A/N: This is definitely a record for me. A week between chapters, wow. But I couldn't leave you hanging in such suspense…so I decided to add some more. --runs from enraged mob-- This chapter takes place at several points of time in the future…what sort of future, I will not say at this time. It is short and somewhat ominous. But I advise you not to make any assumptions; they might not turn out to be true.

Chapter 15

Interlude

The Londres estate was sold at an outrageous price mere hours after it was made available for auction. Few of the richest denizens of Paris could resist the convenient location of the beautiful estate. Fewer still could resist the chance to own the residence of the infamous M and Mme Fell. The aristocrats never tired of whispering about the couple's involvement in the Opera Garnier, especially the events of 1882. Police had questioned them more than once but had discovered nothing. Less than a year later the couple disappeared from Paris, presumably to return to America, pausing only to sell the estate. The population wasn't sure what to believe. They only knew that after their departure, the mysterious accidents in the Opera House stopped altogether.

The new Duke and Duchess enjoyed the attention and jealousy of their fellow aristocrats for a few years before memories began to fade. As the 20th century rolled around, people lost interest in ghosts. The new Duke watched in horror as his title became no more than a trinket of a primitive past.

One evening the newly widowed Duke was turning a pistol in his hands, when he realized he had forgotten to load the weapon. His trembling, searching fingers wandered over many places before they touched the crumpled, yellowed sheet of paper stuffed behind the cushion of his armchair. There were words in faded red ink scrawled upon the paper in what looked like a child's hand. The pistol fell from his shaking fingers as he read. He could hardly hold the paper as he stumbled to his front door and made the journey across town.

The note was auctioned off at the Opera House for a few francs less than the price for the shattered chandelier. The new Duke used his money to throw lavish parties at his estate and died a few years later a satiated if unhappy man.

The note was purchased by Comte Raoul de Chagny, who had it framed and placed in a glass case with his poster and music box. He spent nearly half of his inheritance on the purchase. He lingered for months afterwards in the elegant, empty halls of his estate, his ears straining to hear the forgotten strains of a waltz and the laughter of party guests, the sun sparkling on the Seine in a way that disguised its cold depths, the smiling blue eyes of his angel… His nurse, now the only other resident of the estate, answered his mail and peeled his fruit daily as he hung upon the tattered rags of his memories.

He listened to the music box regularly, watching the Persian monkey play its cymbals. "Will you still play, when all the rest of us are…dead?" he sang into its empty eyes night after night.

The Comte de Chagny put a pistol in his mouth the following year. He had no surviving family, and his possessions were auctioned off within a month. The music box went to a foundling hospital, where its haunting, tinny melody made the neglected children shriek with glee.

The note was cast into the Seine as a piece of rubbish. There was no one left who remembered.

Brown waters consumed the fibers of the aged, yellowed paper and rendered them quickly unreadable. The words passed out of all memory…

I can't believe that I am doing this. For all of my miserable years of existence I have never yet succumbed to the urge to pour out my thoughts in such a crude fashion. I have hated writing for as long as I can remember. Left-handedness, after all, was the mark of the Devil. The few memories I retain of my early writing lessons are not pleasant.

It is one thing to take out grievances on inanimate objects: God knows how many hapless pieces of furniture have fallen victim to my rages over the years. It is quite something else to see them written out so plainly and inescapably. But as I have not yet fallen so far as to consider destroying my host's furniture, I might someday forgive myself for this moment of desperation. And I can always burn the evidence any time I wish.

Where shall I begin this pitiful excuse for a confession?

A child with a demon's face met with little sympathy from a world glutted with God and virtue. I will bear the scars of their righteous care for the rest of my life. But I have never known such pain as I feel now and yet I don't want it to end. A perversity of my mind refuses to let me dwell on anything but her.

We are a match made on earth, forever suspended between heaven and hell and barred from both.

I gladly relive her departure over and over if it means that I remember the scent of her hair, the touch of her skin. The softness of her lips. It is difficult now to curse God for making my life a living hell when I seem incapable of doing anything else.

After the first few days—when I could think clearly once more—I noticed that by standing next to the air vent on the far wall of this chamber, I could heard everything being said in the dining room on the floor below. An absurdly simple trick of acoustics, but one that I've come to find invaluable. Did my hostess know of this?

I have no doubt of it.

The "Duke and Duchess" take meals in that dining room often, and always together. Each day she casually discusses the local news—letting me know that we are safe from danger.

They receive few visitors. The police have been here once. Clarice Starling brought the officer into the dining room and cheerfully discussed silver patterns for over an hour. The Sûreté did not send any more men.

It is a strange and dangerous life they have chosen to live. I escaped underground so that I would not have to live a false existence within society. They, on the other hand, revel in deception. They go to the galas, the bistros, the operas…and the world adores them. I can't help thinking that their veneer is more genuine than the pomp of other families with several generations of noble blood running through their veins.

The image does not come without a price. The moment they walk through the doors of this house, their spirits seem to crumble. They have given so much to the public that there is none left for home. There is no tenderness here. They eat together but conversation is stiff and empty. Arguments are few, but when they happen, the servants cower and the floor beneath me trembles. I never remember the subjects of their disputes; they are overshadowed by the purity of their anger.

I should expect it. How long could they live under the weight of their borrowed identities if they could not sometimes cast aside the burden? How long could I have lived in my masked existence if not for my music—when I could lose myself in a world more pure, with no ugliness?

But that world is no more. In this music room I have made no music. I have not spoken in over a month, much less lifted my voice in song. All that is left is to pour out my thoughts in this cheap and desperate manner. But I see that even now I am using eloquence to mute my despair.

Christine…I love you. And I am dying of love.

I both laugh and cry at the simplicity of it.

The words ended here and the paper underneath the final line of writing was scorched and blackened, as if it had been drawn quickly away from a flame. The edges of the page had remained intact through the years until now; they crumbled beneath the dark waters of the Seine and were lost in its depths.