A/N: A couple of trivia points for this marathon chapter. The exodus of British and US nationals on 27 October was the last opportunity for all those lucky enough to carry these passports (plus other necessary documents) to leave the city. At this point provisions were becoming so scarce that even the more determined foreigners mostly packed their bags and took advantage of it. Meanwhile the retaking of Le Bourget was welcomed as a reversal of fortunes, and revived the hope among the populace that the siege was nearly over. Consequently, those who had hoarded food or bred animals began to sell faster, trying to make money while food was still generally unavailable, resulting in falling prices and a very brief reappearance of better fare.

The title of this chapter, "On a Bridge", comes from one of Erik Satie's famously atonal piano compositions, which you can find on YouTube. It also echoes a quote from an 18th century Hasidic scholar, Rebbe Nachman, which became a popular folk song: "Kol ha'olam kulo gesher tzar me'od, veha'ikar lo le'fached klal." — "All the world is a very narrow bridge, and the main thing is not to succumb to fear."

Enjoy!

Chapter 51 — Sur un pont

He was either exhausted beyond reason or simply gone mad. Likely both, because surely no man in command of his faculties, having begun the day as an accused traitor, would end it by sauntering into a heaving restaurant on the eve of an all-out battle, to inform the waiter over the distant boom of artillery that he was being accorded the honour of serving the loveliest woman in France, and that a table had to be found at once. It was fortunate that Christine had greater tact. Her smile and gentle words had gone some way to reassure the unfortunate young man that beneath her suitor's bandaged and bedraggled appearance, he was a respectable gentleman with a deeply respectable wallet, capable of sane conduct and of paying the bill.

"We are celebrating freedom, monsieur," she had explained, and the waiter had readily concurred: the news from Le Bourget was better than anyone could have hoped. They had emerged to find the village taken and held, awaiting only daybreak and reinforcements. The liberation of Paris was at hand.

And he was here to have dinner with Christine Daaé. His Christine; irrevocably, incomprehensibly entwined with him; her arm laid firmly upon his, there for all the world to see.

The waiter's gaze followed Christine's form with perhaps too much admiration, but this was not the moment to quibble: a table was theirs, and Erik saw the tremor in Christine's hands as she took up her menu. Beneath her poise, she was intolerably hungry, and all he'd had to offer was the measly hunk of bread that Louise had shoved into his hands. When the first course arrived, Christine reached for it like a ballet girl stealing chocolates, quick and ruthlessly determined. Her broken cuff and imperfectly pinned curls somehow made her all the more glorious to look at; Erik could not tear his eyes away.

Christine speared a tidbit of meat and hesitated. "Won't you eat something?"

"Not yet."

Truth to tell, he was not at all certain that his conduct could be described as sane. His thoughts careened wildly between ecstasy and doubt, one moment overflowing with gratitude, the next mocking his own hopes. Had this been music, it would have been tuneless and purposeless, nothing but waves of sound clashing against the noise of the other diners. How could Christine be so calm? He had exposed her to the winks and titters of the gossips, had put her in the compromising situation of having to speak for him, even sing for him… And yet, she spoke of what they had done afterwards as her own due. How could she want this? He was too exhausted to make sense of it beyond the simple fact that he was alive, and that for some unfathomable reason, Christine wanted to share this life with him.

The main course arrived, as convincing a roast rabbit as any before the siege, betrayed only by the whiff of horse fat that ought to have been butter. Christine did not seem to mind, and her delight was wonderful to behold. So much food here, so much wine and celebration. The waiter had muttered something discreetly about hoarders in Les Halles, but Erik did not bother listening. The jubilant tumult of the restaurant seemed an orchestra around them; the clinking of glass and arrhythmic percussion of cutlery and sporadic cheers framed their silence: Christine eating, and he watching her every move, only moving now and again to refill her glass with water or wine.

She stopped his latest effort before he could lift the carafe, and noticed his full plate. "That's enough; it'll go to my head — you haven't even touched your food!"

"I can't, Christine. My heart is too full."

