A/N:

Sorry for the delay in updating, this story is moving more slowly than I had first anticipated. Feedback is important, so please review!

Enjoy.

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Chapter 2: Prima Ballerina

Dearest Meg,

I wish that you could see how beautiful Italy is. I know you have never left France, and oh! Your artist's heart would be in awe of the splendor here, both natural and man-made, though I know you cannot paint or draw any more than I can. I will try to convince Erik to perhaps make you a sketch or a watercolor. I'm sure he won't object.

The cathedrals here are grand, even more beautiful than those in Paris. I have gone to Mass every morning, and thanked God for my good fortune, that my and Erik's sufferings have at last come to an end. He, too, has been both penitent and thankful, and for that I offer praise as well, for I never thought Erik would find peace at Christ's feet.

In my happiness, it is easy to forget that there is one left behind (and you, dear friend, know of whom I speak) that has not found peace. The knowledge of his pain is the one mark on my joy, and I wonder…how is he? Have you seen him about the Opera? I know that you would notice if he were there. I dare not inquire too much, for fear of risking Erik's temper, so short where he is concerned. But I would like to know how he fares.

I will write you again soon, Meg, and I hope that all is well. Do write back, and tell me all the goings-on in the Populaire. I miss it, though I am the happiest I have ever been.

All my love,

Christine

P.S. I will ask Erik about the painting tonight.

Meg laid the letter aside on her writing desk, and tried to staunch the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Selfish as it was, she would have given anything to see Christine home again.

"I would rather see you again than all the cathedrals in the world, Christine." she whispered softly, tucking the letter away in a drawer. "And as for Raoul, I have as much hope of speaking to him as I do of painting a Da Vinci."

Her thoughts wandered to the handsome Viscomte, and they lingered.

Christine, he's so handsome!

How jealous she had been when the young man's eyes had returned to his childhood sweetheart, never noticing the small blonde who always tagged along behind! How astonished she had been that Christine would throw away his love so carelessly! And how crushed she had been when Raoul's heart did not falter in its devotion to Christine, even when Meg stood ready to take her place.

Her dowry was now substantial enough to warrant a marriage to a titled man, if any such would overlook her place as a ballerina. She had received many offers from noblemen, all written in fine hands, full of promises and barely-chaste suggestions. They all wanted her as their mistress, none wanted her as a wife. Madame Giry steadfastly refused to give her daughter's virtue away so easily, but neither would she settle for the poor sort of marriage that she herself had entered into, happy though it had been. Meg feared becoming an old maid before her mother settled on a man.

She had no doubt that Raoul would see past her position. He had seen past Christine's. But she did not know how to attract his attention. Other men saw her dance and came without encouragement. Raoul watched, and in his eyes was always the faraway look of a man whose heart is dancing in the empty spaces, looking for a woman no longer there. He would not come to her.

And she did not have the courage to go to him.

-

Philippe glanced up from his correspondence. "Ah, brother. Finally. I began to worry when you didn't meet me for lunch."

"Philippe," Raoul sunk down in a chair and passed a weary hand over his eyes. "Stop behaving in such a self-righteous manner and admit that you don't give a damn what I do."

"Oh, but I do." Philippe tossed a letter into the wastebasket. "What you do reflects on me, Raoul, and I intend to see that you cease to reflect so unfavorably."

Raoul stood suddenly and retrieved the letter. The return address had read Sorelli, and he pulled the thin paper from the envelope.

Philippe,

I will not call you 'darling' as I have done, for I see now where I truly stand. I wished you to know that the babe is born. I know you will not care what I have named her, but I will tell you that I called her Elise, after your mother, for indeed, she favors that lady far more than she favors me, if your descriptions are correct.

I do not expect you to acknowledge the babe or I. I knew my place long before I entered this unfortunate situation, and I was remiss in allowing myself to believe in promises spoken in the heat of passion. The others warned me, and I did not listen. There was no shame in taking our pleasure in each other, there are few things better for women such as I than to lie with a nobleman who cares well for them, but I was foolish to believe that there was more between us than mutual desire.

I do not blame you for this, as I know that it was an 'accident', and that it happens often, to many women. My career has come to an end, and I have little hope for a successful future. I hope to find work that will not force me into prostitution, as that is the most despicable of fates. I do not expect anything from you, knowing you as I do, but I would ask a bit of money perhaps, for the babe's sake, not mine. I am not a beggar, Philippe, but I am penniless, having run out of my last cheque from the Populaire. If I can, I will pay you back the money when I am able, or however else you might prefer. I intend for my child and I both to live, and live as well as we are able, but in my current state, the babe will be the first to suffer, and perhaps die. I do not wish this for my child, and as she is a part of you, whatever you might wish to relay to the contrary in public, I appeal to your conscience on the behalf of little Elise.

