Thanks for all the reviews! We broke 200 by a wide margin! I'm glad you all liked Signor Donato. Unfortunately, I can't let our couple be happy for too long, as you will see.
Altercations
Raoul swallowed the last of the wine in his glass then held it out for his brother to refill. "I'm at my wit's end, Philippe. Christine is seeing someone else, I know it, but I cannot seem to prove it."
"She's an ungrateful wretch. You should make up your mind to forget about her. Find someone else to dally with for awhile. One of the dancers, perhaps, if you are still besotted with that damn opera house." The elder de Chagny speared a piece of meat forcefully.
Raoul shook his head. "I can't. I promised her I would look after her."
"And she gave you your ring back. That absolves you of all responsibility." He turned his attention back to his meal.
The Vicomte ignored his barely touched plate as he sipped his wine, gazing out the window at the falling snow. It had snowed the night he and Christine had pledged their love to one another on the rooftop of the opera house, the night that madman had killed the stage hand. What Christine had ever seen in that lunatic, Raoul could not fathom. Good riddance to him.
He watched the people on the sidewalk entering and leaving the Hotel Meurice. There was the Countess de Cherbourg and her newest paramour. A member of the Vicomte's gentleman's club walked by with a woman Raoul knew was not his wife. And that woman over there, standing next to the tall man in a long cloak who was hailing a cab, she looked exactly like Christine.
"Christine!" he exclaimed, jumping up from his seat and jarring the table. Both glasses of wine tumbled over and only his brother's quick reflexes saved the bottle.
"What are you on about, Raoul?" Philippe asked, irritated.
"I swear to God that's Christine out there, getting into a cab with a man." Ignoring Philippe's cries to think about what he was doing, Raoul raced out the door of the restaurant as the cab pulled away from the curb. He flagged down the next cab that came past. Leaping onto the side of the carriage, he told the driver to follow Christine's cab, but not so closely as to be noticed. He wanted to find out where her mysterious lover was taking her.
Fifteen minutes later, the driver pulled his horse to a stop across the square from the Opera Populaire. "I believe that is them over there, Monsieur," the driver said.
Raoul looked out the window of the carriage, watching as the cloaked and hooded man helped Christine down from the cab that stood in front of the theater some thirty yards away. The man paid the driver then paused on the sidewalk with Christine for a few moments. He was carrying some kind of attaché, which he handed to her. Raoul was beginning to think he had acted a bit rashly in following Christine, when the man in the cloak pulled her into an embrace. Before letting her go, he brazenly kissed her on the lips.
Fury flooded through Raoul. How dare this man debase Christine on the street for the world to see! He was out of the carriage in an instant, tossing some francs at the driver. But by the time he dodged the sparse traffic to cross the street the man was gone. Only Christine remained on the steps of the opera house, and she appeared to be leaving.
"Christine!" he cried, "Christine, wait!"
She paused at the top of the steps then turned to face him. "Raoul! What are you doing here?" She clutched the large portfolio to her chest like a shield.
She was afraid, he realized. "I saw you, Christine. I saw you kissing that man!" he blurted out. "Who was he?"
A look of terror crossed her face but was quickly replaced by one of anger. "That is not any of your concern." She started toward the theater doors. Raoul grabbed her arm and she stumbled, going to her knees. The portfolio slid from her hands, papers spilling from it when it hit the ground. "No," she cried, trying to scoop them up before the wind blew them away.
Raoul chased after them as well, shuffling the sheet music into a semblance of a pile before presenting it to her. Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him and, for a moment, he regretted his harsh words to her.
Then he took note of the title on the top piece of music he held—Don Juan Triumphant. Rage clouded his vision and he had to shout to hear himself over the roaring in his ears. "This is the Phantom's opera! Why would you have this, Christine? Have you been lying to me?"
Snatching the music from him, Christine shoved it into the portfolio. "He would have wanted me to have it," she said indignantly, swiping at her tears. "He wrote it for me. If you must know, I had an audition tonight, and it is the perfect piece to show off my voice." She got to her feet, brushing at her skirt.
