A/N: It's taken a while to get this into the form I wanted, but here we are at last. The title refers to Keats' sonnet, "A dream on reading Dante's episode of Paolo and Francesca" (which in turn refers to Dante's "Inferno" — isn't fanfic wonderful?). And in case anyone is wondering, this is certainly not the end of the story!
Chapter 67 — Lovers 'Mid the Rain and Hailstones
The whole of Montmartre seemed to crouch, tense as a cat at a mousehole, waiting to pounce on the first scrap of news. In the streets, every pair of eyes scanned the horizon, and every rooftop or barren spot that offered a view was packed with women and children watching the innocent-looking white clouds puff up over the northern forts with a sound like fireworks. With all her heart Meg yearned to be there among them, to see if she too might identify the Prussian batteries or at least catch a glimpse of the source of the smoke, but that was impossible. She had to support one half of the weight that Raoul de Chagny, grey-faced and shuddering with effort, could no longer bear himself. Her mother supported his other shoulder, and between them Raoul was trying his best to walk. On the steep frozen cobblestones of Montmartre his crutches had become nothing but an additional hazard, and after his second near-slip, Madame Giry had halted their ascent, wiping the perspiration from her bare forehead:
"Monsieur, let me take those bits of wood. There is no sense recounting the stations of the cross all the way to the mairie. Meg will help."
It was a mark of Raoul's state of exhaustion that he did not protest even for form's sake, but handed over the crutches and staggered obediently until Meg and Madame Giry could keep him upright between them.
"Forgive me," he had muttered to Meg as he raised his arm to lean on her shoulder, leaving her acutely embarrassed, less by the unfamiliar weight of his arm than by the shame of failure that was so obvious in his voice.
"It isn't far now," she said, trying to help, and realised too late that it had been exactly the wrong thing to say. Raoul nodded politely, but his shoulder stiffened, and Meg knew she had only reminded him of the purpose of their trek.
Christine Andersson. It just sounded wrong. Even if Christine meant what she said about not changing her life, she would be no less married. And what would that make the former Phantom — something like a brother-in-law? Now that was a disquieting thought.
At long last they reached the rue des Abbesses. The mairie squatted a little way ahead, on the corner of the square. It was an imposing building, more Paris than Montmartre, with three storeys of tall windows and a portico with a set of heavy doors in the centre of the ground floor. The entrance was patrolled by locals in Garde Nationale greatcoats, armed with rifles slung across the shoulder. They stood talking on the steps, every now and again motioning in the direction of the fort.
Approaching them, Meg decided she had never felt so utterly out of place. A wedding on a day like today had to seem a tasteless joke, and these men did not look to be in the mood for entertainment. She peered over Raoul's shoulder toward her mother, wondering if she too felt ill at ease, but Madame Giry only handed the crutches to Raoul, freed herself carefully and went to the guards with a determined stride. Meg staggered a step, freed suddenly from her burden as Raoul stood.
"Monsieur Maréchal," Madame Giry greeted the nearest of the men, and Meg recognised Marie's father. "A pleasure to see you. How is your daughter?"
"Pleasure's mine, madame." Maréchal doffed his kepi, breathing out a white cloud that frosted his beard. "Doing well enough, the little scamp, now she's got the piano at the Folies to keep her out of trouble. Runs the place all on her own when that Ballard fellow is on duty." He spoke negligently but Meg heard the pride hiding behind his words at the chance to speak of Marie and the efforts she was making to keep the Folies open. "What brings you here? No more ration cards today I'm afraid, all gone by seven."
"Any news of the battle?"
"Not as I hear it." He blew his wind-reddened nose and then spotted Raoul and Meg standing behind Madame Giry. "Parbleu! Lieutenant de Chagny here — and little Giry as well! Now wait a minute, is it a permit you're after? Mademoiselle Daaé's not planning another performance for us, is she?"
The other guards were looking their way too now.
"A permit of sorts," Madame Giry replied with an equanimity that Meg envied. Her own heart was beating far too quickly even considering the climb. "May we come in out of the wind, gentlemen?"
"Ah, of course. Begging your pardon." Maréchal hurried to hold the door for them and raised his cap again as Madame Giry came through. Her mother had that effect on people. Meg exchanged a smile with him, feeling a little more relaxed.
