Here it is, the horrendously delayed Chapter 25, a.k.a. proof that the author is still breathing. I would love to promise to update regularly from now on, but unfortunately I am still working on my thesis, and will be doing so until late March or a nervous breakdown, whichever comes first. So, please be patient with me – and if you are still reading, please leave a review, you'll make my day!

Trivia for this chapter: A bit of historical background, for those of you who are interested in such things. Towards the end of August 1870, France had two armies, both of which were in serious trouble. The first, under the command of Marshal Bazaine, was hopelessly besieged in the fortress of Metz. The second, Marshal MacMahon's Army of Châlons, was hastily brought up to strength with a bunch of new recruits and half-baked officers, and sent off to try to break the siege. MacMahon's army, in total disarray, was in no fit state for such a manoeuvre. Meanwhile, the Prussians were closing in.

A quick reminder: When last we saw our characters, Raoul was heading off to the army, and Christine and Erik had just visited her father's grave, before Erik left Paris.

Chapter 25 – An Evening In The Country

Night was falling fast. The tiny town of Le Chêne was uneasy, filled as it was with officers and surrounded by army tents as far as the eye could see. The 12th corps had been camped there through most of the day, having roused the town from its sleepy life with the tremendous confusion of arriving officers and orderlies, foot soldiers, cavalrymen, gun layers, artillery wagons and, as a the centrepiece of this chaos, the baggage train of the Emperor Napoleon III, who was still accompanying the army despite having officially relinquished command.

The townsfolk had of course opened their houses to the officers, but the illusion of welcome was wearing thin. Raoul saw the way their eyes tracked the soldiers sullenly, heard their muttering in the streets. The army would not remain to defend them, they said, but would march onward in the morning, retreating further and further north and abandoning them to the Prussians.

"What will happen to us?" women kept asking him, just as they asked the others, catching his sleeve, looking into his face with despairing eyes.

Raoul was forced to admit that he did not know, that it rested with the superior officers and he was only a sub-lieutenant. Each time he said it, he felt the betrayal in their eyes like a slap across the face. It was one thing to be useless in Paris. To be useless out here, worse, to know himself to be just one more untrained officer among so many others – that was maddening. He had held few illusions about the army after the reports he had studied in Paris, but he had thought that somehow, being here would be better than watching it from afar, that somehow he could take a rifle in his hands and stand with those who would drive the Prussians back over the border.

Well, he had his rifle. He even knew he was a good shot with it – unlike some of the green recruits who had never before seen a breech-loader – thanks to his father's involvement in provisioning the army. At the time, Raoul had thought that using a châssepot for hunting fowl was ridiculous, but right now he was glad to have had the practice. Yet no amount of practice would do him any good, when they had not so much as caught wind of the Prussians in the two weeks since he joined the regiment in Châlons. All they seemed to do was march endlessly across the countryside, trudging across chalky plains, fields, mud, often going for days with no more food than potatoes and coffee when the supply train was lost or delayed. The physical strain of those marches, the nightmarish days when Raoul thought he would die before reaching camp – all that would have been bearable had there been something to march towards, a confrontation, a fight. But the enemy eluded them.

Raoul knew he was not alone in his frustration. The other officers and the men had grown increasingly restless, especially after yesterday, when news had come that the Prussians were massing at Vouziers, offering battle. They had marched at the double, rushing gladly to face at last these phantom enemies. Yet here they were at Le Chêne, a stone's throw from Vouziers, and there had been no sign of the Prussians anywhere in the area. They had ended up spending the entire day in camp, waiting for nothing, until in the afternoon a telegram arrived, saying that the forces of the Crown Prince of Prussia were at Châlons, catching them in a pincer between two armies. There was no choice. Even with the limited knowledge of tactics Raoul recalled from his schooldays, it was obvious what the marshal's decision would be. They would have to retreat.

How, Raoul wondered, could he look the people of Le Chêne in the eye and tell them that?