He grasped her by the wrist, his fingers digging into her flesh. "Perhaps that is true. But that still does not explain why that man had his hands on you, or why you allowed him to kiss you. Are you that desperate to leave the Opera Populaire that you would barter favors for the opportunity?" He dragged her closer, his hands on her shoulders, shaking her. "Why do you give yourself to strangers yet refuse me, the man who loves you?"
Her gaze searched his face anxiously and then her eyes widened in realization. "Let me go, Raoul. You're drunk."
He was close enough to her now to inhale her scent. She smelled of roses and vanilla and the odor brought back sweet memories of their months together. She had once allowed him to touch her, to kiss her. Raoul pushed her up against the railing, feeling the heat of her body against his. The need to taste her overcame him, and he crushed his mouth to hers, his tongue finding its way between her lips.
Christine's hand tangled in his hair and he almost believed she wanted him as badly as he did her. Then she was yanking on his hair as hard as she could, letting out a scream as he broke the kiss. He staggered back from her, tasting blood. She had bit him as he had pulled away. She had bit him!
By the time he had returned his attention to her, she was gone, vanished into the shadows surrounding the opera house.
Christine ducked through the side door of the theater, the portfolio with her Angel's music and drawings held tightly to her chest. She inhaled deeply, forcing back a wave of nausea. Downstairs. She had to get downstairs. She would be safe there.
Hurrying through the empty backstage area, Christine entered La Carlotta's dressing room. Lighting a candle from one of the gas jets, she opened the mirror and stepped through into the secret passage. The candle cast wavering shadows on the stone walls and she realized her hand was shaking.
"Strong, I have to be strong," she whispered. "He didn't hurt me. There's nothing to be frightened of." Still, the thought of Raoul's hands gripping her sent a shudder through her.
She kept her calm until she finally entered the lair through the mirror, not willing to trust herself with the boat. "Angel?" she called out.
Silence greeted her. Setting the leather case down on a table, she removed her cloak and gloves, letting them fall where she stood. Dizziness made her stagger and she caught the back of a chair for balance. Lie down. She would feel better if she lay down.
Christine crossed the lair, tripping on the top stair to the bedchamber but managing not to fall. Making her way to the bed, she tumbled onto the mattress. As she lay there, her heart beating wildly against her ribs, Christine remembered there was something her Angel had told her to do before he left her. It was something important, but she couldn't recall what it was.
All she could remember were Raoul's hands on her and the taste of his alcohol-soaked breath as he had forced his tongue into her mouth. She didn't want to remember that. Think of the audition. Think of her Angel sitting beside her, singing for her. A smile on her lips, Christine closed her eyes.
The Phantom called out Christine's name as soon as he entered the lair, taking off his cloak and mask. Frowning at the lack of an answer, he glanced around the room. Her cloak lay discarded on the floor. Something was wrong. He had felt it since the moment Cecilié had said Christine had not stopped by her apartment to tell her the good news about their new positions with the Gran Teatro de Fenice.
He entered the bedroom to find Christine sprawled on the bed, her eyes closed. "Christine!" Moving to her side, he felt her forehead. It was clammy with sweat and the pulse at her throat was racing. He tried to wake her to no avail. Damn it. She had been too nervous to eat before the audition, so she had promised him that was the first thing she would do when they returned to the opera house.
Leaving her for a moment, he returned with a jar of honey. Opening it, the Phantom dipped his finger into the sticky sweetness then slid his coated finger into her mouth, stroking her throat to make her swallow. "Christine," he called again. "Christine, please. Don't do this to me." He forced another dose of honey down her. The third time his finger passed her lips, he felt her tongue stroke against it. The sensation went straight to his groin, and he despised himself for feeling the stirrings of arousal in the midst of such a desperate situation.
"Christine!" Her eyelids fluttered then opened halfway. Her lips parted to accept his offering of honey, and she licked his finger clean. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, touching her cheek as the confusion cleared from her eyes. "Christine, please don't frighten me like that again."