In the foyer it was warmer and considerably quieter. Meg looked around curiously, having never before had cause to come inside. The interior was designed to be grand, with a high moulded ceiling supported by columns and a sweeping staircase, but it felt more functional than grand, and smelled comfortingly of tobacco and books. As Maréchal had warned them, the door in the corner marked "Ration Cards Here" was firmly shut and the line of chairs against the wall was empty of petitioners. In fact, there were only two other people in the entire foyer: a clerk at the desk across from the doorway who was writing something in a ledger, the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration, and the ancient housekeeper, Mère Pouillard, well known to all Montmartre for her eternal battles with the neighbourhood gamins. She was asleep in a chair at the foot of the stairs with her mop held before her like a staff of office. Judging from the state of the floor, that mop had not been applied to it for some time.
Raoul motioned for Madame Giry and Meg to wait and went ahead to the clerk's desk.
"Cards are all gone." The young man dipped his pen and did not bother to raise his eyes from his writing. "Come back in the morning."
"I need to speak to Jean Gandon, of Monsieur Clémenceau's office."
"Take a seat. Going to be a while today. Who shall I say is calling?"
"My name is Raoul de Chagny."
The clerk's head shot up at that and his eyes became round. " Chagny? Lieutenant de Chagny, from Sedan? The one who spoke at Erik Andersson's hearing?"
"Tell him it's urgent."
"Yes sir. That is, if he's in sir. Monsieur Clémenceau said not to send anyone up this morning, but… I'll go look now." He bolted up and attempted what Meg thought was supposed to be a salute, but it came out a bit silly without a kepi. Raoul simply looked at him until the clerk's face pinkened and he scampered off in search of Jean.
"Are you certain this is wise?" Madame Giry asked in a low voice when he had disappeared down a corridor. "If Gandon determines the reason for the urgency, he may prove more hindrance than help."
"He is with the mayor's office. Besides, he knows Andersson."
Madame Giry gave him a wry look. "In Monsieur Andersson's case, that may not be an advantage."
"Shh," Meg said, "someone's coming."
A door in the back of the foyer had swung open to readmit the young clerk, looking well pleased with himself. He gave Raoul another lopsided salute and stepped aside. Behind him, carrying an overflowing file of documents, came Jean Gandon. Meg had seen Jean often enough around Montmartre to know that he commanded a great deal of respect here, but it was difficult to credit it looking at him. His Garde Nationale uniform sat as casually on his frame as any civilian suit, and between his folding spectacles and the set of compasses in his pocket, there was nothing remotely military about his appearance. Still, she remembered how he had presided at Erik's hearing, and recalled too the way Henri had spoken of his role in last month's uprising. One did not need to look like a soldier to command an army.
When Gandon spotted their small company, he nearly dropped his file. "Lieutenant de Chagny! And the young artist and her mother. Now that's a surprise. Thank you, Léo," he nodded to dismiss the clerk, "you did well." He shook Raoul's hand and greeted Madame Giry and Meg warmly, looking between them for an indication of their purpose.
Raoul kept his voice low. "Guyon received more newspapers before the sortie, from London. The Illustrated News and The Times. He thought you may be interested."
Meg looked anxiously at Raoul, wondering if it was a ruse or whether Henri had truly been sharing information with Jean Gandon. He went to Gandon's club meetings occasionally, she knew that much, but she had not suspected him to be interested enough in their politics to furnish them with information. Her mother too was following this more closely than Meg would have liked.
Gandon's eyes lit up. "The Times? But they have a correspondent with Gambetta! What do they say then, is he truly sitting out in Fontainebleau waiting for us?"
Raoul cautioned him to discretion, with a warning glance first at the clerk who had returned to his desk and then at the sleeping housekeeper. "If there is somewhere we can talk, I would be glad to share what I know."
"Come right through."
Raoul hesitated. "A moment. There is another purpose to our visit; a personal matter. Madame Giry, do you have that document?"
At the sight of the bedraggled marriage licence and the two names on it, Gandon looked nonplussed. "Andersson! And the Daaé girl. We've not seen so much as a shadow of them at rue Fontenelle since she went to sing in the city. And they are to marry?"
"Yes, today. We are looking to arrange the paperwork for the ceremony before they arrive."
"Today? But… I've heard nothing about it. Does the mayor expect them?"
"No. It may be somewhat irregular," — Raoul carried on before Gandon could interrupt, "but the banns have been published for a month. There is no impediment. Madame Giry is Christine's guardian of course, and Mademoiselle Giry and I would be glad to witness. Everything is in order."
"Irregular is right." Gandon shook his head. "Lieutenant, with the greatest respect — I can't ask the mayor to leave his post for this, not during the sortie. Events are unfolding at such a rate that we may well have news by nightfall. The fate of Paris hangs in the balance."
