Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera, but I do own two copies of the book. One is the English translation, and the other is the American translation. I don't own Robert le Diable, either. That belongs to Giacomo Meyerbeer, who probably won't be suing me anytime soon, since he's been dead for 142 years.

A/N: I decided to give you all a little Palm Sunday treat, since I've been on Spring Break. Here's another chapter just of you. Bon appétit!

Chapter Eighteen: Bonsoir, Monsieur le Fantôme

Danielle

Danielle was once more staring out at the stage and at the enormous crowd arrayed in their best clothing and jewels. The triumph of the night before had not killed all of her nerves, but she was a little calmer than before. She idly wondered what Erik was doing as she watched for her cue. He had probably taken up his position near the chandelier. She took another, more focused, peek at the audience. Supposedly, Nadir was out there somewhere, but she couldn't see him from that vantage point. She had suspected that he would get a seat as shadowy as possible. It was strange how alike he and Erik could be, but she wouldn't dare say it in front of either of them. No one was that stupid.

Danielle saw something flutter to the floor out of the corner of her left eye. She turned toward it and looked down to find a white rose and a note. It wasn't hard to figure out who the mysterious writer could be. She bent down and picked it up, shifting her eyes around to see if anyone had noticed. When she decided that she was in the clear, she opened it with tremulous hands, excited and apprehensive about the contents. She had always imagined him declaring his love in some similar, unorthodox fashion. Unfortunately, what she read would leave her a trifle disappointed.

Be not so frightened, ma chérie petit muse. God and his angels are smiling. Let the music guide you, and remember the pride of your teacher. He could not be more pleased with a student than he is with you. I will be watching, Danae.

Always yours,

Erik

P.S. Don't forget to support your high notes.

Danielle smiled and shook her head slightly, careful not to muss her meticulously arranged hair, as she folded the note and hid it in her bodice. That was Erik, alright. Even when encouraging her, he never forgot to remind her that she wasn't perfect. Somehow, she preferred things that way.

Erik

Why did she have to put it there of all places? Does she want me to go mad," Erik thought to himself as he navigated the catwalks above the stage. It would be difficult to concentrate on the performance once he got to the dome knowing what she had done with his note.

Christine

Christine de Changy and her husband were watching the opera from their lush, velvet-covered seats in Box Three. It was very tactful of the managers to make sure that Box Five was not even mentioned to them at the box office. That may have been mere coincidence, but she was sure that they had left such instructions. She half wished that they could buy Box Five. It would make her feel like a twittering chorus-girl again, scared and excited at the same time because she was challenging the all-powerful Phantom.

When Danielle D'Artoi, the soprano they were so curious to hear, entered the scene, neither of Christine, nor Raoul, was particularly struck by her beauty. There was very little extraordinary about her looks, but there was something interesting about the rest of her. She was very graceful. Her movements were as fluid as a dancer's and her posture was as confident as a diva's, though her smile was as sweet as that of a humble country maiden.

Once she opened her mouth, it became obvious why she had garnered such high praise. She was sublime, simply sublime. She wasn't exactly better than Christine, but she was at least an equal.

Christine was enjoying the performance immensely. It had been a long time since a singer had really shined at the Populaire. Mademoiselle D'Artoi sparkled and glittered as she thrilled the audience with her divine innocence. Helping this girl's career was certainly worth keeping the Populaire going, no matter what had happened there. Mademoiselle D'Artoi was a true artist, not merely some meek-voiced soprano whom the managers chose because there was no one better available.

There was one rather distracting mannerism that the new soprano had that a more experienced performer would have avoided. She always seemed to be gazing at the heavens when she was not addressing one of her fellow characters. It was very odd, indeed. It gave her a sort of dreamy quality that Mademoiselle D'Artoi might have been trying to achieve. The papers had spoken of her maidenly modesty, after all. Perhaps she was attempting to give the public what they wanted in a stage heroine. Or perhaps it was something else…

Christine immediately pictured the swinging chandelier in her mind. No, that couldn't happen again. Surely there was nothing wrong. The girl wouldn't look so calm and joyful if she saw some disaster approaching. Despite her logic, Christine couldn't help turning her fearful blue eyes to the painted ceiling.

Nothing seemed out of order. The chandelier was as motionless and pristine as ever. It wasn't until her glance reached the railing around the dome from which the chandelier was hanging that she noticed something peculiar: a man in black...with a blindingly white half-mask.

She couldn't suppress her gasp of shock, surprise and a little fear when she saw him again after all those years. Her stomach began to churn as Christine saw and understood the emotion etched into every line of his exposed features. It was pure, unadulterated adoration. For a moment, an agonizing moment, she believed that her return was the source of this ardor, but then she followed his eyes toward the stage. He was staring intently at the soprano playing Alice, Mademoiselle D'Artoi.

Christine experienced first relief that she could expect no more trouble from the Phantom, and then anxiety for the poor girl. She had no way of knowing the misfortunes that would befall her while in that man's clutches.

Raoul had not noticed any of her disquiet. Christine grasped his gloved hand, convulsively. He looked at her questioningly and, in mute reply, she pointed toward the dome. Her husband's eyes searched the ceiling for a moment before his face hardened. Apparently, he had alighted upon the Phantom, as well. He returned his gaze to his wife and muttered, "After the last act."

Christine nodded slowly, comprehending his rather vague directions, though unsure of what they would entail. They both calmly turned back to the performance, stoically watching the story unfold, while grim thoughts of how their own saga would end blocked the whole opera from their minds.

