Sorry this is short, but I'm in school (evil grin here). There will be another, Chapter XV, later this evening.
Disclaimer: yadda yadda ALW yadda Leroux (heheh)
Of Knights and Dragons
Chapter XIV: Gold
"Nature's first green is gold, the hardest hue to hold / her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour / then leaf subsides to leaf / so Eden sank to grief / so dawn goes down to day / nothing gold can stay."
(Robert Frost)
Christophé's home was a modest affair, Christine discovered later that evening, but surprisingly warm and welcoming for all of that. It was a small two-storey flat tucked away in a corner of two quiet streets, only a few minutes' ride from the Station. Lamplight and candlelight spilled out from the square windows onto the street, small golden squares highlighting the roughly squared edges of the paving stones of the street.
"Diana, I have someone I think you would like to meet," the Captain called up the stairs when he and Christine walked in. He turned to her. "Come, come, let's make you comfortable," he offered kindly as he swept off his hat and coat and hung them neatly by the door. He ushered her into the parlor and left her there with a murmur about changing out of uniform, and promised to return in a moment.
She took the time to sit in one of the plain chairs and look about. She was surprised to find she had never even been in the house of one of the middle class. In her early years she and her father had traveled, never really settling anywhere. Later, she had lived directly in the dormitories of the Opera House; finally her years had seen her in luxury as the Vicomtess de Chagny, first in England, then just outside Paris.
The parlor was small, but there was a warmth to the gleam of wood and simple decorations that was comforting. From the pale curtains adorning the windows to the simple pictures on the walls, to the vase of flowers resting on the table, the whole place exuded a kind of… contentment. She blinked past something in her throat that she couldn't understand, looking about, seeing all the markings of a quiet, pleasant life, a life that had been denied her…
"Vicomtess?" said a rich, motherly voice, and Christine looked up to find Madame Doione standing in the parlor door; a stout woman, probably in her mid thirties, with dun hair and bright eyes.
"Please, call me Christine," the young singer said, rising to her feet.
"If you insist," the woman said with a smile. "And I will be Diana to you. Christophé told me about you. We both feel for your loss at the fire… I hope you are doing well."
"Oh, yes," Christine said, not even wincing at the half-lie. "Raoul and I are very happy. And we have a son, Gerard, not yet three. He's not with me now, of course," she said.
"Happiness for both of you," Diana replied, gesturing for Christine to sit again, and taking a chair opposite her. At that moment Christophé walked in, divested of his solemn blue uniform, looking dashing in a simple suit.
"I see you've met," the officer said, walking over to his wife and putting a hand on her shoulder. They're so happy together, Christine thought with a touch of… could it be jealousy? How could she be jealous, of all people, who had two of the greatest men ever to walk this earth in love with her? No, one, for Erik was dead, wasn't he…?
"Christophé told me that you're looking for a friend of yours, from the Opera days. The Persian, you called him, wasn't it? A pity you don't know his name," Diana was saying.
"I know, it makes things so much more difficult," Christine agreed with a sigh. "That's all we knew him as, though. I'm afraid I really don't know anymore."
"Are you sure he is still here in Paris?" Diana asked.
"Oh, yes. Raoul wrote me a letter saying he talked with him only yesterday," Christine said without thinking.
"Well, perhaps your husband knows where he can be found."
"It was a chance encounter," Christine said hurriedly.
"Where did they meet?"
"…at the Opera House…" she said, hesitantly, looking from one of the Doiones to the other.
Christophé leaned forward, suddenly interested. "And what were they doing there?" he said quickly, interest gleaming in his eyes. He saw Christine's hesitation and held up a hand. "If it's something you would rather not say, then I understand. I don't mean to pry into whatever affairs the two of you have here in Paris."
"No, it's… I suppose if you know my story you know about… about the Opera Ghost," Christine said, a little weakly. They nodded. "They never did find them, did they? The police and the mob…" her eyes begged for reassurance.
Christophé slowly shook his head. "It was before I came to Captaincy at Station 24, so I know no more than the rumors say in the ranks. But no, they did not ever catch him. They went beneath the lake, found those labyrinthine corridors, but the ghost was just that… insubstantial, elusive. I wonder if he was never more than just a fantasy after all."
"No, he was a man," Christine said so softly they had to strain to hear her. "Reclusive, but a man nonetheless. He had a voice like an angel, and golden eyes…" she trailed off. "But that's neither here nor there. I just know that the Persian is here, in Paris, somewhere."
Diana looked up at her husband. "Perhaps some of the older officers might know more about him or his whereabouts," she suggested.
"They might," the officer murmured back, clearly distracted. He looked up at Christine. "Well, it's growing late. We can settle you in for the night…" and the talk turned away from the Persian completely.
When Diana and Christine were sound asleep, the Captain lay staring up at the ceiling for a long time, thinking about cold, golden eyes.