Disclaimer: you know the drill.
(a/n) Much thanks to my reviewers: LostSchizophrenic, forever in a bottle, Leesainthesky. (a/n)
London, 1890, Christine
For the second time that night, my shocked gaze absorbed what I thought must surely be a dream. There, sprawled out in one of the arm chairs gracing my room, was Erik. His amber eyes gleamed in the darkness, but the shadows prevented me from discerning any expression on his face. At that moment I truly thought I was finally going mad. But then the apparition spoke.
"Did you think you would be rid of me so easily Christine?" Erik queried, his voice cool and controlled.
I stood stiffly, inwardly fighting my urge to stammer apologetic pleas. Nine years later, Erik still made me feel like a callow school girl, despite my experience. Abruptly, I felt angry. I was not at fault here! I was the victim! I ignored the inner voice telling me he had no way to know that, and succumbed to the demon of anger I had nursed throughout the years. All of the pent up anger I felt towards life, towards society, suddenly spewed out directed at Erik.
"Well I thought it might work, since leaving is exactly what I did last time," I said spitefully. Erik's eyes glowed like angry flames, and I should have felt afraid, but power surged through me.
However, Erik did not erupt like I expected him to. Instead, rising from his chair, he smiled. But it was not a pleasant smile, and I felt shivers run down my spine.
"My dear," he purred, slowly advancing towards me, "perhaps last time you were not aware of all I had to offer you. It was extremely remiss of me not to have informed you of my financial status. However, let me remedy the situation."
"Wh. . what?" I stammered, unable to believe what I was hearing.
Pressing in on his advantage, Erik said, "Simply put my dear, I am a very rich man, and I completely understand your need for money. It is quite delectable isn't it? I am willing to offer you more than other man has ever given you before. However, forgive me if I don't give you jewels, but I believe you would prefer cold hard cash."
"What exactly are you saying Erik?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. My vision was becoming blurred and I almost felt sick to my stomach. So this is what Erik thought of me! That all I cared for was money—and now all he need do was offer me cash and I would be his. But he did not want a wife any longer; oh no, he wanted me to be his whore. I felt as if a sacred memory had been violated. In my memories Erik was still an angel; this man in front of me was the devil!
"Do I need to spell it out for you Christine?" he asked, dangerously close to me now. "In your profession I would have thought it was quite obvious. But if you wish. Since I know I am but a poor deformed creature, I will pay you handsomely to share my bed."
A red mist rose up before my eyes, and before I knew what I was doing my hand flew out towards Erik's cheek. But he was too quick for me. He caught my wrist in his iron grasp, and I winced in pain.
He leaned in very close to me, his eyes glittering behind the mask. "My dear, that was extremely unwise. I might have to lower the amount I am willing to give you."
I wrenched my wrist away from him, and declared, my voice rising on every word. "I would never, ever accept so much of as a penny of such money from you. Why would I lower myself to your bed when I can sleep with gentlemen?"
He flinched as if hurt, and for an instant my heart softened, but he quickly returned to the cold, hard man he had been moments before.
"You are a whore, Christine, and money speaks to you. I shall leave you to ponder your choices. Don't let dignity keep from accepting my terms—it certainly hasn't gotten in your way before."
Donning his hat, he turned and left, leaving me to collapse in a mass of trembling nerves upon my bed. This was crueler than any fate I could imagine. Erik, whom I had loved, coldly offering me the position of his mistress, of his whore! Well I would not take it! No power on earth could force me to accept his offer. I had known what he must think of me, but actually hearing the contempt in his voice, seeing it in his eyes, was devastating. Erik, I whispered, tears coming to my eyes, Oh Erik. Erik was supposed to my angel, not an avenging judge come to sentence me for my sins. Tears were flowing faster now, and I curled up on the bed and gave myself over to the sobs I had been barely repressing. I cried myself to sleep, despair eating away at my soul.