Sorelli

Raoul looked at the postmark and stood suddenly. "This was written months ago, Philippe! She and the baby both could be dead by now! For the love of God, she has asked no more than human consideration! Could you not have spared a few francs for a penniless woman who not long ago warmed your bed and gave you anything you asked of her?"

Philippe reached out and snatched the letter from Raoul's hand. "You spout your righteous drivel still, little brother? You have much to learn about the world if you think that I could send her a few coins and thus destroy my conscience's obligation to her and her bastard daughter. Once she had the first taste of my generosity, she would expect more, and beg for more, until a ruined dancer and her child would burden me forever! She chose to accept my favors, knowing that they would end if anything…unfortunate should occur. She should expect nothing more from me."

"That child is yours too!"

"An unfortunate circumstance that I offered to remedy."

"You are disgusting."

"Womanish language and thoughts, boy. I am only as disgusting as any other man who lives and breathes and possesses a man's body. Or did you yourself not take a whore and then kill her?"

Raoul's face went white. Philippe smiled cruelly, and Raoul left the room, violence hanging heavy in the air between them.

-

The Opera house drew him, like the grisly scene of a death that sickens one to the very core, but from which one cannot look away.

He did not come every day, but he came often. He came, and he sat alone and watched the corps practice, closed his eyes and listened to the voice of the new soprano, and he imagined Christine dancing, Christine singing, Christine's lithe body moving across the stage, her long legs stretching, the sensuous curve of her back arching, her slender arms and delicate hands raising above her head as brown doe-eyes and soft, full lips set in a porcelain white and smooth face expressed emotions that seemed torn directly from her soul. Whether she danced or sang, he had desired her. It had not mattered that her dancing left much to be desired, while her singing was unearthly. To see her was to want her, to touch her was to stand on the brink of bliss, to hold her and kiss her was to ascend to Heaven, to know her was to love her.

To lose her was to know agony that could only be replicated in the flames of Hell.

His dreams were filled with her. Even the most salacious dreams were tinged with love, with want, with need not for a woman's presence, but for Christine's presence. There was no sin in those dreams, and so he did not confess them. He dreamed of a married woman, but she had belonged to him before she belonged to Erik.

Erik was the sinner, the thief, the adulterer.

He hated the man with a passion that no doubt was a sin, desired his death so greatly that sometimes he felt the wanting alone might destroy his enemy.

Raoul sat again this afternoon, watching the dancers, imagining Christine was with them. He closed his eyes and heard the voice of the soprano ascend, higher and higher, and he heard Christine's voice again. He saw her in a white gown and starbursts, a woman and no longer the child he had known.

There will never be a day when I won't think of you.

He remembered the carriage ride home, just before he had lost her for the final time. He remembered how she had yielded to him, kissed him as though for a moment, she had wavered between the two men…and perhaps almost chosen him.

The music ended, the soprano's voice drifted into oblivion, and the vision of Christine in satin and diamonds disappeared.

He opened his eyes as the next song began, a soli for the ballerinas.

How like Erik he had become! He was obsessed with Christine, thoroughly enamored with her memory. What a sick madness this was!

There was no help for it.

His gaze shifted to the place of highest visibility, where the prima danced as the other rats leapt and pirouetted around her. Meg danced there, where Sorelli had once been.

The thought of Sorelli burned him, fueling his resentment for his brother and Philippe's twisted societal values.

Meg had changed in the last year. Raoul watched her dance across the stage for a moment, and he could not help but notice how her body had changed. The thin, straight lines had morphed into gentle curves of breast and hip and thigh, her legs had grown longer, the lines of calf and arch of foot emphasized by the feminine musculature developed by rigorous training. Her fingers were more delicate, the bones of her hands finer, the length of her arms more slender. Her face was taking on definition, her blue eyes sparkling with vitality as she danced. Her skin glowed a pale pink beneath the stage lights, virgin skin that had never known the touch of a man's lips, never been tasted by a man's tongue. Her body emanated sensuality not yet experienced, and Raoul's body reacted to this line of thought despite himself.

Meg was no longer the shy girl of fourteen that she had been at their initial meeting. She was sixteen now, and very much a woman.

No doubt noblemen were already vying for her as their mistress. If it had been any girl but Meg, Raoul would have theorized that she was taken already, but he knew Madame Giry. The woman would be hard-pressed to settle for any less than a proposal of marriage.

Sorelli sprang to mind again and Raoul winced inwardly at the thought of gentle Meg consigned to such a fate.

Perhaps there was a man of substance who would offer Meg marriage.

For her sake, he certainly hoped so.