Chapter Summary: Raoul's hold on reality begins to slip away. Francois takes an interest in Raoul's continued well-being. Louis meets with the mysterious stranger. And in a house outside of Boulogne-sur-mer, Christine comes face-to-face with her past.

Author's Note: Many thanks to Hikaru Hayashi for providing me with the insight as to why Christine cannot cry. It was something I had not thought of and- for her brilliant thought - this chapter is for her!

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

"Raoul," the voice called.

Raoul barely opened his eyes, the sting of salty sweat against them making him wince. "Who …" he breathed, pausing as the hot air he inhaled set his lungs on fire..

A musical laugh answered his question. "I am an angel, of course," she said.

A slight smile crossed Raoul's lips. "Angel."

"I am your angel." She smiled broadly back at him as she sat, arranging her white gown about her legs. "I have always been your angel." Her smile softened, her voice growing soft and gentle. "Only your angel."

"Christine," Raoul said, the effort to speak pulling him back into the hot darkness of Hell. He felt a hand against his face and he turned his head into the cool touch.

"Surely you do not have another angel?" she wondered, a fingertip going to Raoul's lips as he opened his mouth. "No. Shhh. Do not speak," the angel told him.

"Home," Raoul pleaded, ignoring the angel's wishes. "Home." Raoul could no longer find the energy or the will to breath and his chest stopped moving, his eyes beginning to roll back in his head.

"No!" the angel shouted as she grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. She reached her hands up to his face, cupping it gently as she leaned forward. "The baby," she whispered. "You have to be strong for our baby." The angel brushed her lips against Raoul's, using her tongue to gently open them, breathing easily and forcing life into a body that no longer wanted such a thing.

A gasping, groaning sound echoed forth from Raoul's throat as lungs drew in a shallow breath. "Baby," he whispered as his eyes opened, focusing on the angel before him.

"Our baby," she told him. "Our precious little girl. She is going to need her papa as she grows up. Who else will be able to protect her, to teach her," the angel smiled and rested her head against Raoul's heart, "to love her."

Raoul closed his arms about the angel, pulling her close. "Not leave?" he wondered.

"I have always been with you," the angel told him as she raised her head, concern and compassion evident on her face. "I shall not leave you now." The angel laid her head back down. "I shall stay until you no longer need me."

Raoul leaned his head down to rest against the angel's soft curls. "Always."

"I know," the angel whispered back and gave the man in her arms a gentle squeeze. "Close your eyes," she commanded, "and I shall keep you safe."

Raoul willingly obeyed the miracle in his arms and surrendered to the darkness that beckoned him so seductively, unaware there was another also concerned for his condition.

Francois looked briefly out the window at the chained box in the courtyard, shaking his head. He turned from the window and glanced at the clock on the dresser – seven hours. It had been nearly seven hours since he had returned from the village to find Nico lost in another bout of madness, their hostage a victim to the insanity yet again. Francois moved from the window to continue his search of Louis' room. He knew it had to be here for they had used it on their hostage before; it had kept him still and silent during the long trip to Grenoble. Now he desperately needed to find the small packet containing the tasteless sleeping powder; he flung drawers open, frantically searching.

"I cannot have another death on my head," he muttered as he flung objects about the room. "I did not agree to another death." Francois turned from the highboy to the wardrobe, flinging open the doors. "Where is it?" he nearly screamed as he fumbled through the items in the wardrobe, his hands finally coming to rest on a small, black leather pouch. Francois grabbed at it. "Got you!"

He fled the upstairs bedroom, running down the stairs and into the kitchen at the back of the house. Francois moved to the wooden table against the far wall of the room, pausing to stare at two mugs full of ale that rested in the middle of the table. Francois shook his head as he contemplated his actions; a moment of indecision crossing his mind that quickly passed. He looked down at shaking hands as they opened the leather pouch, one hand reaching in, fingers closing about a pinch of the white powder, pulling it out and dropping it into one of the mugs. He watched as the powder slowly sank into the ale, disappearing into its amber depths. Francois gave the liquid a stir with his finger for good measure before lifting both mugs into his hands, walking through the house and out into the courtyard, slowly and carefully approaching Nico.

Nico turned his head at the sound of footsteps on the cobblestones. "Mine," he warned softly.