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Paris, 1881
I was shuffling my way to the kitchen when it hit me again. A surge of nausea rose in my throat, and I swiftly ran for a basin. For weeks now I had been sick in the morning; at first I had just thought I was ill and that it would pass. Well it hadn't, and now I did not know what to think. In addition to the morning sickness, I had been quite sickly and lethargic, but I just attributed it to my state of mind and residence in a dark, dank cellar. But that didn't explain why I had missed two of my monthly flows, did that happen after you . . . uumm . . . with a man? Abruptly a snippet of conversation I heard between two of the chorus girls came to my mind.
"Do you think you are with child?"
"Well I'm a month late, but I'm irregular sometimes. I took all the precautions, but it's still possible. Oh God, I hope not, my mother would throw me out on the spot."
"It's alright, most likely you are just irregular. We can only wait and hope your monthly flow comes soon. But whatever happens, I'm here for you."
Realization flooded through me, and immediately I felt sick again. Could I be pregnant? My hand flew to my stomach, I didn't feel much fatter. Alright, maybe I had thickened up a bit, but I had attributed that to my lack of activity. I grasped the kitchen counter for support. What was I to do! Maybe I wasn't pregnant. It could just be false alarm. I put it out of my mind. I did not want to think of it, acknowledge that it was more than likely. Instead I focused on another unpleasant thought; soon I would need to go up again. It had been almost two months since the incident, and I had made good use of the stockpile I had acquired just before it, but supplies were running low. I was beginning to understand Erik's dread of the world; horrid people lived up there—but down here held only was sweet solitude.
I told him so in my letters. Yes, I had been writing to Erik, at least once a week. Perhaps it could be considered strange, a little mad even. But it helped me to relieve my tension, and made me feel like I actually had contact with someone. Ironically, I sealed up each letter with Erik's morbid red skull. Now I was the one writing notes!
A couple months passed and I made two successful trips to the upper world. Erik's money was barely depleted; after all, I had only bought food, candles, and a few other necessities.
No, my real concern was my dread suspicion. I had not had my flow since the incident, and I was definitely getting fatter. But it was not until I could no longer fasten my dress that I finally accepted the truth. I was pregnant. I cried; I sobbed; I lay on my bed for days.
As I lay there my mind drifted to a thought that I had not explored before. What would my baby be like? I had not thought of the child as a person before, just a problem. As I let the idea of a new life, a life that was all mine, permeate my brain, I felt a fierce surge of protectiveness shoot through me. A little person was growing inside of me—a person who needed my love and protection.
All my life I had been the dependant one. I had leaned on others for support—refusing to make decisions. Now I realized it was time for me to grow up. I was seventeen years old—many women were married and in charge of a household by now. For the first time, some one became more important than me. Oh, I had loved people before—my father, Erik, even Raoul—but I had never completely put someone else's happiness before my own. I placed both my hands on my stomach, and made a fierce resolution. For the sake of this child I would get up and make a life for myself, I could not continue to wallow in self pity. I focused my mind into listing the things I needed to do.
I needed money. I had enough to last me for a long time, a year even. But even so now I would have to support two people—and I needed a future means of income.
I needed somewhere to have my child. I couldn't have it down here—I had to go somewhere where a midwife could be summoned. But who did I have to go to? Raoul? I laughed bitterly, I could just imagine his reaction. Still, I kept him at the back of my mind. Madame Giry was really the only person I could turn to, and I was not even sure where she was living now. But there was one chance. Madame Giry had a sister, Madame Lenoir, and I had accompanied Madame Giry and Meg to her house once or twice. I knew where she lived, and she probably knew where Madame Giry lived.
What time was it? I no longer had any real concept of time, and really didn't know if it were morning, afternoon, evening, or nighttime. I glanced at the clock—it was five o'clock in the evening. Tomorrow, I thought, I will go and look for Madame Giry tomorrow.