"Angel? What happened?" With his help, she sat up. He pressed more food on her, some bread and dried apricots. She chewed automatically, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. "How did I get here?"
"Eat now, ask questions later," the Phantom told her, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside her. He had plenty of questions for her, but he kept silent as she ate.
Finally Christine shook her head when he offered her another apricot. "In a minute," she told him.
He stroked her face gently, asking, "You promised me you were going straight to the kitchen and then to see Cecilié when we parted in front of the theater. How did you end up down here?"
She leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I don't—" He felt her stiffen. "Raoul," she whispered, "Raoul saw me on the steps. He—he said he had seen you kissing me. He thought you were a theater owner, and I was offering you favors to get a position. He was drunk."
Anger churned in the Phantom's gut, but he forced it back. "Did he hurt you, Christine?" he asked, his voice unnaturally calm.
Christine's arms tightened around him. "He pushed me up against the railing and tried to kiss me. I pulled his hair and got away. All I could think about was getting down here, where I knew I would be safe."
Anger became blinding fury. "I'll kill him!" he growled, leaping to his feet. "You nearly died because of him! I swear I will kill him!"
"Angel, no!" she pleaded.
"No! He has been a thorn in our sides for too long, Christine. As long as he lives, we will never have peace!" He turned to leave, but she caught his arm. He shook her off roughly. "I have to do this!"
"No, you don't," her voice was calm, assured. "I am fine. There is no need for you to do anything. We are so close, Angel, so close to escaping. Please don't do this."
But the Phantom couldn't let it go. Raoul's attempt to force himself on Christine would not go unpunished.
He stalked out of the bedroom and into the main room, going straight to the Punjab lasso that lay coiled over the back of a chair. He picked it up, feeling the weight of the rope in his hands, imagining it around the Vicomte's neck. Raoul would be surprised at first and then the Phantom would tighten the noose slowly, cutting off his air bit by bit, until the Vicomte's face began to turn purple and his eyes to bulge. He would let Raoul see him then, let him see the face of his executioner. Terror would take over, perhaps he would fight back, perhaps he would plead for his life, probably he would piss himself. The Phantom would show him no mercy; he would just keep tightening the rope, tightening it until he ceased to struggle, until his lips turned blue and his eyes rolled back in his head and–
Turning around, the Phantom came face to face with a monster. His distorted and twisted image leered grotesquely at him from the mirror he had shattered over a week ago. He closed his eyes against the sight, but he couldn't stop the voices. Murderer! Devil's child! The words echoed in his head. Loathsome gargoyle!
He dropped the rope, bringing his hands up to cover his ears, doubling over. Repulsive carcass! Beast! No... No... He wasn't a demon, a hideous creature. He was a man now, a man! A better man than Raoul by far. Christine loved him. She loved him.
Slowly the rage began to die away, the voices fading. He straightened up, opening his eyes. The sight of the lasso lying at his feet turned his stomach. Tasting bile at the back of his throat, he moved away from the rope, lurching up the stairs and into the bedchamber.
Christine sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped together in her lap, her head bowed. He could hear her whispering over and over, "Mother of God, please protect my Angel, Mother of God, please protect my Angel..."
He fell to his knees before her, wrapping his fingers around hers. He pressed his forehead against their joined hands, sobbing, "Forgive me, Christine, please forgive me."
Her fingers brushed over his damaged cheek as she pressed her lips to the top of his head. "There is nothing to forgive, Angel."
"But I wanted to kill him," he choked out. "I saw myself putting the noose around his neck–"
"But you didn't do it," she told him softly.
The Phantom looked up into her eyes, seeing the same love as always shining back at him. She slipped off the bed to sit next to him on the ground, wrapping her arms around him as he leaned against her. He let her warmth soak into him, thawing the bits of wrath and jealousy left in his heart.
Two more days and Christine would be his wife. Three more days and they would never have to think of the Vicomte de Chagny again. "Three more days," he whispered to Christine.
"Three more days," she whispered back, kissing his forehead. "And then we shall be free."