Chapter Thirty-five - Cold and Familiar Features
"My God, Andre! We are ruined!"
Meg turned to see Andre and Firmin in the midst of a crowd of stagehands, chorus members, gendarmes, and men from the audience.
They won't show him mercy now…not now.
She flung out her arms as wide as she could, as if that futile gesture could stop them.
As if her small figure could stand as a barricade between this enraged mob and the man she loved.
"Move aside, Mademoiselle," Monsieur Andre shouted at her.
She saw there was a revolver in his hands, wondered numbly if he'd always carried it.
"No," she screamed, though she knew they would never listen, never halt.
So she turned. Desperate to stay ahead of them, she turned and ran as if his life depended on it.
She almost flung herself through the door to the dressing room and saw the mirror was closed.
No…it was open by only a few inches. She slid it back far enough to squeeze through and slammed it shut behind her.
She wondered if there was something, some lever or latch to lock it. There was no time to look for it and she knew the mob would only force its way through.
She dash down through the tunnels, her boots sliding on the damp stairs, her steps echoing in the darkness.
There was no sign of her mother or of the Vicomte. Perhaps they had gone by a different path to his lair.
And what of him? How could she even be certain he'd gone back there. What if he had taken Christine somewhere else…
As she scrambled along the ledge, she heard a crash and knew the mob had broken through the mirror.
Bits of flaming debris rained down through openings in the ceiling, hissing as they fell into the little canal.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the flicker of torches on the water and she heard the shouts of the mob too close behind her.
The portcullis was open and Meg leaped down into the water.
As she waded towards the steps, something caught her eyes beyond one of the cave-like arches.
She saw the small black and silver boat moving away. Christine stood in it, dressed in a lavish wedding gown. A man was with her…carefully poling the boat further into the distance.
It was Raoul de Chagny.
Meg climbed the steps, saw a delicate white veil lying on the floor…so rumpled and forlorn.
Glass crackled beneath her soles as she passed a pair of shattered mirrors. The third was still covered by its velvet drape.
Looking back, she saw the gendarmes, holding their rifles at the ready, and the amazed faces of the stagehands and patrons.
She hurried into the bedchamber. It, too was empty.
On a low table, there stood an elaborate music box. A monkey in rich, foreign robes with tiny cymbals in its hands.
His white mask lay beside the music box.
Meg picked it up, trying to take comfort in its cold and familiar features.
"Where are you, Erik," she whispered.
Seconds later, there was a strange cracking thunder as the stone roof of the lair buckled.