Raoul

As Raoul de Chagny and his wife slipped through the winding passages of the Populaire, there was only one thought on his mind: they had to warn that girl. There was only one possible destination for them to choose. They had to reach it before Mademoiselle D'Artoi. If they were wrong, all could very well be lost. Still, it was their duty to see that the Phantom was not given another chance to ruin a young girl's life.

Erik

Erik was jubilant. Danielle's performance had come off without a hitch, though that couldn't be said for anyone else in the cast. Fortunately, Danielle's was the only performance that really mattered, especially to him.

A delighted smile was stretching the corners of his lips as he opened the mirror. Any moment, his love would throw open the door, flushed from her recent success, and then rush into his arms, finally admitting her love for him because he was responsible for her triumph. At least, those are the events Erik wanted to transpire. Obviously, they wouldn't, but he was more than willing to dream until he was forced to face reality.

He began to pace around the room, impatient for his beloved to appear. She was probably being held up by that fatuous Mathieu Latrec at that very moment. The idea made his blood boil, but he knew Danielle wouldn't respond favorably to the dolt's advances.

Erik's heart started to race as the doorknob turned, emitting a faint squeal. He turned around as the door opened, but the grin on his face faded, and he was forced to swallow his words of praise, when he realized who had just entered.

Christine

Christine had not expected to see so much astonishment on the Phantom's face, or at least what was visible of it. She had assumed he would know they were there and that they would be coming. He had always known where she was before. He had known everything.

What had changed? Why, instead of seeing an arrogant and bitter smirk, was she looking at wide eyes and a slack mouth? The answer leaped to the eye, as it were. He was focused solely on the D'Artoi girl. History was repeating itself. One obsession had been replaced by another. When would he learn?

The Phantom soon regained his composure. He returned Christine's stare for a few moments, the left side of his visage as passive as the porcelain covering his right. Then, his eyes traveled toward her husband, at whom he glared viciously, daring Raoul to speak. In a moment, he went from a creature that had been backed into a corner to the haughty genius she had known so long ago.

"Might I inquire as to the purpose of this audience," the ghost growled.

"We know about the girl," Raoul spat at him. "We'll not allow you to harm her."

"What business is it of yours," the masked man asked calmly.

"I am a patron of the Opera Populaire, and, as such, Mademoiselle D'Artoi is my responsibility. It is also my duty as a man to protect an innocent girl from the machinations of a scoundrel."

"You may help pay her, Monsieur, but you don't own her," the Phantom retorted. "She is her own woman and is quite capable of making her own choices. I doubt that she would want your assistance."

"Oh, do you," Raoul asked, taking threatening step forward. "She'll beg for it after I've told her what you've done."

The Phantom blanched at this statement. Something that looked a little like panic flitted into his eyes, but was gone almost instantly.

"You wouldn't dare," he whispered.

"Wouldn't I," Raoul challenged.

"If you knew what was good for you, you wouldn't," the Phantom snorted.

"It isn't in good taste to threaten a man in front of his wife," Raoul said in an oddly inappropriate, mock-friendly tone.

"I don't usually consider the social ramifications of my actions, Monsieur," Erik admitted, crossing his arms and standing to his full height, which was much taller than Raoul's.

"I've noticed that particular fault," Raoul sneered.

"I don't call it a fault," Erik said smoothly. "I call it a freedom."

The two men's barely polite banter was interrupted by the creak of the doorknob. Everyone turned toward the entrance of the room to find Mademoiselle D'Artoi, who was taking in the entire corridor outside, as if she were trying to make certain that she was alone.

"I'm sorry I'm so late; Latrec was on my back again, and I just couldn't get away from him," she huffed from the door. "He makes me so angry I can't see straight."

Once the girl was satisfied that no one would bother them, she closed the door gently and whirled around. She froze when she saw Christine and Raoul, her face betraying shock and alarm. Her grey eyes darted toward the Phantom. She seemed to be silently asking for an explanation. Her gaze returned to Raoul, and then to Christine. The girl stared at her for a moment, recognition widening her eyes for a moment before glancing toward the Opera Ghost once more, with a bracing look in her eyes. It was caught by the Phantom, who had looked at nothing but the dark-haired soprano since she had put her foot over the threshold.

She finally spoke, facing Raoul. "Bonsoir, Monsieur le Vicomte et Madame la Vicomtesse." She curtsied gracefully before bringing her wary eyes to Raoul's face.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle D'Artoi," Raoul greeted, inclining his head in return for her pleasantries. "My wife and I have many grave things to discuss with you."

Erik

Erik turned away to face the other direction and hung his head in silent shame. He realized that nothing was to be done. All that he could do now was to simply wait for Danielle's reaction. It wouldn't be pretty.

A/N: This isn't exactly Raoul-bashing. I think that he has every right to act the way he did. I know I would be mad at Erik if he had nearly killed me and had tried to force my girlfriend (not that I would have one in the first place, mind you) to marry him. Besides, I can kind of sympathize with Raoul. I mean, he did love Christine, who loved him. I'm inclined to think that he had more right to her, which is exactly why this is an Erik/Other Woman phic.

A/N: Three cheers for anyone who noticed my Hercule Poirot reference. I love that little egg-headed, mustached Belgy. And that, my friends, was a "Murdered to Death" joke. I love Turner Classic Movies. That is one of the greatest channels on the face of the planet, God bless it.

A/N: I love writing Erik's interior monologues. I am soooo evil.

French-English Translations:

Bonsoir: Good evening

Monsieur le Fantôme: Mr. Phantom

Ma chérie petit muse: My dear little muse

Monsieur le Vicomte et Madame la Vicomtesse: Mr. Viscount and Mrs. Viscountess (Weird way to address someone, huh?)