Disclaimer: See Chapter One. Story just intended for fun; no money is being made on this.
A/N: Wow, I'm so surprised by all the great reviews that I got! 3 Everyone is so sweet!! Thanks a bunch for even reading this!
A/N2: I'm not sure how soon I'll update this one, seeing as midterms are coming up next week -- Down with High School. >.
Chapter 2
"Darling, where are you going?"
I froze in my tracks, gloves still half on. Completely unexpectedly, Raoul had emerged from his study while I was in the midst of staging my departure. He was leaning against the doorframe now, his jacket having been discarded and his prim, collared shirt unbuttoned. He was giving me what he probably thought was a sultry glance, while I searched for an excuse.
Somewhat luckily, he was more than a bit drunk.
"Why don't you let me sort out your gloves for you?" He lowered his voice as he came towards me and grabbed my left hand. He proceeded to bite my hand in an attempt to pull off my glove with his teeth.
"Rah-oul!" I screeched the name and rapidly retracted my poor hand. On account of my swift motion, I dragged my hand against his fingernails and discovered much to my dismay that my hand had begun to bleed lightly in several areas. So much for Raoul's attempts to be alluring.
"Oh, sorry 'bout that," he scratched at his head and stumbled slightly. The liquor had obviously taken its toll on him.
For a moment, my resolve was swayed. I hated seeing him like this – fazed with absolutely no idea what was going on around him. It was likely that one of his business deals had fallen through and that he was now attempting to drink it off, but I could not help but feel some pity for him. Ignoring my injured hand for the moment, I lay down my gloves upon a polished mahogany table and put a firm hand about his shoulders.
"Shh," I told him, beginning to lead him back into his study. "You have to get some rest."
Raoul began to mutter, "Wretched Italians…deceitful lot with their vineyards – hic!" He began to hiccup from the effects of the alcohol.
I pushed him down gently on to the couch in the study, "Don't think about that. Just rest for now. You've been working yourself too hard."
As I drew a small blanket over him and silently removed his shoes, I could not help but feel a trickle of the old love that we had shared. It felt good being needed for once; being able to do something for him for the first time in what seemed like ages. Even if it was only done while he was in the midst of drunkenness. He did not often let me hold him these days, being too immersed in the world of money.
He had already fallen asleep by this time, his breathing bordering on the edge of snoring. I smoothed the hair back from his face and planted a chaste kiss upon his forehead, willing him to earn some wisdom. All that I could feel for him now was that fond affection and worry a sister might have for her sibling. I had no desire anymore to give myself to him; all I wanted to do was to help him; to make him what he once was.
Perhaps he had fallen into such a state when some remote corner of his mind realized that I did not truly love him. At least, I did not love him in the way that he so desired. And so he had turned away from me and into a world that I could not follow, submerging himself in the world of business. No longer was there true beauty in either of our lives as a result.
It hurt, realizing that I was the cause of the ruin of yet another man.
But somewhere out there, he could surely find someone to love him. Someone who would want to protect him forever from any harm and to love him unconditionally with a whole heart.
From the parlor, the clock chimed the sixth hour of the evening. Abruptly I stood up and ceased musing; it would not help me to dwell on any additional failures at the moment. One last look at Raoul made me feel slightly guilty about giving him the slip, but it had been too long for my artistic soul to allow me to pass up this chance.
I paused by a washbasin resting on his desk and moistened a cloth in the water. I pressed it to my left hand until I had cleaned off the small scratches and wiped away the scant blood that had trickled. Then I made a hasty exit, snatching my gloves off of the table in the entrance hall.
Outside, I hurried through the swiftly-tumbling snow and to the carriage that waited for me. The driver tipped his hat and bid a good-evening to me. "Where to, Comtesse?"
I huddled within the safety of the cab and called out, "The Opera Cardinal, Monsieur!"
A part of me wondered exactly what it was I was doing. While my husband lay in the grand house sleeping off drunkenness, I was gallivanting out of his reach. At the same time, I felt like I was returning home at long last after an interminable absence. The opera was all that I had ever known; it had been my entire world for so long. By the time the carriage clattered into the crowded square sprawled out before the magnificent Opera Cardinal, my heart had begun to soar, and I could not help but feel a childish excitement.
