One heart's darkness

Disclaimer: I only have to figure out a way to... Nah, forget it. I won't ever own POTO.

Erik: So, have you made up you mind as to whom you want to dedicate the story to?

Me: Not yet, why? Do you have any suggestions?

Erik: No, not really, other then... hmm... (cough)me(cough)...

Me: Pfff...

THANKS to reviewers. You made my day with so many reviews! Now do the same again for this chapter and for my other one-shot "A girl with no name" and I'll have the last chapter of this story posted by the end of the week. Thanks!

By the way, I put in the confession thing because, as you may or may not know, as a Catholic, you can't get divorced. So, basically, in the eyes of the church, Christine is still married to Raoul and living with Erik without being his wife. Father Bertram wants to give them some kind of blessing, but in order to do that, they'd have to confess that as a sin and as we all know, Erik has a rather strained relationship with the church.

Oh, and yeah, this story is clichè, but ya know what? I like it that way!

OooOooO

Chapter Nineteen

Apparently, Madeleine had underestimated how fast Jean could move, for he had caught her before she had stepped through the door and the expression on his face had changed from confused to angry.

"What is it now?" he almost growled.

Madeleine shook her arm in an attempt to free herself, but as he was almost a foot taller and much stronger, it was to no avail.

"I'm getting out of your way! That should please you!" she shot back.

"And why," he hissed through clenched teeth, "should that please me? I have had quite enough of your constant change of heart!"

She stopped struggling. Her temper rose, as did her magnificent voice.

"My heart never changed, which is why I was foolish enough to let myself believe I could trust you again. But now I'm leaving for good, so be happy, you and your fiancée can live in peace!"

He let go of her arm and she turned away from him, rearranging the mask on her face.

"What fiancée?" he asked, utter bewilderment in his voice. "I have no fiancée, not yet, anyway!"

Her eyes blazed as she turned back to him. "Then who was the gorgeous lady you were talking to in the lobby?"

And Jean began to laugh so heartily that it left Madeleine quite puzzled.

"That's my cousin," he panted and wiped a tear of merriment from the corner of his eye, "my cousin Isabella from Spain! Dear girl, are you so jealous that I can't talk to another woman?"

"But… but," she stuttered, "your sister told mine that Isabella Montero was your betrothed."

He grew serious. "Well, she lied then, something I will definitely discuss with her. It doesn't surprise me, to be honest, she probably guessed that Julie would tell you!"

Madeleine acknowledged that with a nod, then she lifted her chin defiantly again.

"And why would I be jealous! I hold no claim on you!"

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Well, we'll have to change that, won't we?" He reached over and plucked the mask off her face, then he pulled her close.

"I'll tell you something now, and this time you'll have to believe me. I love you. All of you, silly girl, and I will prove it to you," he said firmly, his warm dark voice soothing to her nerves.

Unable to believe her eyes, she watched as he lowered his mouth to hers. Gasping, she felt his lips against hers, a soft pressure, undemanding and gentle. He kept his kiss chaste and friendly, until she had adjusted to the strange feeling and began to return the affection.

A strange, pleasurable fire was flaring up in her belly as his kiss deepened, his tongue parting her lips and brushing against her own. Her eyes slipped closed at that, her instincts taking over as she responded to his kiss.

When he drew back finally, she had gone limp in his arms. Her golden eyes were filled with tears. A few escaped and cascaded down her cheek. Jean brushed those away with his thumb.

She pressed her slender fingers to her mouth and put her head on his chest, her silent tears slowly forming a wet spot on his burgundy waistcoat.

"I don't know… I mean, you're being perfectly nice and I'm crying," she choked out.

"Cry if you must," he advised gently, one hand resting gently on her hair, "but… do you love me back, sweet?"

She took a step back and wiped her eyes with a white cotton kerchief.

"I don't know. I mean, I know I love you, but what then? What does that change?"

He took her hands in his. "I'll speak to your father, preferably from a safe distance though." She smiled at that and he went on, "and I'll ask permission to court you. We will take it from there."

OooOooO

When Jean came home that night, Suzette was sitting in the living room on a chaise longue in front of the fire. She was embroidering a pillow case and her dark hair was pulled back in a tight chignon. The pale green linen of her dress pooled around her feet.

He stood in the door and watched her for a moment before speaking.

"Suzette Des Cars," he said simply, and she looked up at him and smiled, "Good evening, Jean."