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London, 1890, Erik
Nervously, I composed the letter that would make Christine mine. She could hardly fail to accept my proposition—I was offering an ungodly amount of money. Seeing Christine, talking to her again, had been harder than I imagined it would be. Even though I remembered what she had done, what she was doing now, I had still wanted her. She was still beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful. Her youthful prettiness had developed into a more mature beauty. Innocence no longer shone out thorough her eyes, but now those eyes were more insightful, more comprehending of the world around her. She was no longer the gullible young girl that I had tricked before. I could not imagine this woman falling for the Angel of Music. She had not cowered before me; no, throughout the night she had been composed, smooth, angry, and spiteful, but she had not looked afraid.
She had trembled when I kissed her hand. But it had not been fright. No, I was experienced enough now to know the difference between fear and physical attraction. I smiled mockingly to myself, at least I had some small power over her. Power that I fully intended on utilizing.
When I had first seen Christine on the street my immediate impulse had been to question her mercilessly. Cross-examining her until I milked out every action and emotion she had committed and felt since the day she left me. But as the day had gone by I had settled on a different plan. A plan that gave me power over her, and dare I dream it, access to her bed. Her reaction to me at the soiree had only consolidated my plan. I still had power over her, and I could get more power yet. As I made my plans, a mocking voice in the back of my head questioned me incessantly. Power? Pah, she is the one with power over you. Can't you see that the woman doesn't want you? Don't make yourself that miserable, pathetic creature once again. But I ignored the voice. This, I told myself, was purely revenge. I would make her mine, and then I would be the one to leave. Leave? The voice said with a laugh. You leave Christine? Never! Finally, I thought, Christine and I would be over and done with. I no longer loved her. Ha. I just needed to complete what I started long ago.
Convinced of my own reasons, I finished the letter, sealed it, and had a boy take it to her house. Paying him generously, I told him to wait for a reply. Now that I had sent the letter I was assailed with doubts. An unbearable restlessness seized me; I simply could not sit around in my hotel and wait for the reply. Grabbing my cloak and hat, I left to go for a walk. It was dusk, my favorite time of day. The sun was just setting, casting a golden glow over the world that reminded me of candlelight. I truly did not like the intense midday sun, but I found the gentle light of dawn and dusk entrancing.
I wandered aimlessly through the streets of London—a dark brooding figure that people left alone. Inevitably I found myself on an intersection that turned onto her street. I stared down it and scowled, I would not go there. Instead I went down one more street, and turned there. I walked along until I came to the house I knew must back up unto her property. Through the trees I could see the back of her house. I glared at it as if it were the root of all my problems.
"Whatever is wrong mister?" a childish voice asked, piercing my reverie.
I looked down, a little girl had climbed onto the gate of the house directly behind Christine's, and was now leaning over it rather precariously.
"Get down from there," I ordered, rather sharply. But the girl seemed unfazed.
"Whatever for?" she asked. "It's my gate."
"You might fall," I replied, in a rather softer tone of voice. As I looked at her, I was suddenly struck by how much she resembled Christine. Riotous chestnut curls dominated her head, framing her heart shaped little face, and big brown eyes stared out at me curiously. She couldn't have been any older than ten.
"I won't fall," she said. "I do this all the time. Why are you standing in front of my gate?" she demanded. "Do you know my mamma? She can't see anyone today you know, she is ill and I have had to be quiet all day long."
"I am sorry to hear that." I replied, "But I don't know your mamma, I was just admiring the lovely roses in your front yard."
"Well," she replied, wrinkling her nose. "You certainly didn't seem to be admiring anything. You had such a frown on your face. My aunt says that if you frown too much your face will get stuck that way."
A slight smile turned up the corners of my mouth, "Well," I said, amused now, "I certainly wouldn't want that to happen."
"Not that I can see much of your face anyway," she said. "Why are you wearing a mask? Are you going to a party?"
"Don't ask too many questions," I replied softly, "Don't you know that curiosity killed the cat?"
Her eyes twinkled mischievously, "My momma is always telling me that, and I always answer that I am not a cat."