"You must tell it to make some room for your stomach," she said lightly, and her cheek dimpled a little. He could kiss her there, later.

He ought to be thinking of the future, whispered some remnant of his sanity. Who could tell; this news from Le Bourget might indeed be the foothold the city needed. They might yet live. He must think of his small income and the ways to support Christine properly, and of jewellery and dresses. A woman, he vaguely knew, had requirements beyond those he might be aware of, and must have her own rooms and certainly a servant, and a carriage… Or was a carriage not required? And in any case, where was one to find any of these things in a city on the brink of explosion?

No. No, he was mad. A man would do all this first: a stroll along the Seine, a chaste kiss placed lightly upon her crown of neatly-rolled hair, a dance, a night at the theatre, and then a visit to his banker and at last, a ring. That was what suitors did, he was certain of it. But he…

Christine raised another forkful to her lips, and Erik was forced to clamp his teeth on the inside of his own cheeks, trying not to imagine the astringent taste of wine still in her mouth, or the way those lips would open to sing. All he could think of was the extraordinary sensation of melding his body to hers and feeling her soul accept his mangled one. It was monstrous to think this way. He could not help himself. Christine must have guessed something of his struggle, for her foot under the table slid along his, from toe to ankle, and he did not think it an accident.

"This is more and better food than I've seen in weeks." Christine's voice was soft as water lapping at his skin; a man could drown in it. "Thank you."

"My pleasure. It is our luck to have come here now. Yesterday there might have been nothing here but bread and turnips. And tomorrow—"

"Tomorrow will come soon enough."

"Yes. It must." Erik took a napkin and dabbed a corner carefully against Christine's mouth, where a stray crumb could have lingered; only there was none. She smiled a little, and permitted him to do it. He let his little finger graze her lip behind the napkin, a magician's trick that no suitor should dare, but Christine looked squarely back at him, even as he felt the tip of her tongue. Was it his imagination, or did she seem to enjoy it?

Hastily, he dropped the napkin and busied himself with the pointless task of folding it.

"A million apologies, mademoiselle, monsieur, but I simply must speak!"

Erik raised his eyes sharply and found himself confronted with the glowing face of a musician.

The napkin fell to the table.

A musician, there could be no doubt of it, an accompanist from the Opéra. He had played occasionally, and not too abysmally, for rehearsals of the ballet. The months since had not been kind to him, he looked thinner than ever, and his reddened nose suggested too great a fondness for wine.

"Saints above!" The man's jaw slackened. "Christine Daaé."

"Monsieur Ballard," Christine greeted him with impeccable dignity. "Good evening."

"Ah. Good evening, mademoiselle." The hapless man yanked at the velvet lapels of his coat in an effort to impart to it an elegance it did not possess. Erik was deeply glad he had not eaten, because his belly roiled, threatening him with the taste of bile. What in the Devil's name was this?

Ballard's eyes flickered wildly between him and Christine. There could be no mistake; he knew exactly whom he had so boldly addressed. Erik found his own voice rasped unpleasantly when he spoke.

"Sir, you are disturbing my fiancée and myself. Kindly go away."

Christine glanced at him sharply, and Erik had the sudden clear sensation that he had missed a hidden beat. Her brows jutted together and she looked away from him most deliberately.

Ballard's narrow face crinkled in worry, "No, please, I beg you! You mustn't think me forward, but I had the misfortune of missing your performance earlier today while I was on duty, and to hear it, all Montmartre has been transformed. And now…"

"And now," Erik seethed, "Monsieur Ballard, you will leave us in peace."

"Monsieur, er, forgive me, I don't know the name you go by—"

"Andersson," supplied their waiter, returning to the table with a look of hungry curiosity on his beaky face.

Oh God, Erik thought. They were watching, they were all watching him…

"Andersson!" the accompanist continued, with a grateful nod to the waiter, "I am the chief pianist at the Folies, the very dance hall where you sang!"

"Delighted." Erik felt anything but.

"And, and, and — it would give me the greatest pleasure if you were to help us celebrate the news that reaches us from Le Bourget!"