It was not the Opera Populaire, but I was finally home.
The coachman handed me down from the cab and tipped his hat to me once again. Anxiously, I pressed extra francs into the man's hand and whispered to him, "The Comte must know nothing of this, do you understand?"
"Yes, my lady, Comtesse. Yes, yes." He had already begun to count through the tumble of shimmering coins.
I held back no longer. I could practically feel the tendrils of enchantment reaching out from the gothic windows of the Opera. I almost closed my eyes and walked as if in a daze as I entered the bustling atmosphere of the various patrons of the Opera within the entrance hall. I would have begun to twirl from happiness in the presence of those who loved this as much as I did, if I had not suddenly been seized at the shoulders and whisked around.
Adelle's rosy face greeted my shocked eyes, and then she embraced me. "Oh, Christine!" She stood back to regard me, "You look so pretty! I was almost afraid you wouldn't come!" She took my hand and began to lead me to the theater itself. "Everyone else is already waiting for you!"
I found myself smiling because she reminded me so much of Meg. It was pleasant to feel welcomed by someone at least, even if it was an acquaintance of a mere three days. "You look nice too," I ventured this slowly, having grown unaccustomed to kindness and giving out compliments.
She giggled, "Not nearly as nice as you, Christine."
In the arched doorway, I put a hand on her arm and murmured, "It's been so long, Adelle. I'm almost afraid."
Adelle, of course, hadn't the faintest idea what I was really talking about. "Christine, don't be silly! It's an opera, it won't harm you!"
She hooked her arm through my elbow and led me down the aisle. People had already begun to congregate in order to take their seats, and the lights in the reception hall were flashing to indicate the start of the performance. Adelle tugged me through the mass with brief nods of hello to several acquaintances, before we at last came to Madame Penous and her group of ladies. Upon seeing me, she turned and delightedly pulled me away from Adelle's grasp.
"Oh, dear, you made it! We were beginning to worry you would never arrive!"
"Yes," I whispered, still gazing about the vast cavern of the theater. It was even more breath-taking than the Populaire had been, both in size and decoration. Golden cherubs hung sweetly from every balcony and the frescoes were of the most exquisite talent that I had ever seen. I did not have much time to dwell upon the charm, as Adelle thrust a playbill into my hands and pulled me into a seat next to her's.
"Antissa," I read the title slowly. "Is it new?" I had never heard of this production before.
"Entirely new," Karine told me, settling into the other seat beside me. "This is the first time it will ever be performed."
There was no more time for questioning as the lights dimmed and the heavily-embroidered curtain rose painfully slowly to reveal a dazzling spectacle of players and ballerinas. Lovely girls, scantily-clad as Greek dancers glided about the centerpiece, which, much to my dismay, was the prima donna Carlotta herself.
The moment she opened her mouth to sing, I was prepared to stuff my ears with cotton. It was with great surprise that it seemed the woman had improved over the past five years. She was no great talent, surely, yet her vocals actually seemed bearable this time. I even stunned myself when I found myself clapping for her.
The first act of Antissa swept my very soul out of my chest and into the music of the story. I began to softly sing with Carlotta as I sat there in the darkened theater with generous tears drifting over my rouged cheeks. I had not felt so moved since…
Since that last night I had performed Don Juan.
When the curtain fell on the first act and intermission began, I apologetically excused myself and hastened away before Adelle or anyone else could attach themselves to my person. I felt in pressing need of a drink, and so I made my way up into the upper levels of the theater where I quickly located trays filled with enticing goblets of wine.
In my rush, I bumped into an elderly gentleman who steadied me with a gentle hand, "You are not hurt, mademoiselle?"
I chose not to correct his error in calling me mademoiselle and shook my head vigorously, "No, no, I just…"
He seemed to remark upon my tear-stained face, "A moving production, is it not? I am quite eager to see the next act."
"As am I, monsieur," I agreed, reaching for a goblet.
He nodded to me, "Enjoy the rest of the show, mademoiselle."
"Thank you, monsieur." I watched as he left with a number of other elderly gentlemen and disappeared back into the crowd.