"I know," Francois agreed, nodding his head. "I am not here to take him from you."

Nico turned his eyes back to the box. "Good."

Francois stopped at Nico's side. "I just thought you might like some company." He cautiously lowered himself so that he was sitting next to Nico. "I wanted to let you know that I have got some chicken on the stove – just in case you were hungry." Francois received no reply. "I could always bring it out here for you." He fought down the urge to smile as Nico nodded his head. "And I thought you might like something to drink." Francois held out the two mugs and nodded toward the box. "He may be hot and miserable but that does not mean you need to be."

Nico eyed the mugs suspiciously.

"If you do not want a drink," Francois said, slowly taking back his hands, "I will drink them both. My thirst always needs to be quenched!" He laughed but held his breath as Nico reached for the mugs, sighing inwardly as Nico's hands closed about the correct one.

"To my toy," Nico said as he raised his mug.

"To his misery," Francois said, smacking his mug against Nico's loudly, causing the ale in both to splash over. Francois took a hefty swallow, watching as Nico did the same. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. "Mind if I stay here and keep watch with you for a few minutes? It certainly is not going to hurt a dead chicken any to boil a little longer."

Nico took another deep swallow of the ale. "Stay," he said. "Watch." He raised the mug to his lips and downed the remaining ale in two swallows. "Mine," Nico warned as narrowed eyes looked over the rim of the lowering mug.

Francois nodded his head in agreement, following suit as he downed his ale. "Yours," he said simply as he placed his empty mug on the cobblestones. He could feel his pulse begin to race as he turned his eyes toward the chained box, watching, waiting.

Finally as the sun began to descend toward the mountaintops, the shadows in the courtyard growing longer, Nico began to lightly sway back and forth in his sitting position. Francois stretched out his legs. "Getting hungry?" he asked as he began to rise to his feet. "I should go and check on the meal."

Nico's hands reached for his head. "I do not …" He turned to look at Francois. "You bastard!" He shouted as he lunged at the back-peddling Francois and fell face first into the cobblestones. Nico slowly rose to all fours, struggling to keep his head upright, turning toward the box. "Mine," he breathed as he finally collapsed in a limp pile.

Francois stared at him for long moments, wondering if Nico was truly unconscious or simply acting, waiting to pull him in, to pull him under. Francois took a hesitant step forward and stuck out his foot, nudging at Nico's shoulder. He received no response and nudged a bit harder. Still receiving no response, Francois moved next to Nico. "Jesus, that stuff took a long time to work." Francois flipped Nico over, his hands patting all over the still form. "Ah ha!" Francois exclaimed as he felt the item for which he had been searching. He reached into Nico's inner vest pocket and pulled out a key. He rose to his feet and sprinted across the courtyard to the iron box. He was nervous and dropped the key the first two times he tried. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," Francois muttered under his breath, reaching down the second time to pick up the key, managing to slip it into the lock. Nervous, panicked hands removed the lock, rapidly unwinding the chains. Francois paused in his frenetic actions as fingers closed around the handle to the door. "Let him be alive," he breathed and opened the door, stepping back as a body tumbled out.

"Christ," Francois said as he bent down, two fingers going to the neck of the still man at his feet. Francois let out a long sigh as he felt the faint pulse beneath them. "Thank God." He turned his eyes from Raoul to Nico. "Now what the hell am I going to do?"

"Now what the hell are we going to do?" Louis was asking the same question as he sat in a small tavern on the road between Lyon and Chagny. He had come to this place at the bidding of the man seated across the table from him – the man who always chose to hide in darkened shadows.

"You are going to do precisely as I tell you," the man said. "Nothing more. Nothing less."

"And just how long do you expect us to stay in that house before we are noticed?"

"You will stay there," came the softly spoken answer, "until I can find a way to ensure your safe passage from France. If you continue on as you have been, no one will suspect anything is amiss."

"That is easy for you to say. You have a grand home to stay in, an easy life with no worries." Louis scratched at his chin. "I have Nico and he is taking your orders to make our …" he paused, selecting his next word carefully, lowering his voice, "friend … as miserable as possible too much to heart."

