A/N: Atheshar, my dear, thank you so much for your reviews -you may do whatever you like with my story ... though please don't turn into a nihilist! ;) Yes, Erik's thoughts are quite dark and bitter, but I don't think anyone can stay like that forever, least of all Erik himself. Some things about himself he can't change - for one, he's still a very sensual person, by which I mean that he has a heightened sensitivity to his environment(as you can tell by the gratuitous description in every chapter that is written from his point of view). And there are other things, but we'll get to those later ...

In the meantime, I apologise for the lateness of this chapter - due to some truly despicable weather here in Sydney, I lost my internet connection for a while. This may account for the obsession I seem to have with rain in this post ... though it is continuing the rainy day in the last chapter, I think I've dwelled on the weather more than I planned to. Alright, this is an unusually long and packed installment, it should really be two, I think, but no section seemed meaty enough for a whole chapter alone. Anyway, I think it is useful to have it altogether here because the rain provides a good reference point and it gets all our timelines in sync, so we know where all the characters are at the moment. (Oh, and just note that some of this backstory actually does have a point - just bear with me. ;) )

12. Rain and Reflection

It rained all over the country that evening: in Marseille, in Nice, even Paris.

Gaspard sat in the small restaurant by himself – the Captain had braved the weather to return to his ship, so the boy leaned on his table, nursing a drink, watching the others in the crowded room. Everyone with a few centimes to spare had come inside to bask in the warmth of the large fire and dry off; they ordered cheap bread and cheese and lingered at their tables, prolonging the comfort as much as possible, chatting merrily over the sounds of the storm outside.

He sat quietly in the corner, swirling the alcohol around in its glass, taking a sip now and then. So … Vinci had wanted to go to Italy. It was fortunate that he had caught up with him before the ship sailed, for it would have been much harder to pursue the artist in another country.

Gaspard had been following him for nearly two weeks now, from Paris to Lyon to Marseille, using his contacts to keep tabs on the masked gentleman. The gang had split up in search of him as soon as it was discovered he was gone – they combed the city, seeking advice from every official informant they had, but no-one had any news to tell.

However, Gaspard's network of friends was much larger than they knew – he had found it useful to make personal connections which were kept separate from those of Jacques and his men, for he had learnt that the best sources of information were the ones who were not criminals – they were infinitely more reliable and had access to more areas of society. In this way, he happened upon a piece of information that had eluded the others: a luggage handler at the station told him that a strange gentleman with a wounded face had caught a south-bound train, headed for Lyon.

So when the gang decided to start searching beyond Paris, he had immediately volunteered to go south. Of course, he had not told them about his lead … no, no … it was imperative that he find Vinci before they did. He had sent a couple of reports back so far, each one a lie; "No news south of Vezelay, but some suggestion that he could have gone west from there, bound for Nantes – alert Andre. Will continue on south, while awaiting confirmation."

He licked his lips a little nervously as he thought his actions through. He could imagine what they would do if they found out about his deception – it would not be pretty. Then again, it would be nothing compared to what they would do to Vinci if they found him first … he took a gulp of the burning, oily fluid, letting it fill his head with warmth. What they would do to Vinci – yes … this was the image that steeled him, and assured him he was doing right – well, as much right as it was possible to do in the circumstances. He could not let an innocent man suffer for another's crimes. Gaspard shifted uneasily in his seat and motioned to the waiter to bring him another drink, setting the empty glass down so savagely it startled the people at the next table. He rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes to eradicate the dots that were appearing there. And maybe, just maybe … it was a ridiculous, incomprehensible idea, but his rum-addled brain would not let it go … maybe the mysterious artist, who seemed to know so very much about so very many things, could help Sophie. Gaspard didn't know why he thought so, but in some strange way, all logic and reason aside, he felt that Vinci must know something, something that could help.