"Celebrate how?" asked Christine, quietly enough to force the noise around them to subside a little.

"Why, with a concert!" Ballard declared, as if it was patently obvious. "What better way to celebrate our deliverance?"

"What you are suggesting is illegal." Erik kept his voice as low and bland as he could. Go away, he willed mentally, to no effect whatsoever. Not only was Ballard still standing over their table, but his flamboyant behaviour had drawn the attention of a bigger audience than Erik had realised; the front door was opened to the freezing evening, and too many faces were peering in.

"Christine." He tried not to panic, not to breathe shallowly, not to stand too quickly. "We are leaving, now."

She understood; by some hidden genius of her own she knew to ask nothing but allowed him to help her into her coat, and pulled on her gloves. The waiter was conveniently hovering nearby, presenting no difficulty in settling the bill, and then, thankfully, they were free to depart.

"Leave me your card, Monsieur Ballard," Christine asked the man in parting, to Erik's surprise and irritation. He wanted to be gone; what sort of time was this for social pleasantries?

However, the address was duly produced; Christine slipped it into her coat pocket and preceded him out of the godforsaken restaurant and out into the cold street. The crowd parted before her; it was fortunate for them that nobody jostled or otherwise offended her, because Erik did not feel capable of restraining himself just then.

Outside, he needed to be outside and away from all this noise. He shoved himself and Christine through the crowd and half-ran into the depths of the unlit street, Christine keeping up with quick steps. The gates to the cemetery were padlocked at this hour, of course; he turned and headed instead for the stairs up, taking two at a time, until they were finally out in the open, on the causeway of rue Caulaincourt. There was not a soul in sight; it might have been a deserted bridge over some river, but for the smell of the gutter and the barely visible roofs of the tombs in the great black expanse of the cemetery below. The evening air felt icy after the warmth of the restaurant, biting at the exposed half of his face.

Erik clutched the parapet and tried to halt the impulse to keep running. The iron was freezing cold against his ungloved hands. There was nobody in pursuit, the stairs remained clear, and the street empty.

"It is too much." Arrest, liberation, music, desire… He had to hold on to himself now, he could not leave Christine to deal with a mad creature running from the light. "You should not have taken that fool's card."

Christine removed a glove and laid her hand over his. Her breath fogged in the air. "He meant us no harm. The theatre was packed earlier today; they all heard us sing. There is nothing to be done about it now."

"He knew me. He looked at my face, and yours, and he knew."

"What of it? All he knows is the same nonsense the papers trumpeted all those months ago, the same thing the girls at the Variétés believed. Christine Daaé had a strange admirer who wanted her on the stage, and superstitious theatre folk believed in a ghost. It is old news." Her profile was soft in the cloud of her breath, and there was no rancour in her voice. "It is history now. Like everything before the war."

Erik stared down through the bars into the cemetery, and tightened his fists on the grate. "What of the deaths? And the fire." Speaking it was hard; his mouth resisted the words.

Christine sighed, but did not remove her hand from his. She was quiet for a long time, mourning. "You can't undo what is done. But you know the police were only too glad to believe it when Raoul and I said we knew nothing. The Comte came to speak with them too; it would hardly have served to drag his own name through the mud. Perhaps there was money involved, I don't know, only they left us alone after that."

Erik took off his hat, despite the cold, and held it between both hands. It was neither costume nor disguise. "I owe you my life, Christine. You and the Vicomte."

"Yes," she said simply. "We must go to the ambulance in the morning. Raoul came a long way to speak for you. For us."

Erik replaced his hat and turned to face her. His heart was pounding fit to burst, but he felt very calm now, and entirely himself. "Come with me to the mairie before that, first thing tomorrow."

Christine frowned. "What for?"

"What for?" Erik repeated in bewilderment. "To sign what is already done! Let us be wed properly, Christine."

To his astonishment, Christine only shook her head. "It is Friday tomorrow, they will be dispensing ration cards all morning. And besides… Erik, let us not speak of it now. It is very late, and we have a long walk ahead of us."

