VII. Black Despair
"Adhemar, present the remaining prisoners."
Once again, Gaston was pushed to his knees roughly before a towering shape in black robes, a tall man with shoulder-length dark hair and a scrap of cloth tied around his head, covering the place where his right eye should have been. Swarthy men were all around him, holding him down, and he could not see who the one addressed as Adhemar was. From the corner of his eye, he could glimpse Claude beside him, with his head lowered, and Serge at his other side, trying to appear as upright as possible. Then the man's scrutinizing gaze turned upon him, and all he felt was cold, and every thought left him.
When the man turned his attention from him at last and warmth returned to his limbs, the first breath he took felt like a breath of new life, like being born again. The burning charcoals on the lines of braziers seemed so much brighter suddenly, every grain of dust on the rough stone floor so much clearer. When he was hauled up again, he was almost glad for the pain. It showed him that he was still alive.
He and his remaining three companions were thrown into a corner, where they were left lying, guarded by a few of those swarthy men taking their posts nearby. Getting up to his hands and knees with some difficulty, Gaston crawled over to the wall, where he slumped down, his arms wrapped around himself. Serge followed, spitting out a mouthful of blood. As so often, he said nothing, but all muscles in his face seemed clenched, a grimace hewn from marble, and his green eyes shone strangely in the shadows.
"Curse him", Gaston muttered, his eyes following the men and women in grey, brown and black rags walking past them, going about their chores – whatever it was they were doing – so close, and yet so distant, like a surreal vision, a dream. He wanted to beat his head against the wall until he woke up, or else was senseless, but felt too weak for it. "Curse the bloody Phantom! That swine of an Opera Ghost! That criminal! That lunatic! That… that…" He spluttered himself into silence.
Scrubbing back his short sweaty curls, Serge spoke, slowly and softly as always. "Not the Phantom."
"Not…" Gaston stared at him. "Are you crazy? That bloke was the Phantom if I ever saw one!" One of their guards cast a glance at him, and he lowered his voice to a hiss – which felt better anyway; his throat was so dry. "And he's taking revenge!"
"No", Serge insisted. "This man is not the Phantom."
Gaston groaned and massaged his left elbow, which he had seemingly hurt horribly, though he did not quite recall the occasion. "How do you want to know?" he wheezed. God, his throat was sore!
"I've seen him. Once when on duty up in the flies. Shortly after Buquet died. He stood right opposite me. Only some twelve feet away. He just stood. And looked at me." If that was possible, Serge lowered his voice even further. "He wore a black cloak and a mask. A peculiar mask, covering only half of his face. For a moment we just stood and looked at each other. Then I nodded at him. Like at any other I would meet up in the flies. And he nodded at me, too. More like a small bow, actually, a very small bow. Then I looked down for a moment, because I thought I heard something. And when I looked again, he was gone."
Surprised, Gaston regarded his fellow stagehand from the side. This was the longest narrative he had ever heard from Serge. "You mean to say that you would… recognize him?"
Serge nodded silently.
"That makes things clear to me", a husky voice suddenly spoke up from Gaston's other side, and despite his usual calm he winced at the sound. After being taken hostage, for whatever reason and to whatever purpose, and witnessing how one of his colleagues had been murdered, most of his self-control had dissipated quietly, leaving him a nervous, trembling wretch. To his relief, it was only Claude, who had apparently crept up beside him and listened to their conversation. "Because I have wondered", the rough-faced, stocky man continued, "what they could possibly be after. And now, with what Serge says, and with what I've overheard… I can't be sure, of course, but I think they want to get someone to come to them. They want poor Jacques's body to be found. They want it to be known that they are there." His brow furrowed in thought. "Or else, they want to blame it on someone."
"The Phantom", Gaston said. "Who would kill anyone here, apart from the Phantom?"
"Exactly", Claude agreed. "Which means that the Phantom, with all the trouble he's in for anyway, would want to exculpate himself at least from this murder, wouldn't he? And maybe even get the chance of blaming some of his deeds on somebody else. So he'll go looking for them. And since he is probably the only one who knows his way around in the cellars, he would be the only one to find them… and to find us."
Frowning into the fire of one of the braziers, Gaston mentally repeated this all to himself. It was a far-fetched theory somehow, but it made sense. It made perfect sense. And this was what scared him.
Hulot was crouching off to the side, with his finger drawing shapes into the dust.
"He may be our only hope", Serge muttered.
"Yes", Claude said. "We must hope that he'll come and find us, and that he'll find us soon."