His fresh drink appeared, but he slowly and deliberately pushed it across the table until it clinked with the candle-glass. On second thought, he had had enough for one night. He didn't drink often, so the stuff tended to go straight to his head when he did – it was best to be sensible about these things. Unlike most of his usual company, he had never developed a taste for alcohol; it was surprising because although he was only twenty-one, he had already been immersed in Jacques' world for ten years, frequenting places where wine was like water and the air smelled unnatural without tobacco in it. He had grown up counting dirty money and running errands under the cover of night, a frantic little cog in some big machine, knowing his duties and executing them well, an ambitious little apprentice. Sometimes he went to the church to make small donations out of his own pocket, perhaps in some attempt at atonement. The Father there knew him now, knew how he made a living and knew where his money came from. Although the priest had never been so cruel as to refuse the donation, he never failed to lament that such a bright, clever lad was being used in such a way. He tried to tempt him with bright horizons: nice stories about working in shiny big banks or law offices, or in stores that smelled sweet, or about the joys of honest labour like carpentry or masonry, or the bliss of working for God. But the old man didn't understand that Gaspard was in too deep now – his mind had been moulded from childhood for this profession, and he was exceedingly good at it, it was all he knew; one can't just uproot a vine and have it wrap around another lattice like that.

Gaspard remembered the day he had met Jacques on the dusty road that ran in front of their house; he had lived on a farm with his family back then. He and his sister had been playing outside when the traveller came up: a tall man, on a tall horse, with a fine leather jacket and a distinguished black beard. He had smiled at them as he passed, showing a mouthful of teeth, and knocked on the door of the house to ask directions from the children's parents. Since there were no inns within a day's ride, and Gaspard's parents were so generous, in addition to directions, Papa offered the stranger supper and a bed for the night – the family was always happy to extend hospitality to travellers, since so few ever came by.

Jacques entertained them all that evening (he could be charming when he wished to be), and brought much-wanted news from the nearby towns. He talked impressively about his business in Paris, spinning some story about being a trader or importer or something of that nature. Papa and Mama were enchanted; their simple farming life was a hard one, and had been declining for years so that as it was, they could barely eke out a living. Finally, Mama uttered a fateful wish that Gaspard could have some sort of opportunity in Paris, and that he could have the chance to become a fine man like Monsieur Jacques was. At this, Jacques laughed and blurted: "why not?"

With the most amiable face in the world, he had turned to Gaspard.

"Well lad, what do you say? Would you like to come and work for me in Paris?"

Gaspard glanced at his parents – their eager faces told him not to waste the enormous good fortune he had been granted in being asked such a question.

"I – I suppose so, Monsieur."

"Good. But I don't take just anyone you know – do you know your numbers and your letters?" His voice was playfully stern.

"Oh, I assure you, he is a very bright boy," Papa interjected. "He can read and do sums better than I can myself!" He made Gaspard recite a poem and quizzed him on some multiplication.

Jacques nodded his head. "Well done, lad. That is most impressive. Yes, I think you'll do very well – I always have use for intelligent men." He laughed heartily, as did Papa and Mama. And just like that, it had been settled. Jacques left a Parisian address before he rode off, and a few weeks later Gaspard boarded the post as it passed by, excited and somewhat fearful of what lay ahead. There was a tearful farewell from his mother and sister, while his father clapped him on the back affectionately – at the ripe old age of eleven, Gaspard felt proud, like a man setting out to conquer the world.

His arrival in Paris had been somewhat less auspicious; the dark, dingy flat was not what he expected to find. However, Jacques had been very welcoming and took to him like a father to a son, making him something like an apprentice, revelling in showing him all the details. Of course, for the first few years, the boy wasn't fully aware of what sort of business he was involved in, but he was earning money – enough to be able to send some home to his family – and was quite content in his own way.

First, he hadn't known, and by the time he found out it didn't matter … for by then it was his life.

And now he was here: doing what he was doing, having done what he had done. It seemed like an almost surreal turn of events, but unfortunately it was no dream.

With a sigh, he stood and left some coins on the table beside his untouched drink. Nothing could ever clean up this mess entirely, but the first thing he had to do was find Vinci – and quickly. There was no knowing how long it would be before they were able to track him down themselves: they may find him in a matter of days, or with some luck, they would never find him. But either way, it was important to speak to him as soon as possible, he needed to know – in the morning, Gaspard would begin asking around to find the inn where he was staying.