"There is no need to distract the mayor. You have the necessary authorisation, do you not? It is a matter only of having the documents signed and witnessed; a quarter of an hour at most."
Gandon rubbed the bridge of his nose under his spectacles uncomfortably, leaving a smudge of ink. "Look, you and Guyon did all you could for us after the Hôtel de Ville, and I'd like to help, but I'd best try to understand. We have a hundred thousand men in the field. Isn't Andersson with them? Rumour was he'd enlisted with a freeshooter company — but then he'd be out there, knocking down a few Prussians instead of coming here." He stopped short. "There was a letter for him last week."
This cut too close for Meg's comfort, but at that moment her mother stepped in.
"Ah, the letter! Thank you for forwarding it." Madame Giry waved her hand at the marriage licence in a suggestion that it was in some way related to the content of Erik's letter. "It has meant the world to both of them to have their future decided. I hate to put you to any trouble, Monsieur Gandon, but it would be a weight off my mind if you agreed to officiate at the ceremony. These are difficult times and we are all anxious to have at least one piece of happy news. I'm sure you and Lieutenant de Chagny have a lot to discuss afterwards."
Gandon looked from the licence to Madame Giry. Reluctantly, he said, "Andersson did talk of marriage before the march on the Hôtel de Ville, but truth to tell, it was more in the way of raving. I thought he'd been at the absinthe. The way he and that girl carried on…" He cleared his throat self-consciously at Madame Giry's mild expression, and capitulated. "I'll see what I can do — but I must warn you, it may be impossible. They will need a notary and we are down to less than half the regular staff; everyone's been at the bastion since last night. Where on earth is Andersson stationed then, that he's able to leave his post today?"
"At the Variétés," Madame Giry said flatly. She met Gandon's surprised look with a quirk of her brows. "We all serve in our own way, Monsieur Gandon. Soldiers, revolutionaries," — she cast her eyes around the quiet room, — "clerks. Artists also."
Meg had to hide a small grin at this deft turnabout. A streak of scarlet appeared on Jean's forehead at the suggestion that his situation here at the mairie was in any way more pleasant than that of rank soldiers crossing the freezing Marne.
He was about to speak again when the doors behind them opened. Instinctively, everyone turned as one — and saw the strangest wedding party Meg could have ever imagined.
Christine's arm was hooked through Erik's, but Meg was not sure which of them was guiding the other. Erik's coat, trousers and even gloves were covered in mud and wet on one side, as though he had fallen to his knees on the ground and then sat in a puddle for good measure. Christine, in contrast, wore her mother's best shawl as a mantle around her shoulders, and the dew in her curls glittered like diamonds. It would have been difficult for two people to look so different. And yet…
And yet they looked identically stunned, like two newcomers to the theatre seeing the curtain rise for the very first time. There was something at once poignant and ridiculous about them, and Meg did not know why but it made her heart squeeze into a hard lump in her chest.
They stopped just inside the doorway. A gust of wind and noise followed them from the street as the doors shut, and then there was only silence. Nobody spoke. The stillness spread around them like a rising lake, like a spell transfixing everyone from the clerk to Jean Gandon to Raoul.
It's the light, Meg thought, and the artist in her saw with a dispassionate eye what the friend could not identify. Daylight streaming through the uncurtained windows set their two figures alight, trembling and bright and clear, light that made the rest of the foyer recede into the a hastily sketched background.
It's only the light, she thought again, but in that moment's illusion they were floating, and she and her mother and Raoul and the rest were only the audience, earthbound, shielding their eyes against the sky.
"Meg?" Christine asked, and Meg jumped guiltily at being caught staring. She tried to sound nonchalant as she said:
"That was quick. You two look..."
"You look happy," Raoul said. He sounded hoarse.
Christine's answering smile was gentle and a little shy. She had started to disengage her arm from Erik's, but Meg saw the flash of panic in his face at the same time as Christine seemed to sense it, and Christine remained as she was, locked arm in arm with her groom.
As for her groom, he stood as motionless beside her as if he had walked into an ambush. Only his eyes behind the bandage moved wildly, scanning the room. He fixed at last on Jean Gandon and tightened his arm to pull Christine nearer.
"Andersson," said Gandon, taking in the scene with amazement. "And Christine Daaé. I hear congratulations are in order. You might have warned us about this, Louise won't be happy to be missing it. She's in a right old temper with you for taking off like that."
