Ch 3 – The Prison of My Mind

My dreams had changed drastically in nature, but the main figure was always the same. That obscure object of fear, desire, and temptation had altered from an ethereal angel, a voice in the darkness, to a voice clothed with the warm and solid flesh of a very real man. Him. The Phantom. My mentor, friend, and guide, and most lately and surprisingly, my suitor.

He troubled me. He troubled Raoul. He troubled nearly everyone he came in contact with, and yet it was impossible not to think of him.

I often dreamed of fire. Of candles. Of the set of Don Juan, of the real, terrible, fire that had followed, and of the fire of passion – something I had very little real idea about.

He was always there, though. Always. Masked, unmasked; even at times (to my shame) unclothed, though I had never seen him so.

I never dreamed of Raoul.

I told myself that this was because I saw him nearly every day, and had no need to see him in my dreams. But I wondered.

And when, after a few months at the chateau, I began to dream of the warmth and heat of kisses and caresses…those were the Phantom's, too, though I had had but few. Raoul's daylight embraces began to pale in comparison.

This bothered me, a great deal, as well it might.

Finally, I could stand it no more. Surely the heightened emotion of the time, my inexperience, my fears about the upcoming wedding and my new life, and the thoughts which tormented me were combining to make the Phantom take on more importance to me than he actually had.

I had already decided to put paid once and for all to these foolish romantic fantasies of mine – for so they surely were – when the storm that had been threatening with Raoul broke. I do not wish to record the details, but suffice it to say that, if I had caused him pain in the past, he repaid me, however unintentionally. He was unwilling to believe that I had given up his ring in remembrance of anything less than a consummated affair. This was not only unjust, but I was all the angrier for having had guilty thoughts about exactly that, something that, at the time, I did not want to admit even to myself.

The solution seemed obvious. I told Raoul that I missed my old friends. Since political matters in Paris had cooled off over the previous month, he very understandingly packed me off to visit the Girys, who were delighted to receive Raoul's letter. In truth, we both needed time to think.

In his anger, he had told me that, in order to prove my love, I would have to return his ring to him. In my anger, I told him that I'd gladly do exactly that if I knew where it was. He kissed me as I left, and sheepishly told me to disregard his unreasonable request. I told him not to worry.

Seeing the Girys was a breath of fresh air. After the fire, Meg and her mother had settled in a small yet comfortable house not too far from the site of the old Opera House. Mme Giry was giving private dancing lessons, and Meg had been accepted to the Corps de Ballet for the new Opera House, which was currently under construction.

We toured the site of the new building – which was to be even grander than the last, though I'd not have believed it possible – and had spent many happy hours reminiscing and getting caught up, when I finally asked the question that had long been uppermost in my mind.

"What became of – him?"

Meg and Mme Giry exchanged glances. They knew immediately whom I meant.

"You heard he had escaped from the mobs and disappeared?" Meg asked tentatively.

I said that I had. That much had penetrated to me in my retreat.

Meg appeared about to say something, but –

"No one has heard from him since," Mme Giry said, and would say no more.

I could see that I was going to have to find a solution to the doubts and questions with which I now assailed myself daily on my own. That, or never know another moment's peace.