He did not meet the gaze of any of the passers-by as he walked. On the corner of the town square and the Vouziers road, an entire house had been commandeered for the Emperor and his entourage. Several officers loitered outside, hoping to catch some news from the aides-de-camp who came and went through the open front doors. Raoul joined them.

"Take a look at that!" Cloutier, another lieutenant, a tall broad-shouldered man with the bearing of an old soldier, said by way of greeting. He flicked a cigarette end in the direction of the Emperor's brightly lit lodgings. "Cooking up a storm, while we've been down to marching rations for three days."

Behind the rain-spattered windows of the kitchen, Raoul could see three chefs hard at work on the Emperor's supper. The upper windowpanes were open, and the escaping steam clouded the evening air with smells of roast chicken and the faintest suggestion of melting butter. A fleeting image brushed Raoul's memory, of a café in Paris and Christine taking a seat at their table... He turned away from the house.

"He is the Emperor. In any case, we have been waiting here the whole day. The supply vans cannot be far now."

"Save your optimism for the men, Chagny. Chances are, we'll be gone tomorrow before they even know where to send the baggage. Another day of marching rations for us." Cloutier released a cloud of bitter smoke from his stinking cigarette, grimaced and tossed it into the mud. "Ugh. Half tobacco, half cow-pat. Can't buy anything in this godforsaken town."

Raoul fished in the inside pocket of his coat and tossed him the wrapped packet. "Here. Left over from Paris."

Cloutier took the tobacco pouch from Raoul, shook some out, and rolled the cigarette between his blunt fingers. He lit up, nearly choking in surprise: "This is good! How is it you haven't polished it off yourself?"

"I am not much of a smoker."

"Not much of a smoker, not much of a drinker – what the hell are you doing here?"

Raoul gave a bitter shrug. "Walking up a healthy appetite, same as you. Back and forth until we get to Paris and find the Prussians are there already."

Cloutier humphed into his moustache, in agreement. "They've made a fine mess of things here, that's for certain."

A young aide-de-camp rushed out of the Emperor's house, heading for the Hôtel de Ville. Raoul hailed him as he passed by. "Any news?"

"A general retreat," the aide said tersely. "The marshal has sent a wire to Paris to let them know."

"It's done then. We're falling back." Cloutier gave a resigned sigh, breathing a cloud of smoke.

"Yes, to the Northern fortresses. The artillery is going out in an hour or so, to give them a head start. Excuse me."

Raoul stepped aside, adding his nod of thanks to Cloutier's as the young man continued on his way. So the retreat would continue; they would go on marching without a battle in sight, as though this was not a war but the migration of a horde of half-starved men... Raoul was suddenly aware of just how tired he felt, and how futile this whole escapade was. Tomorrow, there would again be no food; tomorrow the raw blood blisters on his feet that had begun to heal after a day's rest would open up again. Tomorrow, they would be running away from the Prussians... And he was so sick of running away.

"I shall see you in the morning, Cloutier."

He waited for the soldier to acknowledge his departure, then turned around and walked briskly across the square, towards the house where he had been given lodging. Only now did Raoul realise that it had grown completely dark. Around the square, many of the windows glowed gold, but their poor lamps could not dispel the peculiar, unnatural blackness that was the night in a small town, so different from Paris. Groups of other officers hurried past him, towards the Emperor's house or away from it. Raoul crossed the stone bridge over the canal that split the town square diagonally in half, then turned into a narrow street that ran out to the edge of town. The rain was starting again; the water shivered with goosebumps, and the thin slick of dirt on the paving stones was deepening to ankle-deep mud that sucked at his boots.

When he reached the house, Raoul lingered outside for a moment, despite the rain. There was a narrow gap between the buildings at this end of the street, and beyond it he could see the ground fall away, paving-stones yielding to grass. He was almost grateful to the light rain for breaking the eerie silence of this place. Ahead lay the vast empty fields, an infinite nothing. After a while, he could distinguish the faint edges of the army tents. They rose out of the rain like an armada of ghostly sails, and Raoul was reminded of the harbour in Perros-Guirec, of a rainy evening many years ago and a boy and girl racing headlong along the pebbled beach, out towards the cold, beautiful sea.