Here, I suddenly found myself presented with a problem. I had absolutely no idea where I had come from, or in what direction I should go next. My seat was near the orchestra, but this level gave access to the various boxes that only rich patrons usually enjoyed. It seemed a trifle shameful to have to ask someone to point me in the correct direction, and so I set off confidently toward an area where the crowd grew less thick.
Having reached said area, I was still irrefutably lost. And in an opera house, no less. A moment ago I had been pompously calling this home, and now I just felt like a fool. What was I doing here anyway? Had all good sense deserted me? I did not relish the thought of returning home to Raoul, especially if he had found out about my little trip to the forbidden opera.
I hung my head and began to drift through the hall, taking occasional sips from my glass. The wine was cheap, I noted absently. I might have overlooked it, had my mood not been so sour. I realized I still had the playbill in my other hand and wondered if I could consult it to somehow escape my predicament. Rifling through pages as I walked on, I paid little attention to where my steps led me.
"Where are you going?"
Startled out of occupation with my predicament, I blinked several times rather stupidly.
I raised my head from the playbill and realized that I had wandered into a darkened section of the hallway. Frowning, I noted that I was still standing beside the entrance to a private box, and I knew that I hadn't passed any signs forbidding me to come this way.
"You should not be here." The voice continued to speak and I turned with hands placed on my hips, ready with an indignant reply.
And that's when I saw him and the last five years disintegrated into fragmented pieces and floated away from my mind.
He was standing in the arched entrance to a private box, an ebony-gloved hand holding back the deep crimson curtain. Half of him remained in the shadow of the box so that I could only see a part of his face as he gazed at me with a look of wonder that mirrored my own. Obviously, he had not been expecting to see me as much as I had not expected to see him.
"Christine," he breathed just that single word. He spoke only my name, but that single intonation was enough to latch my breath in my throat.
I took a step back, and then another, until I found myself pressed up against the wall with nowhere else to go. He still hadn't made a move and he did not utter another word. I continued to study him, the power to move having deserted me entirely. The past prolonged years had done nothing to age him, I noted with a trace of pleasure. He still possessed half a handsome face with darkened hair, and a powerful figure, but what struck me most were his eyes. Once, they had gazed at me with such desire; such love. Yet all I now saw within those orbs was the icy winter day, scathed by bitter northern winds.
He regarded me impartially; unfeelingly. It brought a wisp of chill into my chest.
When he stepped into the light, I saw that he still wore a mask to veil the right side of his face. It all suddenly seemed so otherworldly; as if I had returned to a life I thought I had left behind years ago. I tried to retreat further, but I knew that I had nowhere else to go.
"Erik, why are you here?" I stuttered as I spoke, my voice quavering with fear. I hated that look in his eyes, and above all, I hated that I was the reason for it.
His expression was still frigid as he began to walk toward me, and when he tilted his head, his inflection seemed mocking. "Do not worry, Comtesse. I am not here to hurt or kill anyone." He addressed me formally, ignoring my utterance of his name.
"Then why?" I had a hand pressed against the wall, while in the other I still clutched my goblet. "Have you decided to haunt another opera?" I asked slightly cruelly.
He paused directly in front of me and held out a hand. I stared at the outstretched fingers, debating what exactly he was going to do. I wondered if he would caress me yet again with those gentle fingertips or bend to softly sing a sweet song into my willing ears. I began to tremble as if affected by the cold, but I did not believe that the cause was fear.
A part of me longed for his touch.
I met his eyes again and saw that he was giving me a sardonic smile. He had obviously taken note of my shaken state and fragile nerves. His eyes narrowed and he whispered conspiratorially as if he were sharing a great secret with me, "Look at your playbill."
"Wha – what?"
He was toying with me. There was so much between us; so much that needed to be said. Yet I could sense that he did not want to dwell on particular subjects, and nor did he wish to awaken the ghosts of the past. Perhaps that accounted for the seemingly absurd nature of our exchange.
God help me, I knew that I had broken his heart. Everything that needed to be said, I wanted to say! Yet nowhere within me could I discover the words to appropriately convey what I felt. In my heart, I truly knew that there was nothing I could ever say to him that would remedy the past, and at the moment, it did not seem as if he even wished to hear my attempts.