The figure in the shadows leaned forward slightly. "I want him alive," the tone of his voice was deadly. "It is more vital than ever that he remain so." A crooked smile could be seen crossing his face. "Especially now that his wife is carrying their child." He leaned forward a bit more. "When you return, I wish you to let our friend know that his wife has disappeared." He chuckled. "Tell him that she has returned to her phantom lover." He returned to his shadows. "That should add to his misery."

Louis shrugged. "That is what you are paying for," he said as his hands closed around the leather satchel full of franc notes in the middle of the table. "Just one last thing."

"What?"

"How long are we expected to be our friend's keepers?"

"Until we can get him safely to an asylum in the Americas," the man in the shadows replied. "Once that has been accomplished, each of you shall receive your remaining share of the ransom money." He chuckled again. "And I shall decide when – and if – our friend shall ever see the light of day again."

There was that in the man's voice that sent shivers up Louis' hardened spine. He drew the satchel to his side, sliding his chair back and standing. "I need to go if I am to be in Grenoble by the morning."

The figure in the shadows leaned forward again. "If you fail me," he said simply. "I shall see to it that none of you shall ever fail at anything ever again. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly," Louis said.

"Go." A hand emerged from the shadows, waving dismissal.

Louis did not need to be told a second time. He turned on his heel and left the inn, collecting his horse from the stable before riding into the gathering night, over the sleeping countryside. He looked forward to the next morning, a soft bed and the opportunity to be away from a man whose cold, deadly madness was so carefully hidden beneath a civilized veneer.

The next morning found the countryside all across France waking to the new day. The countryside surrounding Boulogne-sur-mer – while peaceful now - had been witness to much upheaval since the Romans had first taken advantage of the port that offered easy access to England across the channel. The Revolution had seen the destruction of the city's cathedral, the original foundation becoming the new crypt during the forty-year process of rebuilding. Napoleon had used the port as his planning base for an English invasion. Now as a new century loomed on the horizon, the city was actively engaged in a rivalry with Calais for dominance in travel and transport across the Channel to the English ports of Folkstone and Dover. And in a house not far from the cliffs overlooking the sea, a young woman slowly blinked her eyes open, arms reaching out for someone who was no longer there.

"Oh, Raoul," Christine breathed as she closed her eyes. "Will I ever stop looking for you to be next to me?" She sighed as no silly little laugh or familiar voice came to answer her question. Christine rolled over, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed as she sat up. "At least the nausea has eased," she said a hand reaching for her child. "Good morning, little one. What would you think of some breakfast and a walk down to the sea? Your papa …" Christine swallowed down the anger that always seemed so close to the surface. "Your papa and I used to love to run along the beach when we were young." She closed her eyes, holding to the memory of two happy, laughing children. "You will love the beach, as well; I promise."

Thirty minutes later, Christine had donned a simple black dress, her hair tied back with a black ribbon and she descended the stairs to the first floor of her leased home. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, the odor of freshly baking bread assailed her nostrils and Christine realized she was hungry. She turned toward the back of the house, moving to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway as she noticed Marie bent over the hearth, stirring something in a huge pot. Christine managed a small smile as Marie looked up.

"Good morning, Madame," Marie said.

Christine sighed as she moved into the kitchen, taking a tea towel from a counter so that she could lift the kettle from the stove. "How many times must I tell you, it is just Christine again." She poured hot water over the tea strainer in a waiting cup, placing the kettle back on the stove before turning and moving to a seat at the small table in the center of the sunny room. "I am just Christine."

Marie shrugged. "If you wish it."

"It is how it must be," Christine told her. "Our lives have changed," her voice dropped, "forever."

Marie turned, walking toward the table, two bowls in her hands that she placed before Christine. "I know," she replied gently as she took a seat. "But you must remember to take care of yourself and your baby." She smiled at Christine. "Now, I want you to eat your breakfast."

Christine wrinkled her nose at the soupy substance in one bowl. "Porridge?"

"Monsieur le Doctor said it was good for you," Marie reminded her and nodded to the other bowl. "That is a fruit compote that my brother's wife put up last autumn. Marcel brought over several jars of that and other fruits and vegetables that Bettina insisted we have."

Christine dipped a spoon into the compote and smiled as the sweet fruit slithered down her throat. "Oh, that is good." She put down the spoon and sighed. "I do not think I shall ever be able to thank your brother and his wife enough for all they have done for me." She waved a hand. "Helping to find this house, sharing their food," Christine shook her head, "not asking any questions."