"Des Cars…" he repeated, "how much does that name mean to you, sister?"

She raised her slim eyebrows and rose from the chair. Her gaze wandered around the sitting room before answering, lingering on the simple birch wood furniture and the lonely family portrait over the brick mantelpiece.

"It's who we are," she replied earnestly, for she sensed that Jean was in no mood for jesting.

"Is it?" he asked in return and came towards her, the sheep wool carpet swallowing the sounds of his footsteps. "I'll tell you what it is to me: Nothing! It's the name I respond to, but it holds less meaning than the dirt under my fingernails! Do you honestly think the other aristocrats would still give a damn about us, Des Cars or not? They don't, except for Raoul de Chagny, perhaps, but we might as well be dead to the rest of them! I was raised just like you, my dear sister, as a noble, but I stopped being that, and a liar and a hypocrite on the day François, Martine and Mama died. Somehow you never made that transition."

Suzette had paled considerably. She was staring down at her embroidery. Without noticing it, she had pricked herself in the finger with the needle. A small crimson spot now marred the cloth.

"Whatever could you be talking about," she whispered. She knew what he was talking about, though, and so she made no move to stop him as he turned away from her and left for his room.

She had disappointed him and she knew it. But it was not only pride that had made her act that way. She had never forgotten how proud her mother used to be of her children, how sure that one day, they would be in the finest circles of Paris.

Jean had never been too interested in elegant dinners or lavish parties, but Suzette had enjoyed seeing her mother so happy and content.

Martine, her older sister, had been engaged to a nobleman from Italy and for a while at least, their lives had seemed perfect. Perfection, she had realised a short while later, was a fleeting thing indeed.

OooOooO

Madeleine had lain awake most of the night, absentmindedly touching her lips and dreaming of the feeling of Jean's kisses.

She had told her mother everything, and Christine had been delighted. She had also promised help in convincing Erik to speak to Jean without strangling him.

Strange, Madeleine mused, she would have imagined to have trouble believing it, especially here, in the familiar safety of her room, with it's forest green carpet, the oak panelling and the warmth of her feather blanket cocooning her. But the throb of her heart reminded her that last night had truly happened. And with a last thought of Jean's gentle eyes, she slipped away into sleep.

OooOooO

Erik had been quiet and pensive after their return from the Chagny mansion and had requested to be left alone so he might compose some more, but Christine had paid attention and all the instruments had remained silent that night.

The next day, the frosty atmosphere didn't dissipate, and by dinnertime, Christine was fed up with her husbands smooth and elusive manners, that covered up his emotions.

Madeleine had excused herself and gone wandering off into the opera again and she and Erik were alone at the table.

They hardly spoke until they had finished the meal and were starting on dessert, at which point she reached over and lightly placed her fingers on her husband's.

He flinched. His thoughts had been elsewhere and he returned her smile hesitantly.

"What were you thinking about, my angel?" she inquired gently and he took a deep breath before replying, "I have decided not to take up Father Bertram's offer. I will not 'confess' anything."

She nodded. "That's fine."
Erik was so startled by this answer that he almost dropped his bowl of chocolate parfait.

"You don't mind? But religion means so much to you! Because of me, you are a 'sinner' in the eyes of your church!"

Christine kept smiling.

"Oh, Erik, how I love you!" She got up from her chair and sat down upon his lap. "This marriage is blessed by God, I'm sure of it. Just look at our wonderful daughter, who, by the way, has asked me to tell you that she wants to get baptized next Sunday, if that is alright with you."

Erik grimaced, but nodded. "I did tell her to make up her own mind about God and the church… But what else are you not telling me?" he asked suddenly, noticing the mischievous smirk on his wife's face. She looked especially beautiful, he saw as well, with a dress in rose coloured satin and the table was set with the good china. The candles were lit… had he been to preoccupied to notice that?

"What is going on?" he half-growled, "You are preparing me for something, I know it!"

"Well," Christine began and put her head on his shoulder; "this really magnificent young man has fallen in love with your daughter, and, well, Madeleine asked me to tell you…"

OooOooO

A/N: Whoooot! Smoochies! More smoochies! D'you want more smoochies? Hehehe... ok, you know the drill: At least... 12 REVIEWS! Oh, and take a guess at Erik's reaction, I'll even give you a hint: It was a good idea of Christine to sit down on him before telling him!

Love you all!

P.F.A.