The twenty-seventh of August... Tonight was exactly a year since he had become the patron of the Opéra Populaire.

Raoul shook himself and went to the house where he was staying. The maid, a thin girl huddling into her shawl, admitted him and led him upstairs, raising her lamp before her to light the way. Although it was scarcely nine in the evening, people seemed to retire to bed early in the country, and the house was already quiet and dark. The girl lit a lamp on the bedside table for Raoul and replaced the glass chimney over the flame. The second wick flared, brightening the neat little room.

"Will you be needing anything else, monsieur?"

Raoul had started to say no, then changed his mind. "Yes. Paper and ink, if I may."

The girl bobbed her head, returning a moment later with a stack of writing paper, an inkwell and two pens. Raoul thanked her and she left, closing the door behind her.

Raoul got rid of his officers' cap, gloves and boots, then took the lamp and writing implements over to the heavy desk that stood by the wall near the window. He shrugged out of his wet jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair. A chill draught blew underneath the window-frame, rustling the paper and heralding autumn. Raoul moved the inkwell to hold down the pages, then dipped his pen.

My dear Mademoiselle Daaé,.. He paused, then went on: my dear friend. I hope I may still be permitted to call you that. I beg you to forgive my long silence—

He thrust the pen back into the holder, and sat back in the chair, running his hands over his face. Everything he could think of to say to 'Mademoiselle Daaé' sounded either accusing or presumptuous. Could he call Christine a friend? Could he ask her if she was well, if she was still dancing, if there had been any more sightings of the Phantom – if she was safe? Could he ask if she was happy?

It was impossible. He could not write to her. Hating his cowardice, Raoul took a clean sheet of paper and started again:

Dear Madame Giry,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and likewise Mlles Giry and Daaé...

He scribbled the rest of the uncomfortable missive as quickly as he could. At least the post still worked, despite the chaos of troop movements. The letter would leave Le Chêne with the morning post and perhaps reach Paris in the next day or two, although Raoul could not be certain how long it would take for any reply to find him. If the retreat went well, perhaps a few days from now he would be walled up in some fortress in the North... And in the meantime, the Prussians would have occupied this town and dozens of others.

Raoul folded and sealed the letter, then took out the tobacco pouch from his jacket on the chair and walked around the desk to the window. He opened it and stood smoking in the cold air, studying the dark.

o o o

"I'm telling you, we must leave! Pauline, are you listening!"

Erik halted in the doorway. The maid who had opened the door for him glanced up towards the stairs, where Monsieur Egrot's yells were coming from. Their house in Bazeilles had not changed a bit since Erik had been here over a month ago; there were still the same carefully tended plants in the window-boxes outside, the same comfortable, lived-in furniture and old watercolours on the walls. He had arrived here looking forward to resuming the acquaintance with Egrot, particularly because he was in need of a clerk to manage the courthouse project. He had even let the coachman go, certain of a welcome... How stupid of him. Beyond the entrance hall, the empty parlour was lit with an achingly familiar warmth.

"Pauline! Open that door!" There was the sound of a doorknob being rattled.

The house may not have changed, Erik concluded, but the owners clearly had.

"I'm so sorry, Monsieur Andersson," the maid babbled, her plump cheeks turning colours on her masters' behalf. "It's just – a bad time, that is... If you would wait, I'm sure..."

Erik was already leaving. "Kindly convey my regards to Monsieur Egrot, and commend him on his vocal range. Bon soir."

The girl looked on the verge of tears as she shut the door behind him. Erik wondered how long this concert had been going on. He picked up his portfolio and strode back along the garden path towards the Sedan road. From an open window upstairs, the sounds of a woman crying carried down to him on the evening breeze. Erik's skin crawled with disgust, as though he had reached for a handshake and instead encountered something rotten. A domestic quarrel was not what he had expected to find here.

