into his head to form an infatuation with a common chorus girl. He could well imagine how Lady Claire - influential in Society and sometimes cruelly sharp with thinly-veiled spite towards anyone she disliked - had made his sister-in-law's life difficult, and suddenly felt ashamed that he had not tried to help Christine more.
Philippe suddenly became aware that St Cyr was watching him with carefully veiled sympathy, and cleared his throat.
"So," he said. "What do you think?"
St Cyr sat back and steepled his fingers in his lap.
"I have been thinking that ... perhaps ... it might not be a bad idea to get her back into some form of routine ... some form of employment."
Philippe looked up, alarmed. "You aren't serious."
St. Cyr shrugged. "You heard what Carmen said. I think we've left her alone too long."
Philippe sat back in his chair, shaking his head. "No," he said resolutely, running a hand distractedly through his hair. "It's impossible, I won't allow it. So soon after ..." He stopped abruptly and silence filled the room. He shook his head again, and brought his fist down onto the table. "No," he said, with more conviction than he felt.
St Cyr rose, seeing that there was nothing to be gained arguing when Philippe was still so heartsore.
"We'll see," he said gently. "In the meantime ..." - he brought his hands down lightly onto the back of Philippe's chair - "I think I might go and have a word with Christine."
Philippe nodded assent, staring sightlessly into the dancing flames in the fireplace.
St Cyr waited a moment longer, before silently leaving the room and sending Philippe's manservant Matthew to him, a trusted friend who had been in the family for many years, and whose eyes were also red with grief.
* * *
Philippe never knew what St Cyr said to Christine that night, but whatever it was made a deep impression upon her. Carmen no longer went around with red eyes, and Sophie-in-the-kitchen was satisfied that her food was no longer going to waste.
Christine appeared around the house, looking pale and drawn, but reasonably calm, and, under the watchful, gentle guidance of St Cyr, slowly began to recover herself and interact with those few close friends she could bear to receive.
The Girys came during this period, Meg anxious and grief-stricken, her mother silent but understanding. It was clear that the proximity of Christine's dearest friend was a great comfort to her, and between themselves, St Cyr and Antoinette Giry decided that it would be a good idea for Meg to stay with Christine until her affairs were sufficiently in order for her to return to France, a task which St Cyr was working around the clock to accomplish as soon as possible.
It was only many years later that Christine realised just how much of her happiness she owed to St Cyr. He was steady, endlessly patient, forever comforting, and above all, simply reassuring to have around. She did not realise until many years later just how much time and effort he had expended on ensuring her comfort during the immediate period after Raoul's death; at the time, she was too heartsick and miserable to realise that her passage back to France and subsequent accommodation was managed with the greatest of ease and with no inconvenience to herself; it did not occur to her that Philippe was always kinder to her than she had any right to expect. She did not know the amount of paperwork St Cyr completed in her name to spare her the pain of dealing with the bureaucracy of a widow, and she did not notice the miracle of the newspapers leaving her in peace to restore her life without interruptions.
Meg, however, a constant companion to Christine, did notice.
And she did not forget.
* * *
Four interminably long years ensued.
Four years in which Erik thought of her, dreamed of her, composed for her, and kept up with her progress through the tabloids. It had taken quite some resolve to stop himself from saving every article on her, to prevent himself from creating a shrine to her in her absence. Gradually, ever so gradually, he began to build his life up again.
But she was always there at the periphery of his vision, an everlasting spectator to whatever he might do.
Four years in which, slowly, he began to rebuild his life, and the number of days Nadir would find him staring morosely into the fire gradually decreased. The acquisition of a stray kitten he had found wandering the streets of Paris had done what Nadir found he could not - reawakened some emotion in him under the stifling apathy. She was without a doubt the most well-loved cat in Paris, and as she grew fat and sleek, she became more and more like a dog every day, jealously possessive of her master's love, sleeping on his bed at night, and becoming frantic if he was absent for what she considered to be an unreasonable length of time.
He named her Marguerite after that fieriest of French revolutionaries, and in her, he found the outlet for his love he had been seeking all his life: one who loved him just as he loved her.
But she whom he had loved was never far from mind; and, although neither of them knew it, never far from his door.
* * *
Four years in which Christine's pain faded to a dull ache. St. Cyr was her rock during this time, always kind and gentle, neither caring if she cried, screamed, or broke things, always there to soothe and offer an immediate comfort. Slowly, ever so slowly, she began to live again, and it was one day in early July that she and Meg took a seemingly innocuous walk that would prove the altering of both their lives in ways they had not even imagined.
They were wandering down the Rue de Metz, Meg chattering animatedly about one of the dancers Christine had never met doing something she could not quite imagine in one of the prop rooms with a stage hand who had recently been fired for painting a tree blue.
Meg was so engrossed in her story that she was paying even less attention to where she was walking than usual, and several times had Christine had to pull her out of the way of oncoming traffic or other of the busy shoppers who herded through the street daily.
But as Christine's eyes wandered away from her garrulous little friend, she heard Meg yelp and begin rapidly apologising. There followed a sharp intake of breath, and all of a sudden she felt Meg clutch at her sleeve in panic.
Two voices spoke her name together; one the terrified squeak of her dearest friend, the other the barely audible breath of disbelief of a voice she had never thought to hear again.
She looked up in blind incomprehension, but the barest flash of white under a hastily lowered fedora was enough to confirm the instinctive reaction of her heart.
For one interminably long moment, all three stood absolutely still, staring blindly at each other, none of them able to react.
Then Christine heard Meg make a sound halfway between a squeak and a sigh, and felt her crumple to the ground in a dead faint. She knelt immediately beside her, and in the half-second she took her eyes away from Erik, he vanished.