Gaston swallowed. There was something constricting his throat, something painful, and breathing suddenly was difficult. Was this what having a lump in one's throat felt like? He assumed so. And this was a particularly painful one. Should their lives really depend on someone like the Phantom now, someone who had terrorized the Opera House for years? He did not want them to. For all his life, ever since his father's old employer, a rich man of noble birth, had thrown them out, it had seemed to him that the only one he could truly trust was himself, and that he depended on nobody but himself now. His father had been a drunkard, which had been the reason for his former lord to get rid of the bothersome servant and his family, and Gaston had been thirteen years old when he had been forced to keep his family alive, doing all kinds of work, whatever he had been able to get. He still missed the large, sprawling manor in the countryside, the place where he had grown up, but the Opera Populaire was some comfort, and never had he felt as much at home in a place as he did now since they had been forced to leave the nobleman's service, although there had been the constant and growing dread of this Ghost, of what lurked in the shadows. But he had kept himself upright and fought down his fears; after all, the only one he truly trusted was himself, so he could not give in. No, he could never give in. Not even now.
And he would not hope to be rescued by the only one he had ever feared. "Or we could try to escape", he said, as softly and at the same time as firmly as he could.
Serge sighed, awkwardly rubbing a bruised cheek. "How?"
"We must find a way", Gaston insisted. "We must!" And as soon as possible, because otherwise he would go mad, not able to help himself… and somebody else might die.
Hulot. They would kill Hulot next. Jacques had shown weakness by showing his fear, and they had killed him. Hulot showed weakness by being thoughtless, by dreaming away and letting his mind wander. It was not that fear or anything else made him do it; he always did it. He was a constant dreamer. But people often judged him to be feeble-minded when they knew him not well enough, and this impression would be enough for that man, whoever he was, to have Hulot killed next.
And if Hulot died, Gaston would never forgive himself, even though it would not be his fault. Hulot was a friend, just like Serge was. Hulot was one of the few friends he had. Like Serge, Hulot did not speak much, and many of the other stagehands found his clumsiness annoying, but for Gaston, this one particular colleague, the very same Jean Hulot who most of the others called an idiot, was oddly likable in a way he did not quite understand. Hulot was so gentle, so… harmless. He would not even hurt a mosquito about to sting him. Therefore, Gaston reasoned, it was not right to hurt Hulot.
And he would not suffer to let anything happen to his friend.
"There might be a way", Claude whispered. "A way to save at least some of us, and to get help. It's risky, very risky in fact, but it might work."
"What?" Gaston demanded. Serge remained silent, but the same question was written in his oddly serene green eyes.
"Listen." Claude's voice was barely audible, and his eyes constantly darted towards the men guarding them, as well as to those passing them by, no matter if seemingly with a purpose or without. "Can you two run?"
"I can", Gaston said, and Serge gave an affirmative nod. "And Hulot can, too", Gaston added.
"Good. On my signal, you run. You make for the door as fast as you can. Is that understood?"
Serge frowned. "This is never going to work", he muttered.
"It's our only chance of escaping on our own", Claude insisted. "It's not that far to the exit, and there are not too many people in our way. At least one of you should make it out. And then you can run and hide somewhere, and try to find your way back up."
"What about you?" Gaston asked.
Claude shrugged. "I'll do my best to distract them."
"We can't leave you behind!" Gaston protested in a hiss, giving one of their guards who was looking at him a hateful glare.
"One of us will have to distract them", Claude replied. "And this will be me."
"I don't want to leave you here." Gaston would not give up so soon. Though he would rather leave Claude than Hulot, he thought, although he hated himself for thinking in such a way.
"You must." Claude's hard face was determined. "I wouldn't make it anyway; I think I've spread my ankle."
Serge nodded slowly, and the subject was decided. When Serge, after thorough consideration, agreed to something important, it was hardly possible to change his decision. Reluctantly, Gaston nodded as well.
He cast a glance at Hulot. The tall, pale man was still busy drawing into the dust at his feet, seemingly unaware of his dark hair hanging into his face as well as of the others' whispering together. Gaston would have to tell him, and he only hoped that Hulot would be ready to do whatever he needed to do; his friend could be difficult to convince of something's necessity sometimes.
Again he felt how something constricted his throat. They might not make it, he knew it. But it was their only chance.
A man went past them, grey-haired but with a swift, determined stride. From his fine black cloak, it was easy enough to tell that he belonged to those in charge here. Pausing for a moment to regard the prisoners, the unsteady, flickering light illumined a face that was smashed in at the right side, as if from a very forceful blow. Involuntarily, Gaston shivered. Who could wreak such distraction on a man's features, and how?
"Very well", Claude said with surprising calm, "this is what we'll do." As he explained, it seemed to Gaston that his desperation even increased.