Her teeth were chattering, Erik realised, and a flood of shame and tenderness overwhelmed his own fears. He should never have kept her here in the cold; it was as dangerous as it was thoughtless. There was no excuse, he must learn to look out for her better than this. Hastily, he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over Christine's shoulders, embracing her over her protests.

"Don't, you'll freeze!"

"Forgive me," he whispered, "please, Christine. I will try to make you happy."

She held his coat closed tight, its bulk of fabric vast as a cloak around her. On an impulse, Erik leaned down and kissed both her hands through the gloves, one then the other. She put her cheek against his as he rose, with the bandage between them.

"Erik, take me home. It's been a very long day."

Without another word, Erik picked her up and held her. Even in his coat, she was feather-light, and when she laughed, he only held her closer to his chest. He carried her thus, all the way home.

o o o

The next days flowed by in a haze so strange and peaceful that Erik might have almost feared it the product of his own delirium, locked still in the mirrored torture of his cell — and yet he knew every moment was real, to be cherished and inscribed on his heart against whatever else the future might hold. Madame Giry and Meg met their safe return with immense relief, and evinced no surprise at their tightly linked hands, or at the brazen goodnight kiss he dared to plant on Christine's forehead. Perhaps after the duet that had ended his ordeal, they had expected no less; Erik was too tired to question it. The late hour, past curfew, made conversation impossible, but Madame Giry's arm placed on his for a moment spoke all that was needed. He was alive, and he was welcome.

He slept like the dead that first night, rolled in his blanket on the rug before the divan that was too short and narrow for his frame. The door was kept shut and it was late morning when he at last came to, groggy still with the vanishing memory of some extraordinary dream.

"I brought you coffee," the girl in the dream said. He sat up, and saw it was no dream: Christine sat perched lightly on the edge of the divan, looking down at him, gorgeous and uncorseted in the silk folds of her morning dress. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee rose from a cup she had set on the side table.

Too late he remembered his unmasked face and the unwashed state of his shirt. He raised a corner of the blanket to hide the worst of his scars; it was all he could do.

Christine studied him with undisguised curiosity, and something more; a warmth in which he recognised the memory of the previous day. "This is nice."

"What is?"

"This. Seeing you wake up."

Perhaps he was still not entirely himself. "What of the others?" The apartment seemed entirely quiet and uninhabited; the only the low mutter of rain against the windowpanes offset the silence.

"They are collecting ration cards. And Meg is to meet again with some newspaper man with whom Monsieur de Gas is acquainted; she left this morning with a whole binder of sketches under her arm." Christine passed him the coffee cup and saucer, and Erik had no option but to let go of the blanket to accept them. The coffee was very black, almost sweet, and hot enough to wake him fully. Christine watched him sip it.

"There is no news of a sortie," she said in answer to a question he had not yet formed. "Nothing at all. So we can do some work when you're ready." She nodded at the piano, where her music book had been restored to its place on the shelf above.

Erik set his empty cup back on the side table and glanced down at his shirt. "I need a wash. Christine, you should not be seeing me like this."

She dismissed this with a small grin that pierced him right through, and served only to increase his self-consciousness. "I'll heat some water. You can rinse that shirt out if you like; we have an iron to press it, now that the laundries have all closed. I'll find something you can wear."

"My mask… I'll need some linen."

Her grin faded. "Five minutes," she reminded him. "Five minutes when you are with me."

"It has been twice that long already."

Christine jiggled the empty cup on its saucer, an unhappy music, then stood up in defeat. "There must be some in the sewing things. I'll look."

He heated water and scrubbed the worst of the grime from himself and his sweat-stained shirt, then dumped the remaining hot water in the bath, filled it, and climbed in. It was very warm and deep; he had not permitted himself such a luxury in a long time. He sat back as far as the small tub permitted. It felt strange but not unwelcome to be so immersed, to sit motionless and without thought. At the other end of the apartment, Christine was picking out something new on the piano, in a strangely pleasing repetition that rose, fell, stumbled and rose again, never resolving into any key. With his eyes shut against the daylight and the water lapping at his chest, the music transported him back to the lake, where droplets were falling endlessly, soothingly, upon the dark green surface.