He dodged his way around the tables and plunged into the pouring rain beyond the door. It was cold, and sobering.

In Nice, Vivienne frowned at the downpour as she held the curtain aside. Oh, how unpleasant! It was just that time of year for volatile weather … hopefully there would be no such inconveniences next Friday. They had hoped to be able to use the patio, which was lovely on a clear night, and her heart would be broken if they weren't able to.
The rain also assaulted Paris, most inconsiderately, as the de Chagnys were having a little party of their own. However, once the guests had run the gauntlet from the carriage to the front door, nobody seemed to mind a bit about the inclement weather – in fact it made the warm space inside seem that much more cosy.

The couple would be leaving in a few days, so the proper thing to do was to have a tasteful little get-together with friends. Most of their acquaintances were there … Christine's old friends from the opera, and the new she had made as a result of her marriage – Raoul had some old chums from university, as well as all the necessary relatives and connections, although his parents were still abroad. It was a mixed gathering, but everyone seemed comfortable enough. At present, they were milling about the ground floor of the house – old, noble ladies talked with other old, noble ladies while some of the ballet dancers flirted with their old, noble husbands. Otherwise, people chatted away in small groups while Raoul and Christine fulfilled their hosting duties by making the rounds and attempting to speak with everyone.

Mathlide had managed to work wonders with Christine's dress and appearance. The Mistress had been a little ill lately, but although her complexion was pale and there were circles under her eyes, the arrangement of her hair and clothing, together with her attractive vivacity, made her charming to look at. The only thing that ruined the illusion was an occasional coughing fit, though their friends had become used to this.

It was with pride that Raoul took her around, pleased with every admiring glance that was thrown their way. Over the past few years, Christine had honed her social skills and was now, quite literally, the perfect hostess. Her knack for knowing just what to say, and how and when to say it, had earned her a reputation for being sweet and gracious and "thoroughly delightful". But such skills had taken much time to develop and were hard-earned. It had of course been difficult in the beginning – opera girls are not generally the type of people to command much respect, even if they marry well – and many a tear was shed over the silly faux pas she committed in the early days, as a timid girl. The fact that she had been embroiled in some sort of scandal at the Opera House had not helped matters, but thankfully most of the details of that night the chandelier fell had never reached the public. There were always rumours, but all that was really known was that the madman at the Opera House had attempted to kidnap her, but she had been saved by the Vicomte before any harm was done. To stave off questions about the Opera Ghost from their curious friends, the couple maintained that Christine had fainted and remembered nothing, while Raoul had found her tied up, unconscious, in the madman's deserted lair. Most of the people they were now entertaining had heard this version of the story.

Eventually in their progression about the house they came to the Baron Vilente and his wife, who sat with ease on a couch in the parlour. They were the parents of one of Raoul's oldest schoolmates and they made a handsome couple yet. The Baron was a tall man with grey hair and a militaristic step, though a childish overbite and pleasant smile prevented him from being intimidating. His wife, with her rosy cheeks and big, tremulous blue eyes, surrounded by a fine network of wrinkles, could have stepped out of the pages of a story book, for she looked like any fairy godmother you could imagine.

"Christine, darling," she called. "Come and sit here, by me." She wiggled to make room at her side for her young friend, who came with a smile.

The Vilentes had always been supportive of Vicomte and his unexpected bride. While the marriage had resulted in a falling out between Raoul and his parents, who were rarely in France anymore, the Baron and his wife had been among the first to welcome Christine to society with open arms.

When Raoul had told them of his engagement to a ballet dancer and opera singer, they had reacted very differently to his parents. The Baron quite delightedly congratulated the boy on having the guts to go out there and bring home a "real" girl. Raoul wasn't entirely sure what the implication was, but he remained grateful for the support. The Baroness had initially harboured some concerns about the girl's virtue, not wanting the dear boy to attach himself to some kind of loose woman, but after meeting Christine she took to her as if she were the daughter she had always wanted. She had helped the girl ease into society, and Christine never forgot it, though sometimes she found the old lady a bit of a trial to talk to.

