:A/N: So, here, as already promised, chapter 15.

:Disclaimer: I don't own POTO. The poem I used is again by A. Pushkin and doesn't belong to me.

:Claimer: My Maxime, my Tatjana, my cook. Again, could somebody steal that cook? I kind of… don't like him at all. Plus, my Jacques!

:Thanks to: LMVT, Robika

:beta-read by: Lady-Miranda-Van-Tassel

:Far Cry:

: Chapter 15 : Winter :

--For Meg--

"Jaques? Come over here please." The policeman frowned, holding his nose with his right hand. "I think we may have… a problem over here."

Jacques approached the other policemen. "What is it?"

"It's down there." The policeman pointed to the river of the Seine. "Dear God," Jacques exclaimed, turning away and breathing heavily. "Couldn't he choose less romantic a death?"

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"Excuse me?" Jacques leaned against the Opera's heavy wooden door. When it was opened by a young woman, he said, "Could I talk to somebody from management?"

"They're all out. Didn't you know they toured to Versailles today?"

"No, I didn't. Who are you?"

"My name's Meg and I'm a ballerina. Is it something I could help you with?" …

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Madame leaned over to Tatjana. "Please, you have to dance it gracefully! What will the people think if you don't? I even kept my daughter at home so that you'll have the whole stage for yourself, left alone the Corps supporting you. You can do it." Tatjana nodded, turning around to run on stage and calm down her breathing before curtain call. It was an important occasion and she'd do everything she was capable of. She'd make her feet bleed even more than usually.

Antoinette sat down on a chair in the background, seeing all the girls from the Corps walking around and stretching a little before it'd be time for them to get on stage. At each back side of the stage, they were standing just like Madame was standing next to herself: Watching, observing, waiting.

The music began, the curtain opened, and Tatjana began to dance. Some minutes later, the Corps joined her, and they all danced to the music the Phantom had composed for them. It was his best piece, and Tatjana was just right for the main character.

Antoinette scratched her head, noticing that she didn't pay attention at all. Somehow, her chest felt heavy and loaded with the feeling of effeteness. She pushed the thought aside that something was wrong and forced herself to keep her eyes on the beautiful Tatjana.

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… "Yes. I might come back later, but… we found a body near the river. Since it's winter, we can only guess when it happened. He's all frozen, the poor guy. Are you maybe missing somebody?"

They had missed Raoul, ideed! She hadn't seen him for two days already. "Yes." Meg's eyes grew wide. "His name is Monsieur Le Vicomte."

"Alright. We knew it had to be somebody rich from the Opera. The man carried with him a book of poetry, and on the inside, there was a name scratched in. It said Madame Giry, Opera Populaire. Could you hand it out to the Lady?"

Almost automatically, Meg nodded and watched the policeman get a soaked book out of his pocket. She took it and stared at it, feeling her stomach turn. It had to be Raoul, and his mother must have given the book to him. He was dead. Really, dead.

"Monsieur, can you already tell how it happened?"

"No. That is why I'd have to come back later. Are you okay? Did you know the man?"

"Barely," Meg lied, biting back the comment that she had loved him. "Barely," she repeated. Jacques turned around and left. Meg slowly closed the door behind herself, stepping back into the Hall. She stared at the book, turning some pages. Then, a poem caught her eye.

If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts.

I say to myself: the years are fleeting,
And however many there seem to be,
We must all go under the eternal vault,
And someone's hour is already at hand.

When I look at a solitary oak
I think: the patriarch of the woods.
It will outlive my forgotten age
As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.

If I caress a young child,
Immediately I think: farewell!
I will yield my place to you,
For I must fade while your flower blooms.

Each day, every hour
I habitually follow in my thoughts,
Trying to guess from their number
The year which brings my death.

And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?
Or will the neighbouring valley
Receive my chilled ashes?

And although to the senseless body
It is indifferent wherever it rots,
Yet close to my beloved countryside
I still would prefer to rest.

And let it be, beside the grave's vault
That young life forever will be playing,
And impartial, indifferent nature
Eternally be shining in beauty.

Tears caught her eyelashes, forcing her to close her eyes for a second. How cool she took his death. How very little she felt in those moments. She was even able to concentrate on thoughts.

Did death grab him? Did somebody push him into the river?

No, Le Vicomte wouldn't die such a death. He wouldn't even leave his house alone, that little about him she knew for sure. It was not a crime, at least none somebody else had done to him that night. It was his own decision, and a shiver running down her spine ensured that her thoughts were right. A slight facette of his face flickerred in front of her eyes for a couple of moments. How much she had loved him. She would have given up everything for him. But as love bounds itself around two people, Madame and Le Vicomte, nothing on earth can tear it apart. Her knees giving in, Meg sank to the floor, starting to cry and scream what would be the most painful hour of her life.