Remembering myself, I obediently raised my right hand and smoothed the cover of the glossy playbill. Beneath the flowing script that proclaimed the word Antissa were letters that formed a very familiar name. I gasped and looked back up, "This is your production?"
"Mm," he acknowledged. "Have I disappointed you, Comtesse? You seem to have been expecting something rather more sinister. You are quick to judge."
"I…" But I really had nothing to say, for he had indeed spoken the truth. It was true that he had once been a killer, but he had also once revealed his entire heart to me…and I had betrayed him in that moment of trust.
As always, I made rash decisions and foolish ones.
"Are you enjoying my opera?"
"What?" I repeated the word dumbly. The next question had taken me aback as well; he continued to ask me the most mundane of questions. "Yes…Yes, very much," I finally offered the words to him. "It's brilliant as always." After a few seconds of silence, I fixed my eyes on the floor and commented, "Carlotta was not all that bad tonight."
"Bah," he threw his hands in the air and complained outright. "Carlotta is perfectly awful as usual and naturally she is the star of every single one of my works."
I smiled at the world-weary tone of his voice. It was quite unlike anything I had ever heard from him before. So casual…so normal. "Still, she does seem to have improved."
He fixed clever eyes on me and replied, "One last letter from the Opera Ghost was quite enough to convince her to actually take some lessons."
"Lessons from you?" I queried quite innocently.
"Don't be stupid," he snapped in return.
For a short while, it had almost felt like I wasn't talking to the Opera Ghost. Every time I had imagined meeting Erik again, I had never thought that we would simply stand in a hall and chat idly about Carlotta. He did not behave like the seductive angel who had once enticed me into his arms with his song. Rather, it was like speaking to an old friend whom I had not seen in years.
He crossed his arms over his chest and commented, "I must admit that I am rather surprised to find you here. I have heard that the de Chagny family does not often frequent the theater anymore."
I smiled nervously, "Yes, well…"
"He does not know you are here." He meant Raoul of course.
"Of course he does!"
My lie was transparent, even to my own deceitful self. I sighed and directed my attention to the floor again, the subject of Raoul an uncomfortable one.
"You are not happy?"
My head shot up and my lips opened ready to shoot an insolent reply back at him. I was prepared to defend Raoul and my choices, more from habit than anything else, but then I saw the way that Erik was looking at me, and I just could not find it in me to lift a single syllable in Raoul's defense.
I did not believe that Erik had asked the question of me out of spite or resentment, but rather out of genuine concern. Although he was doing his best to hide it, I intuitively felt that his inquiry was one based on his honest interest in my welfare.
I almost did not lie to him.
Once again, I was torn. Part of me wished to run into his arms and to tell him the truth. The truth being that I was trapped in a miserable marriage, that I had destroyed Raoul in the process, and that I had broken Erik's heart for nothing. But he gazed at me with the obvious expectation that I would tell him he had done the right thing in letting me go all those long years ago; that it had not all been in vain.
"I am happy," I told him, trying to etch confidence into the three words.
To both my surprise and relief, he suddenly smiled, albeit sadly. "I am glad, Christine." He used my given name for only the second time that night, but it brought a puff of unexpected warmth into my dulled heart.
Something caught his eye and he stepped toward me. "You bleed," he whispered, his eyes directed toward my left hand. Sure enough, the small scratches had begun to crack anew, probably from the cold and dry quality of the air.
"Oh, it's nothing," I fingered the abused skin and searched for something to apply to it to still the blood.
Unexpectedly, Erik gripped my hand, but it was not roughly so. He had removed the handkerchief from his breast pocket and was gently pressing it to my skin.
"Thank you," I murmured, not knowing what else to say. I had found myself aching for his touch while we spoke, and truly, the simple feel of his fingertips brushing softly against my skin once more was enough to cause my breathing to stutter with sudden longing. Despite the fire and passion which I knew resided within his soul, Erik had always touched me so delicately as if I were a glass flower that would break at the slightest pressure.
I frowned when he released my hand at last. Still clutching the cloth, I let the hand fall to hang limply at my side. I recalled all the times that Erik had held me and could not help but compare them to the feel of Raoul, who often did nothing but paw me these days when the mood so took him. Raoul had never treated me as a precious object until he heard me sing that night at the Opera Populaire, and only for a few more months after our wedding had he continued to love me tenderly.