"My dear, what a charming gathering this is," the Baroness almost sang. "So many beautiful people. What pretty things your friends from the ballet are!"

Christine smiled. "Oh yes, they've all been blessed with looks, but" – here she shot a disapproving glance at some of the younger dancers, flirting outrageously – "sometimes I wish they had all been blessed with an equal amount of common sense."

A delightful giggle escaped from Lydia's lips. "My, you are prudish, Christine. They are young! Let them enjoy themselves. With your looks, I daresay you too played havoc with the men before you were married, and broke your fair share of hearts."

A shadow flitted over Christine's face, but it was so brief that there was no time to notice it before all was sunshine again. "Really, Baroness! You do talk scandalously." She leaned in towards the lady's eager countenance, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You must be speaking from your own experience, not mine!"

Lydia laughed out loud at the flattery. "Dear girl," she said, giving Christine's hand an affectionate squeeze.

Raoul, who had been speaking with the Baron, wandered over.

"What is so amusing over here?" He asked, with a smilingly suspicious look.

A sly look passed from Lydia to Christine. "Ah, nothing that concerns you, Raoul. We were just discussing this season's gowns." Although the statement had been meant as a cover, it soon became clear that the Baroness really did have strong feelings on the subject. She turned passionately to Christine. "Oh aren't the colours this season just dreadful? There is this one particular deep scarlet that everyone is wearing and I just can't abide it!"

Christine nodded eagerly, with a look of disgust on her face. "I know exactly the one you mean, Lydia! It is indeed a most unflattering colour for almost everyone. I really can't understand how people can wear such a detestable shade …"

Raoul interrupted with a merry laugh. "Well, I can see you weren't lying, Baroness. This conversation really does have nothing to do with me! You'll have to excuse me, ladies." He kissed Christine's cheek and bowed to the Baroness, leaving them to talk fashion to their hearts' content.

ooo

Later that night, when all the guests had gone, Christine sat in the bedroom brushing her hair and discussing preparations for the trip with Raoul. She wondered if she had time to get another gown made up.

"Oh, I think so." He smiled indulgently. He was glad to see her taking an interest in such things – this was healthy, this was natural.

"Yes," she continued thoughtfully. "I think I might need one made in a less heavy fabric than those I've got at the moment. It will be warmer there than it is here. I'm thinking perhaps I'll get it done in red …"

"What? Red? Surely not that deep scarlet colour you and Lydia were talking about?" He spoke, amused and incredulous.

"Mmm. That's the one." She was lost in thought, planning the garment in her head.

Raoul smiled, came up behind her and encircled her with his arms, putting his cheek against hers and looking at their reflections in the mirror. His eyes were mild and teasing.

"Now, Madame de Chagny. Did you or did you not say, less than three hours ago, that you hated that colour, and give every impression that you thought it hideous? Or is my memory playing tricks on me?"

She finally turned to her attention to him. "What? Oh yes. But I was just pretending for the Baroness, you know. She gets so worked up about these things, it really pleases her when you agree. If you don't, she becomes so depressed, poor dear, and begins to think there's something wrong with her taste or her judgment." Christine shrugged. "Don't worry, I'll only be wearing the dress in Nice, anyway. She won't see it."

Raoul laughed and kissed the top of her head affectionately. "Well, what a clever girl you are! You had me fooled – after hearing your conversation, I had resolved never to buy you anything red ever, ever again!" She laughed and put her lips to his hand as he walked into the next room to undress.

She was amazing. Raoul sighed as he undid his cravat, brimming with pride. Now she knew the ins and outs of their social circle better than he ever had. She was always the perfect hostess, knew just how to act and make people warm to her. This is why all their friends loved her, and all his chums were jealous of him – he, who had the perfect wife on his arm. And this is why the public had loved her, back when she had been on the stage. She was such a good actress.

Later, he fell asleep to the sound of the rain.