Erik stared at him. Slowly, he released Christine's arm. Meg noticed that the wedding ring Christine had been wearing gleamed around his little finger. "My… apologies." The words sounded foreign in his voice. "I see you are no longer at the ramparts."
Jean frowned. "I've been posted to the mayor as a deputy. The Committee took a vote on it. We're more organised now; you ought to come to a meeting."
Erik ignored the invitation, evidently hung up on the first part. "You are going to marry us." Meg wondered if he had expected the Pope.
"If you wish it done today."
"I do," Erik said, and the challenge in his tone made it plain that he was ready for resistance.
"Madame Giry," Christine intervened, squeezing Erik's hand again without looking at him, "is everything ready?" Her thumb was rolling into his palm in a comforting rhythm, back and forth.
"Almost."
Madame Giry came toward them, her expression curiously tranquil. She looked them up and down in turn, and Meg was at once reminded of any number of such inspections before an opening night. Only instead of a stern admonition to Christine to mind her breathing or watch her timing, Madame Giry embraced her tightly, murmuring something as she smoothed her hair back into place. Then she turned to Erik and raised her hand to the level of her eyes — and continued upward to touch his cheek.
Erik jolted as if she had tried to unmask him, but Madame Giry caught his shoulder. "You live," she told him. "Never forget it."
In answer Erik laced his fingers into Christine's, and Meg found she could not bear to look anymore. Whatever Christine had said, this was more than a few signatures on a piece of paper, and far more than the right to stay away from the front. This was legal, binding, permanent, and terrifying.
And Christine was plunging into it with eyes wide open.
Christine was getting married.
Feeling suddenly like a little girl, Meg touched her mother's elbow and, when Madame Giry turned, put her arm around her waist.
"I didn't think it would be like this."
"Oh?" Her mother returned the embrace, but her eyes were on Erik and Christine as they turned to converse with Jean, and on Raoul who moved to the desk to dictate answers to the clerk's questions. Papers were being shuffled, ink refilled. It was starting.
"It doesn't feel real," Meg said. "Do you remember when she and Raoul returned from the Opéra in that boat… They were both soaked to the skin, Christine's teeth were chattering, her lips were purple and she had that white dress on… Dripping wet, but alive and safe." Meg felt her throat tighten. "It looked like a fairytale rescue. Magical. Like a happy end."
"Orpheus Triumphant?" her mother suggested with gentle irony. Meg tried not to feel hurt, but something of it must have conveyed itself, because Madame Giry turned to her and her eyes were very serious. "You question it, Meg. You think I should have done better by her, protected her better."
"I didn't say that."
"You think I should not have allowed this."
"Maman…"
"You're right." Madame Giry straightened her back slightly, a dancer showing nothing of the work behind the steps. "I ought to have restrained her dreams many years ago, and put a stop to their singing at once. As I ought to have done what was right, accepted the settlement from your father's family and raised you to live a quiet, safe life away from Paris. And I ought never to have hidden that boy." Then all of a sudden her tone lightened, and she gave a wistful smile. "It seems I am very bad at doing what ought to be done. But we are here now. And perhaps that is not so little. Perhaps, that is the way it ought to be."
Meg let her go and stayed silent for a time, thinking, while before her eyes the runaway spectacle of the wedding unfolded into reality.
It happened so fast in the end, and with little more ceremony than it would have taken to register for ration cards. The small meeting hall near the foyer was made ready by Mére Pouillard, woken up with difficulty for the occasion, and a table draped with what turned out to be the only available cloth, a tricoloeur stained with a cigarette burn. Around this their entire party assembled, with Gandon presiding and the young clerk Léo taking a record. Madame Giry was called upon to affirm her consent, and she along with Raoul gave their declarations. Madame Giry signed; Raoul signed. Names were copied into the official records; a decrepit notary was called down from his office to review the documents and Léo was sent to fetch the mayor's seal.
Christine and Erik stepped forward. The fingers of Christine's hand that Erik clasped had gone white from the pressure, but she did not seem to notice. If not for those clasped hands the two of them might have been soldiers standing at attention, looking straight ahead.
"I do," Christine said when the vows were read. Her voice was clear and pitched for music, but Meg only realised this after Erik added his own "I do", and the sound came in perfect, beautiful counterpoint.
How was it possible to shape a song from so few syllables, so few notes?
Their song danced briefly the air and in that moment Meg forgot every reason to be afraid for the future, forgot every terrible moment of their Opéra past, forgot everything except this one instant that broke her heart, and healed it, and made her ache for more.