Erik had always dealt with me lovingly. Even when I angered him, he had always managed to retain an echo of delicacy and care whenever he held me. Now I could only lament what a fool I had been for failing to see the treasure that had been before me all this time.
It was rare that a woman felt truly loved these days. I knew it from Madame Penous' crowd, who gathered in their circles to gossip and complain about their husbands. Most of them knew that their spouses conducted affairs, and yet they chatted casually about such things whenever they gathered. I too knew that Raoul engaged in these traditional amusements of his class, yet I differed from the other women in that I had once known what it was truly like to be loved by someone, and so I understood what was missing in my life.
I realized that I had been staring at Erik for an inappropriate amount of time. I averted my eyes and blushed deeply just as the lights began to flicker in the hall, signaling the beginning of the next act. I hoped that my unseemly color was not apparent in the flashing luminescence.
He had begun to retreat back toward the box, rather shyly. "I hope you enjoy the rest of the opera, Comtesse," he brushed aside the heavy curtain.
"Wait!" I darted forward and held out his handkerchief now stained with the filmy outlines of bloody scratches. "You forgot this. Oh, and I'm sorry about the blood…" I considered the cloth, biting my lip. I knew my words sounded odd.
Erik just looked amused, "Keep it. I have many others."
"Oh." As he turned away, I felt compelled to say something – anything – so that he would not leave yet. "Wait!" That was the best I could come up with.
He stopped once again, "Yes?"
"I – ." I stopped and hunched my shoulders, embarrassed for the second time. It felt odd, knowing that there was an infinite amount of things to say to him that I could not find the words nor time to express. "Just…can I see you again?"
His back was to me, but I did not miss the sudden rigid quality that established itself in his frame. The hand that clutched the curtain turned white as he squeezed it, but his voice was even and calm as he spoke. "No, Christine. I do not believe that it would be a good idea."
"But…" I breathed the one word, even as tears began to slip from beneath my lashes. I was glad that his back was to me, for I did not wish him to see the shameful tears upon my cheeks, as but a moment ago I had cheerily informed him that my life was excellent.
"You made your choice," he breathed deeply as he spoke. "I have no place in the life you have chosen."
I snatched ideas out of the air, "You could come visit me as a simple friend! My tutor even…" It sounded absurd even to my own idiotic ears. I tried to justify my silly words with a half-truth, "I suppose I just miss the theater too much."
Erik laughed softly and considered me with a glance over his shoulder, "Your soul will always belong to the theater, no matter how much the Comte tries to beat it out of you."
No, my soul belongs to you.This time I did not leap to Raoul's defense. There was nothing to defend, really.
"Erik, I -."
He placed a finger against his lips and murmured, "Shh." Turning to me one last time, he put his hand into his jacket pocket and drew out two thin cuts of paper. "For you and…a lady friend, perhaps. One last gift from your Angel of Music."
I accepted and turned them over in my palm. "Tickets?"
"My newest work. It opens next month."
I no longer hid the tears and began to sniffle noisily into his handkerchief. "I…I can't…accept." I choked out the words, knowing that I was the portrait of 'unladylike' at the moment. Some women were beautiful when they cried; I turned into a red boil of a mess.
Unquestioning, he continued to regard me with a calm look. I knew he was trying to distance himself from me; that he was attempting not to care so that I would not hurt him again. I understood it all, and it pained me more than ever because he was being so unbearably kind to me when I was simply an undeserving wench.
Finally, I mastered myself just enough to gasp, "Thank you." I brushed at my eyes furiously, staring anywhere but at him, "Will I see you there?"
Erik shook his head and I knew he meant the truth. "Good-bye, Christine."
With one final swish of the curtain, he was gone.
I knew that I could charge through that pesky curtain and right into his box – but I really had no idea what I would say to him. I was still too shaken by this encounter, and even though he had told me that we would not be seeing each other again, I still found it somewhere within me to hope that he was wrong.
Dejected, I set off in an arbitrary direction, searching for the way back to my seat. As I walked, I clutched Erik's handkerchief against my chest and dared to breathe in his scent, tinged with the faint tang of blood which had polluted the pure cream of the material.
Oh, God, I miss him.