He reached the road and resigned himself to the long walk back to Sedan. The night was clear and moonless, and once he had left Bazeilles behind, he found he could put the Egrots from his mind. Insects chirred in the hedges, falling silent at his approach, then resuming their noise. Ahead, Erik could see nothing but the stars and the ghostly, uneven surface of the road. He shifted the portfolio in his hand.

He did not need Egrot, he decided. He would find a foreman for the construction site and manage the paperwork himself. If they thought him crazy at the mayor's office for insisting to begin construction at a time when everyone else was obsessed with the war, then so much the better. He would be the eccentric architect from Paris and perhaps even his bandaged face could be simply part of his 'charm'.

Unwillingly, Erik reached up and adjusted the bandage. It was chafing at the hot, deformed skin again and making it itch, and the padding had grown damp and unbearable. A dangerous idea seized him. He looked back over his shoulder. The road was completely dark and silent, save for the sounds of insects and the crunch of stones under his own feet. There was no sign of any human presence. Setting the portfolio down briefly, Erik untied the bandage, took a breath, then before he could change his mind, slipped the thing off. The breeze was a sudden cold blast on his scars, then the shock dissolved into a vague, guilty pleasure. He stuck the bandage in his coat pocket and resumed his walk, trying to ignore the clamour of sensations on his face, trying not to think of Christine touching him there...

He gave up. The night was too dark and lonely to divulge his secrets, and there was nothing to stop him from exploring the memory of Christine's hands, of her mouth, her voice when he had dared to touch her – so surprised... He did not have to think of how he had hurt her, not now. She had smiled at him in the cemetery. She had smiled at him.

In the safety of this night, he could unfurl all his impossible fantasies and look at them as at a priceless, stolen tapestry. He would return to Paris, a successful architect, and court Christine all over again, with flowers and music...

"Andersson!"

"Merde!" Erik threw down the portfolio to catch at his face. His heart slammed into his head. He thrust his hand into his pocket, turning his back to the road and grasping for the bandage.

The carriage stopped, someone jumped out and Erik heard hurried footsteps, unmistakably Egrot's. "Wait a moment, won't you? It was about the war, you see!"

It was too late. Egrot's hand landed on his shoulder. "Blast it, Andersson, I am sorry you had to... Oh. Oh – my God."

Erik shut his eyes.

o o o

Somebody was knocking on the door. Raoul concluded this with relief, feeling the dream unravel like a rope and slip harmlessly away. Where had he been? Perros-Guirec, a beach... Christine, no longer a child, walking slowly through the cold water towards him – no, towards another man – and he, standing still as only happens in nightmares, powerless even to cry out as Christine kisses the murderer right before his eyes, her small hands cradling his face – she is saving them both, because he is useless, he can't move...

Raoul sat up. His damp shirt stuck to his body and he shivered in the draught from the window, still tasting the foul water from the cellars. Somebody was knocking on the door. The dream that was no dream slipped away, leaving behind only the sense of despair, the awful helplessness of it. He swung himself off the bed and reached for his boots and jacket, trying to wake up completely. The clock on the wall showed four in the morning.

He splashed some water on his face from the ewer on the washstand, and managed to get the door.

An aide-de-camp stood there, flanked by a maid who looked as sleep-rumpled and confused as Raoul felt. Was there a rumbling outside? Oh, he recalled, the retreat. Of course, they are moving the artillery.

"The retreat is off," the young man said. "Orders are to report back to camp immediately; we're moving on to La Besace first thing. The 1st will be coming through there."

The last vestiges of heavy sleep dissolved. Raoul stared at the aide. "But the Crown Prince's army at Châlons – the pincer." He frowned. "The march is back on?"

The aide gave a single sharp nod. Raoul realised the boy was terrified. "The marshal had a wire from Paris, from the Empress and Count de Palikao. We've been ordered to forget the retreat and keep advancing, an all-out march to meet the Prussians."

"But..." Raoul began, and then understood: "They're afraid of a revolution. They're afraid of what Paris will do if we retreat."

He glanced at the sealed letter on the table, the letter he had not dared to address to Christine. He knew he ought to be terrified, but the fierce emotion he felt surprised even him. "We're going to battle."