"They know you are my friend. They know you are good to me. That is all they need to know," Marie told her. "I just hope someday you will permit me to tell them the whole truth."

"Perhaps, someday," Christine replied and stuck a spoon in the porridge.

"You must eat that," Marie reminded her.

Christine actually managed a small smile. "You sound like Madame Giry."

Marie moved her chair back from the table and rose to her feet. "I, too, studied under her," she reminded Christine, "and I take that as the highest compliment. I am glad you told her where you are."

"She is the closest thing to a mother I have ever known," Christine replied, her nose wrinkling as she swallowed a spoonful of porridge. "If I am to face having … raising …" Christine paused to bury her anger. "If I am to raise my child alone, I cannot think of a better woman to guide me." She managed another spoon of porridge. "What are you planning on doing this day?" she asked, changing the subject.

"I am going to finish the stew I started for this evening's meal," Marie told her as she moved back to hearth, checking on the pot before turning back to Christine. "And then I shall clean," she held up a hand as Christine's mouth opened. "You cooked and cleaned yesterday while I was out with Bettina; it is my turn today." She shook her head. "I need to do something, to feel useful and I want you to go for a walk down to the beach. The doctor said you are to get plenty of fresh air." She turned to look out the window. "You may wish to go before the heat becomes too great."

Christine finished the last of the compote, leaving the porridge bowl half-full and swallowed the last of her tea. "I think I shall," she said as she stood. Christine moved across the room, pausing at the door. "Are you quite sure?"

"Quite," Marie paused for effect, "Christine." She crossed her arms over her chest. "And Marcel said he would stop by on his way to the city. He is bringing us fish. Or so he says." Marie grinned. "We shall see just how capable a fisherman my brother truly is."

A sad smile crossed Christine's face as she nodded and left the house, walking into the back garden. She moved easily over the flagstone walkway, taking no pleasure in the bright summer blooms that peppered the small flowerbeds. The heady scent of roses wafted by on a passing breeze and Christine's smile turned into a frown, the pace of her feet picking up. "Roses," she muttered. "Why must there always be roses?" She reached the gate at the back of the garden and nearly flung it open in her effort to get away from the scent that always seemed to find her, to haunt her.

She walked across the waving green grass that extended from the hedges that enclosed the back garden of her new home to the very edge of the cliff overlooking the beach and the sea beyond. Christine paused in her walk as she noted the ewes and lambs off in the distance, the antics of the growing lambs and their harried mothers putting a genuine smile on her face. She watched them in silence for several minutes, the everyday scene chasing away a small portion of her anger, before resuming her walk Christine easily covered the remaining distance to the edge of the cliff. She stood quietly, her gaze scanning the warm gold of the sand, the deep blue of the water where the Channel met the ocean before she lowered herself to the warm ground, arranging her skirt beneath her.

Christine's hands reached behind her head and she untied the ribbon holding her hair back. She shook her hair loose and held the ribbon up before her face, watching as the sun bounced off the glossy black satin. She raised her arm high, the ribbon waving in the breeze that blew off the ocean. Christine opened her fingers and the breeze took her ribbon, carrying it aloft, tossing and turning it on the warm currents of air. Christine watched the antics of her ribbon until it disappeared off into the distance. She sighed, drawing her knees to her chest, placing her head against them.

"Gone," Christine whispered sadly. "Everything is gone."

She sat like that for a long time, a black pyramid hidden beneath a curtain of chestnut curls, unaware of the two pairs of concerned eyes that watched from the kitchen window.

"She is going to all right?" Marcel wondered as he turned from the window toward his sister.

Marie shook her head. "I wish I knew," she told her brother. "She has yet to shed a single tear."

Marcel was amazed. "Her husband is dead and she has not cried?"

"I think," Marie bit the end of a fingertip as she thought. "I think she is afraid to cry because if she does cry that will mean that the Vico …" Marie caught herself. "It will mean that her husband is truly dead; I do not think she is yet able to face that truth."

"Marie," Marcel said as he placed hands on his sister's arms, turning her so that she was facing him. "How ignorant do you think we are?" He nodded toward the window. "I know who she is; I know she is the Vicomtess de Chagny." He smiled at the look that passed over his sister's face. "Maman was so worried for you after the fire at the opera house. She and Father worried that you would end up homeless on the streets of Paris with no money, no prospects. They were so relieved when they received your letter telling them that you were going to be the personal maid to the Vicomtess."