When its echo faded, Erik tried to return the wedding ring onto Christine's finger. Even from where Meg stood she could see that their two hands trembled so violently that at first the ring would not go on. Finally it was accomplished. Christine pushed the band down past her knuckle and closed her hand on it. Erik let her go.
"Congratulations," Jean pronounced into the silence. His voice was subdued, as though he too was unwilling to shatter the moment. "You are hereby wed in the eyes of the law. Citoyen Erik Andersson, Citoyenne Christine Andersson — your family book."
He took from the clerk a small card-bound booklet and opened it to the first page, where these two names had been inscribed. The ink was barely dry. Beneath that were spaces left for the future: for births, deaths, events large and not so large that would belong to them.
Erik did not touch it but looked helplessly at Christine, as though this, finally, was too much to bear. He was so pale that Meg felt a moment's horror that he meant to do something mad — she was certain that had there been a trapdoor, he would have grasped Christine by the waist and vanished with her.
But this was only a hall at the mairie, and there was no theatre magic to disguise him.
"Take it," Christine said. "It's ours."
Gently, she guided his hand to the little book. Jean dropped it into his palm, and that was that.
Something tapped against the floor. Meg raised her eyes. Across from her, Raoul moved on his crutches up to where Christine stood, and when he reached her, let the crutches fall. They crashed to the floor with a tremendous noise of wood against stone flagging, and he stood alone, uneasy but seemingly steady enough.
With a small cry, Christine flung her arms about him, and Raoul held onto her in turn. For a few moments they remained that way, swaying as though buffeted by the wind. When they separated, Raoul turned toward Erik and opened his hands in a gesture whose meaning was crystal clear: no crutches. In his expression was the most curious mixture of a challenge and, Meg thought, something like acceptance.
"Stay to the end." Erik spoke harshly, but it was more plea than command.
Raoul gave him a hard grin. "Don't worry. I shall." He bowed carefully first to Christine, then to Meg and Madame Giry. To Gandon, he said, "I'll be outside. Send for me when you're ready."
Then he turned and, limping heavily, walked unaided out of the hall.
Christine watched the door close behind him, and Meg caught the faintest movement of her lips. Thank you.
"Foolishness," Madame Giry sighed. "With such an injury—"
"I'll check on him." Meg stepped forward and collected the crutches. They were heavier than they looked and awkwardly long, but she found she did not mind going. The searing intimacy between Christine and Erik was too much to bear, and looking at them now was like gazing too long into the sky after long-vanished balloons.
She wanted the ground, and the city outside, and the bursting fireworks in the white sky that promised freedom.
o o o
Such a strange day, Madame Giry thought, watching this young woman who was still so much a child struggle to sign her new name. It was a price Christine had chosen to pay, and not for one moment did Madame Giry think she regretted it, but she wondered if Erik understood what cherished ghosts she had to kill with every stroke of that pen. Gustave had left her too few pieces of himself to hold onto. His true legacy lay within her music, and perhaps Gustave of all people would have understood this match his daughter had found.
Or perhaps not. He might have turned away from it as he had been wont to do when grieving, turning inward to a place where the world was simpler. At such times he would play his Scandinavian songs, closing his eyes to the chill breeze from the sea, while his finely shaped calloused fingers danced along the strings. He had never spoken of his wife, Christine's mother, except through those spells of lost music, but Gustave had known what marriage was.
And she, who had promised to care for Christine and guide her, what did she know of marriage? That was a doorway through which she could not follow — and Christine did have a talent for finding those, Madame Giry thought ruefully.
Signature completed, Christine returned the pen to its stand and paused for a moment. Then her thoughtful look changed to the faintest hint of a laugh, and Madame Giry realised with surprise that it was meant for Erik, who had stood over her as rigid as a guard.
"There," Christine told him under her breath as she passed the register back to Jean. "Now you are claimed, and signed for."
"As are you," Erik said just as quietly. "The world will judge it a poor bargain."
"The world is too busy fighting. But one day it must stop, and then," — Christine took a deep breath — "we shall have music. And they can judge it all they like."
No, Madame Giry decided, she knew nothing of marriage, but she did know something of this. All that Christine was becoming could not be confined by a name. Her own voice sounded in her, needed to be heard, and its call was stronger than that of all the bugles and drums. And Erik… Madame Giry sighed. Meg was right; this marriage was certainly no happy end, but who knew what lay ahead. For the moment at least, they were here. And that was a start.