"...Erik! Erik, open the door, please, please open the door! Erik!"

He flew awake so violently that the back of his head struck the edge of the tub.

The frantic hammering on the door broke off; Christine's playing had ceased and she was right outside. "What was that noise? Erik!"

"One moment!" He surged from the tub in a crash of zinc and water, drying himself with a wad of towel in one hand while he searched desperately for his clothing. "What is it, what's wrong?" Vague images of barricades and shellfire tore through his mind.

Silence; then a softer, embarrassed tone. "It has been two hours. I feared… Never mind. Your linen and robe are here. We must be at the ambulance soon, or they will not permit the visit."

His pulse slowed a little. Had Christine thought he might drown in that water, or come to some other harm? The thought of her being concerned for him was so peculiar that Erik did not know what he felt.

By the time he had unlatched the door, Christine was gone. She had left behind a loose dressing-robe she had found, gold and green, printed in a facsimile of the Japanese style, and a roll of clean linen to bind his deformity. Erik did what he could with both.

"Oh," Christine said when he emerged, and her gaze trailed the edge of the robe, open at the neck and ludicrously inadequate as anything approaching clothing, but sufficient at least until his own shirt could be dried. Christine wore a proper day dress now, and Erik regretted the loss of all that softness behind its strict lines.

"I am going to kiss you," he warned her.

Her eyes sparkled. "No buttons. It suits you very well." She meant the robe.

Erik felt the heat rise to his bare neck and seep to his scars under the linen. "I feel like one of those pashas in Dupré's ridiculous paintings."

"Well. You could take it off if you prefer." She made this suggestion with a perfectly straight face, betrayed only by the bloom in her own cheeks. "I left the iron heating in the kitchen, for your shirt."

He understood the implied invitation to hurry, and took it up with a will, trying in vain to make up for the cursedly long time he had wasted lounging about. Christine was delightfully obliging, tilting her neck to grant him access to her skin, and but she took no liberties of her own, and when he moved to her mouth, she did not permit his kiss to deepen past her lips. "Shirt," she said breathlessly, with so sweet a sound of regret that he could not deny it. "Go, or we'll burn the building down."

He honestly could not have cared less if the building and everything in it was reduced to ashes, he thought as he struggled with the heavy iron and steaming shirt; it would give him all the better reason to carry her off at once and never lose her again. But there were Madame Giry and her daughter with their own worldly possessions; and in any event, he had no desire at all to be the cause of any destruction. He had Christine, he had some semblance of an income and the hope that when at last the siege ended, he could resume his role as an architect and look after her with all the tenderness and comforts of which he was capable.

That was all he wanted, all he had ever needed. Perhaps he truly was a traitor, because he cared not a whit for the machinations of the diplomats and the grotesque incompetence of the government, nor for the increasingly desperate hunger among the poor or the processions of men bearing rifles and placards and calling for new elections. As long as Christine was by his side, all the world could go to Hell and remain there.

Christine stayed by his side all through the damp walk to the ambulance. When at last they arrived, the scene was wilder than either he or Christine had anticipated; the victory at Le Bourget was not without cost. Wounded men, covered in dust and with their faces grey in exhaustion, were borne in on every manner of waggon and donkey-pulled cart, and received like some dilapidated baggage train of a lost army. Everywhere were orderlies and nurses with their Red Cross armbands blazing through the cold misty afternoon, ladies hurrying with packets of rolled bandages, and the rapid fire of surgeons' instructions relayed across tents in a mixture of Latin, English and French. A fine drizzle hung in the air, and beaded on Christine's dark eyelashes in minute diamond droplets that looked too much like tears.

In all this well-oiled chaos of a great human machine, the officers' large tent was an oasis of quiet. Fully half the beds stood stripped bare and obviously vacated. The Vicomte's bed was one of those.

