"Erik, put him down here. They will not shoot at me, I think. Just put him down and we can walk away." Christine whispered to her Angel softly and soothingly.

Erik stared at the armed men, then looked down to the pale, drawn man in his arms. The young aristocrat was surprisingly tough. He was still breathing; at the sound of Christine's voice, he began to move again. The two of them had come this far – Erik felt an irrational resistance to putting his charge down anywhere other than the reclining couch in Christine's apartment. That had been his goal all along and he'd be damned if he would fail now.

"They will not shoot me while I hold Raoul, Christine. Let me by." He tried to make his words gentle, but exhaustion and pain lent them an unintended sharpness. Christine knew Erik well enough that she simply stepped aside and then sidled as close to his back as she could, trying to protect his vulnerability.

The Phantom of the Opera stepped into the parlor, holding himself as straight and proud as possible. It seemed that no one breathed or moved – the room was dead silent. The opera residents present shrank back from him, their minds full of rumors and stories. Only Mme Giry held her ground, staring at her employer of the last decade and more made flesh. Why, he's so young! she thought, amazed. The gendarmes kept their weapons trained on the advancing figure, knowing that they could not shoot without endangering Raoul.

Erik pulled his dignity around him like a heavy cloak. He had not been in the presence of this many people since he was ten years old. He ignored them, concentrating on being gentle and careful with the writhing young man. A pathway opened up leading to the couch. Erik laid his groaning, twisting burden on the couch, then turned to face the gawking crowd. He felt Christine press against him and realized that she was trying to protect him by shielding his body with hers. Without a word, he gently wrapped his arms gratefully around her shoulders. There was no sense ordering her to leave – she was far too willful. The gendarmes had closed in behind him; their faces were grim, their eyes held the promise of violence.

"Step away from the girl and hold your hands above your head!" cried a strained voice from the small group of gendarmes.

They are still frightened of me. I am unarmed, injured…I just brought back this blue-blooded booby…and they are still frightened of me. He slowly lifted his arms from Christine's shoulders and held his open hands palm out at shoulder height. He took a small step back. Feeling his slight movement, Christine gracefully stepped with him.

"Step away from the girl!" the same voice rang out again, this time more confidently, perceiving that the masked man did not intend to resist.

His voice calm and melodious, Erik responded, "I do not believe, monsieur, that the girl will let me."

Christine vehemently shook her head. She was between death and Erik; no force on Earth would move her. "I shall not move, messieurs, until you have told me what it is he has done."

"He's a murderer, mademoiselle. Gerard died…"

"Of his own stupidity!" Christine could take no more. She was yelling at these men who had the temerity to invade her parlor and threaten her fiancé. "This man has just carried Raoul to safety, even though Raoul invaded his home and shot him in the leg. How can you call him a murderer?" Her look was truly reproachful.

"Step aside, child." The tall man, the Commissaire, was speaking now. "Or we will have to take you by force."

Christine turned away from the cold, dangerous men and buried her face in Erik's chest. His arms went protectively around her, but he was speaking quietly to her, telling her to let him go. "I could not bear to see you hurt, Christine. Let me go."

She looked up at him, pleading. He only shook his head. "I told you I was a monster. Save my music, if you can." A man had come forward and was pulling Christine away. Erik kept talking, kept his eyes focused on her. "The score I have been composing…it's in the locked room at the back of my – our – house. Give it to the managers." She was struggling against the gendarme who held her, but was too small to break away. "I love you, Christine."

The rest of the men descended on him, pinioning his arms behind him, pressing the barrels of their revolvers to his ribcage, shouting warnings that he was not to fight, not to move. They may as well have commanded the furniture not to resist. Erik watched his heart and soul being dragged away and held tight against her will. She was screaming his name and crying out that she loved him. I know, Christine. If only I could have spared you this. Rough hands began dragging him towards the door. His eyes never left hers.

The door to the apartment opened and closed, unnoticed amongst the tumult. Vicompte deChagny had been summoned, along with his personal surgeon. He was accustomed to a far more formal greeting upon entering a room, and sought the center of the activity. An unmoving, well-dressed man in a mask was being roughly arrested by a slew of gendarmes. Beyond the man, his brother lay on the parlor sofa and was slowly regaining consciousness. The surgeon was already gone, rushing to his patient's side, taking his vital signs, checking the pressure in his abdomen.

The Vicompte strode up to the Commissaire, who bowed deeply. "Alexandre, what is going on here? Halt your men and tell me what has happened."

A gesture from Commissaire sufficed to stop his men.

"Vicompte! Your brother is on the couch. Ah, I see that the surgeon is already with him. We have apprehended the supposed Phantom of the Opera!" He looked at his men proudly. They held their prisoner, waiting for orders. "The little girl over there gave us more trouble than the infamous 'Ghost'."

Phillippe looked at Christine, bloodied and still struggling to reach Erik. So, this was the mysterious music teacher who had instructed the girl in voice. Many of the great ladies he met in his social circles had urged him to attend the opera to hear the girl sing, if for no other reason. They said she was sublime.

"Why is she covered in blood?" he inquired. The surgeon was working furiously on his brother; he did not want to disturb them, even to inquire after his brother's status. He concerned himself with the young lady instead.

"It would seem that your brother shot the 'Ghost' in the leg. It further seems that this Phantom bleeds like any other man." Commissaire Duprix could afford to be snide. His men were in control here.

"In self-defense? What has happened to my brother?"

"We do not know, Monsieur. He is not shot. His malady seems to be…of the abdominal area."

"If he is so sorely wounded, how did he get here? Am I supposed to believe that that slip of a girl dragged him to safety?"

An awkward silence descended. Commissaire Duprix furrowed his brow and cast an anxious glance at the Opera Ghost who had eyes only for the opera girl. "It was the Phantom, Monsieur. He carried your brother here."

"After being shot in the leg? My brother is not a small man." Without waiting for an answer, Phillippe left the Commissaire and approached Christine. When she saw him approach she went limp, thinking that Erik's judge and executioner had arrived.

"Christine, I am going to ask you a question. On your life, you answer me truthfully."

She merely nodded. On her life, did he say? It hardly mattered.

"How was my brother injured?"

"He disabled Erik's alarm…"

"Erik?"

She pointed to her fiancé, who now stood staring at the two of them with those beautiful, intense eyes.

"Erik. My fiancé. Raoul disabled the alarm, so no one knew he was in the passages, and then set off the trap. By the time he came to us, he was nearly unconscious from pain. He was delirious. He threatened me and then shot Erik. He passed out. Erik carried him back here." Now she regained some of her sprit as her anger at the injustice came back to her. "Erik carried him back here and his reward is to be arrested and…and…God knows what else you will do to him." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "A man has a right to defend his home, hasn't he!"

"If he is no outlaw, why does he wear that mask?" Phillippe studied the suddenly fearful expression that passed over the girl's face: not fear of the Phantom, but fear for him. She was about to speak, when:

"Vicompte!" The surgeon's reedy voice interrupted them. "Your brother is awake. He is speaking."