Chapter Four
The house on the Rue du Faubourg Saint Honore was quiet when she returned. No doubt her parents were dressing for dinner.
Even as endless inquiries were made into disappearance of her younger brother and the opera singer, the daily rituals of life went on.
"Madame," the butler informed her, "a note arrived for you. From Normandy."
She took the envelope and hurried up the stairs, hoping the servant had not noticed her dusty and wrinkled appearance.
In her room, she did not call for her maid. She removed her black walking dress as best she could without help and stood before the mirror in her corset and chemise.
Leaning towards the glass, she examined her skin for marks. She noted, with some relief, that the high collar of her dress had protected her throat. Or perhaps the noose had not been so very tight…for there was only the faintest line across her neck.
But on her arm, she found five small dark bruises…where his hand had gripped her wrist.
In the drawer of her dressing table, she found a small jar and gingerly dabbed the salve onto the blotches.
That unexpected encounter in the ruined theatre had tired and frightened her. She wanted nothing more than to sink into her bed and sleep.
Still, her parents would expect to see her at dinner. These past months since Raoul had vanished from the Opera Populaire had been so trying for them. She would not give them any further distress.
She dressed in a gown of black silk and fastened a heavy gold bracelet on her wrist. It was uncomfortable, but it concealed the bruises.
The envelope still lay on the little writing table by the window. She picked it up and broke the familiar seal.
My dearest little sister,
I am writing this letter to you and not to our parents as I do not wish to alarm them.
There is no sign of our brother or of Mademoiselle Daae here in Normandy or in any of the Breton towns. I continue make inquiries, but there is no reason to believe that either of them has been here since Gustave Daae's death.
I shall be leaving for London in a few days and will pursue the search there.
It was good of you to come to Paris to keep our parents company. I know how many things must claim your attention at home, especially your husband's estates. I trust that his nephew will manage them well in your absence.
I will write to you again from England.
Philippe
She sighed, and returning the note to the desk, when down to the dining room where her parents waited for her.
"Helene, my dearest child," her mother said with a little smile, "you look quite pale. Where have you been all afternoon?"
"I went to the Opera Populaire," she admitted as she spread the damask napkin on her lap.
"The Opera Populaire," her father echoed, setting down his crystal water goblet, "Helene, why on earth would you go there?"
She met her father's surprised gaze across the table as the servants began ladling a light, creamy soup from the massive tureen.
"I hoped to find some sign of Raoul," she said, "or encounter someone there who might have some scrap of information that would help us."
Louis de Chagny shook his head in amazement at his daughter. She had changed so much since her wedding, since leaving Paris for the estates in Sicily, since her husband's sudden death.
"And did you find anything?"
"No, Papa. Nothing."
She picked up her spoon, but did not touch the soup.
She would not…no, she could not tell them about that strange, unexpected encountered on that dark, desolate stage. They would gain nothing from knowing that the Opera Ghost, the man linked to Raoul's sudden disappearance was still alive, still there.
"But," she said gently, "I had a note from Phillippe."
She almost regretted mentioning the letter when she saw the hope in their eyes.
"There is no news. He is going on to England…again. I think he will go on to Sweden, too. Perhaps Mademoiselle Daae has family there still."
She laid her napkin on the table and rose, not watching to see the sadness her brother's absence brought to the family.
"I'm sorry, Maman, Papa. I'm afraid the visit to the old opera house was tiring. I think I shall return to my room."
Suddenly, she needed loneliness. She wanted only the solitary sanctuary of sleep and silence.
In her room, she changed into a nightdress of plain white silk. She laid her gown over a chair; her maid could see to that in the morning.
When she removed the pearl-studded bracelet, she saw that the bruises had darkened…blue-gray stains on her pale arm.
She hurriedly brushed her hair and worked it into a braid. Then she extinguished the lamp and retreated into the sanctuary of the large bed with its pale blue drapery.
In the darkness, she traced the heavy gold wedding band…then her fingers slid up to her wrist and she held back a little cry as they found the mark of the Phantom's hand.
And for the thousandth time, she cursed her husband for dying.