"Belllle, Belllle," a voice called from inside the house.
"Oh, it must be dinner time," Belle said, jumping off the gate. "It was nice to meet you mister, but I have to go now."
"It was nice to meet you too Belle," I replied, "Au revoir, mademoiselle."
"Goodbye," she said, before running up the drive and into the house.
Belle, I thought, a fitting name for the little girl. She would certainly be a beauty when she grew older. I sighed, now that Belle was gone, I had nothing to distract me from Christine's reply. I turned around and started back to the hotel. Hopefully she would have sent her answer by now.
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London, 1890, Christine
I sat in a chair in my bedroom, trying fruitlessly to read. When I had finally dragged myself to the cottage that morning Antoinette had been waiting for me, and as soon as she saw me she had insisted I lie down. Later, I had persuaded her to let me sit up. I had not told her what had happened yet, but I knew that I would soon have to. She, of all people, would wish to know of Erik's appearance.
Abruptly, I was brought out of my abstracted thoughts by the ringing of the bell. Drat that bell, I always hated when it rang. It was skillfully connected to my other house, my fashionable house where I entertained gentleman, and whenever an important caller or message came Brooke rang to let me know.
Sighing, I put down my book, and went to the mirror. I was not dressed as fashionably as usual, but if it was a caller I would have Brooke inform them I was not at home. I turned to make sure the door was closed, and then pushed the spring in the mirror which allowed it to open. I entered the passage that connected the two houses and descended the steep stairs. This passage ran from my room in this house, the homey cottage, to my room in the other house, the gilded love nest. The stairs were concealed within a chimney, then the passage went underground, and another staircase concealed in the love nest's chimney led up to my bedroom. There was also an entrance to the passage way in the cellars of each house. This passage way was the key to my life. This way I could pretend to be a normal mother to Belle, while maintaining the activities that would eventually buy us freedom. As far as I could tell, Belle had no idea that I lived such a double life, and although I might have to tell her about it one day, I was resolved to preserve her innocence for as long as possible.
I went into my bedroom, and rang the bell for Brooke. He arrived promptly and presented me with a letter on a silver salver.
"This came by message boy, Madame, and he is waiting downstairs for a reply."
"Thank you Brooke," I said, and picked up the letter.
With a bow, Brooked departed the room, and I turned the letter over. It was directed to Madame Carpentier in an elegant flowing script I knew very well. Erik. Trembling, I opened the letter, and smoothed out the paper. Reading quickly, I blanched, the letter was not threatening. No, it was merely a repetition of Erik's offer, but in more specific terms. Staring down at the script, I could hardly believe the sum of money he was offering me. With that money I would never have to work again, I could retire. But no, I could not, I would not. I had been willing to do many things in my career, but I would not sell myself to Erik. Still, the longer I looked at the paper the more seductive the figure became. I was imagining a different home for Belle, a good school, and most importantly freedom. Blessed freedom. And it would not exactly be unpleasant whispered an insidious voice in the back of my head. Sighing, I imagined being able to shed my pretences, living this life was very hard. Perhaps Belle would never have to know about my present profession if I could just quit soon enough. I desperately wished that Belle would never know that I had sold my body.
Looking over at the clock, I realized I had been sitting here for half an hour. There was really no need to wait, I had made my decision. I went to my writing desk and painstakingly wrote a reply to Erik.
Sir,
Upon reflection I have realized that your advances are no longer as repugnant to me as they were last night. I agree to your terms, and shall await your convenience.
Your Obedient Servant,
Madame Carpentier
I smiled, satisfied with the brief epistle. Erik could not fail to perceive the irony of the words.
I rang for Brooke, and had him deliver the letter to the message boy. As I handed him the envelope I suppressed a brief urge to snatch the letter back from him. No, I had committed myself to this course of action, and I would not turn back. I was not the scared little girl I used to be.
(a/n) Thanks for reading. R&R please! (a/n)