"He's gone," Christine said in disbelief, looking around as though she might have found him behind any of the other faces of the remaining men. "How can he be gone?"

An officer Erik had not seen before, laid on his cot with one leg in what seemed to be a weighted splint, looked up from the day-old newspaper he was perusing. "Who is it you're after, mademoiselle?"

Christine looked his way hopefully. "Lieutenant de Chagny. Do you know something of him, monsieur?"

The man glanced at the direction of Raoul's empty bed. "I imagine he went with the others. Had he English papers perchance, or American?"

"No," Christine said, mystified. "Whatever for?"

"Perhaps you have not heard? The Americans negotiated safe passage from the city for them and theirs, and the English as well. They all left today, by way of the Porte de Sèvres."

"But he is an officer!" Christine protested. "And I am certain he could not have had any foreign papers."

The officer shrugged, "A few of the others were officers too, from this very tent. It's extraordinary what a little pain and privation can do to help some men uncover their true loyalties. Then again, perhaps they have the right of it. You know what they say about rats leaving the ship."

Christine could say nothing to this barely-veiled bitterness, and Erik took the opportunity to steer her outside. He hated these tents, with their sickening odour of chloroform and seaweed, and the ever-present shadow of agony.

"I must find him, Erik, I need to know where he is gone, and why. He did not look well at the hearing." Even as she spoke, Christine's eyes searched the medics for someone less occupied, whom she could importune for information.

Erik touched her elbow to indicate a nearby small tent, where the back of Doctor Swinburne's white coat was could be seen between the raised flaps of canvas. "He ought to know."

At that moment a group of medics emerged from the tent, with Swinburne in the centre of it. He looked trim and unperturbed as usual, from which Erik gathered that he saw nothing here out of the ordinary, except perhaps a busy day.

"Ah!" Swinburne exclaimed, recognising Christine at once before she could venture anything. Erik stepped closer, lest the man permit himself any unnecessary familiarity. "Mademoiselle Daaé. Just the lady I had been hoping to see today. And," he glanced at Erik, "your even more obstinate friend. I see you have not followed my advice regarding your dressings, sir. A pity; a great pity."

"Monsieur le docteur," Christine returned his attention to her question, "What has become of Raoul de Chagny?"

"He left us this morning."

"Left you? I don't understand."

Swinburne raised a placating hand to a nurse who had come to ask him a question. "A foolish idea, after his escapade yesterday, but there is no accounting for men of his type. To tell you the truth, mademoiselle, I had been expecting something of the sort. It is a burden to the young men to feel themselves confined, they none of them can endure it gracefully. Chagny did better than many."

"Then you know where he is to be found?"

"He was discharged into the care of one Henri Guyon, evidently a friend, and by his own claim, a doctor's son. You know him?"

"Only a little. May I have the address?"

"I don't see why not. Mention my name to Mrs. Edmonds at the nurses' station and she will be glad to oblige you. But tell me," he frowned again at Erik's bandaged face, "have you any knowledge of what prompted his mad departure with the nuns yesterday? He was gone so long that we had begun to fear he had taken it into his head to be healed by prayer. And when he returned, I thought a good deal of our work undone."

"He wanted to help me," Christine said softly. "And he did."

There was nothing for it, Erik could not allow her to accept the blame. "It was a matter of honour. Mademoiselle Daaé had nought to do with it."

Swinburne sighed deeply, and began to turn away. "Do get rid of the dressings, sir. There are sufficient men with burned faces and purulent wounds that it is not at all necessary to add to their number. I would be perfectly willing to examine you should you fear to act on this advice unseen."

Christine wisely caught hold of his arm before Erik could express all he thought on the subject. He restrained himself long enough for the man to be gone from his sight. "Examine me," he said, in a low, ugly voice that even he found distasteful. "He would examine me, and every freak who wanders into his clutches, and parade them before his students like a sideshow of curiosities."

Christine moved his arm so that their elbows were linked lightly, and Erik surrendered his anger and shame before this gentle caress.

"Let's go find this Mrs. Edmonds now. I want that address."