"I did not realize they had told you," Marie admitted sheepishly and she grew serious. "You will keep her secret?" She watched as her brother nodded. "Thank you." Marie shook her head. "I am not sure that I would have done what she has done – run from the family to whom she should be turning for love and support – but she feels she has reason." She shrugged. "All I can do is be here with her and hope that as time heals her grief, she will realize her mistake and return."

"You are such a good person," Marcel said as he hugged his sister. "The Vicomtess is fortunate to have you." He grinned at her as he drew back. "It is such a far cry from the annoying brat you were when we were children."

Marie lightly smacked her brother's arm. "You are quite a horrid man to remind me of those times!"

Marcel laughed as he wrapped an arm about his sister. "It is the duty of every brother," he replied. "Now, walk me to the door for I must go into the city." He patted his pocket. "And I shall remember to bring back all the things on your list." He rolled his eyes. "And my wife's list. And my children's list."

Marie laughed as she walked with her brother down the hall to the front door. They stopped at the bottom of the staircase, reaching to hug each other goodbye when a knock came at the door. A puzzled look crossed Marie's face and she turned to open the door, an involuntary scream escaping her lips.

"Please," the man at the door said, his hand reaching out.

Marcel quickly stepped between his sister and the disfigured stranger at the door. "You have no business here," he said sternly, his hand beginning to close the door. "I suggest you leave before I forget I am a gentleman." Marcel found the door would not close and looked down to see a foot jammed in the opening. "You had best remove that," he said, the hand not on the door closing into a fist.

"You," Marie breathed as she looked over her brother's shoulder. "I thought you had died!"

"I am certain you wish I had," Erik replied, "and I should have but I did not." He fiddled with the fedora that barely covered the marred side of his face. "I have come from Madame Giry; it was she who told me where to come. Please," he pleaded. "I need to see her."

Marie swallowed back her fears, relishing the safety of her brother standing between her and the man who had ruined her dreams and the dreams of all those who had worked in the opera house. "Why? What could you possibly say to her now? Has she not suffered enough at your hands? Have we not all suffered enough at your hands?"

Erik refused to hang his head. "Yes, you have. I know what I am," he told her. "I know what I have done." He drew a deep breath. "All I am asking is but a moment of her time and then I shall leave and never return."

Marcel kept himself between the strange man at the door and his sister - his concern growing by the moment. He looked over his shoulder at Marie, the doubt and fear on her face and turned back to the man just outside the threshold, his lips setting in a stern line. "If you do not leave …" he began.

"No," Marie interrupted him. Both men looked at her, the narrowed eyes, the angry look on her face. "Let him come in." Marcel did not move and Marie touched his arm. "Marcel, please." She waited as her brother stepped aside and Erik moved hesitantly into the house. Marie moved out from behind her brother and stoodsteadfastly before Erik. "She is not here at the moment but I can fetch her."

"Thank you," Erik replied softly.

Marie was still having none of it. "Marcel will show you to theparlor and if you do anything …"

Erik swallowed back his irritation at the treatment he was receiving from a girl who had once been nothing more than a shadow in his opera house. Now she obviously thought it her duty to protect Christine from him; how dare she? How dare she assume he would do anything to hurt his angel? "Thank you," Erik replied and followed Marcel as the other man moved off in the direction of the parlor.

As the man who had nearly destroyed her life disappeared into the front parlor, Marie allowed her fear and anger to surface and she slammed the front door shut with all the strength she could find.

"Marie?" she heard a voice ask.

"Oh," Marie said, a hand going to her throat as she turned at the sound.

Christine's eyes grew wide as she noted the look on her friend's face. "What is it?" she asked fearfully. "It is not your family?"

Marie tried her best to compose herself. "We have company," she told Christine.

"Company?" Christine was perplexed. "But no one knows I am here …" A look of panic began to cross her face. "Oh, God. They have found me." Her eyes darted toward the stairs. "I need to leave."

Marie quickly moved to Christine's side. "It is not your family," she told Christine, knowing the look of relief that passed her face would only be temporary. "It is not my family." She shook her head. "Madame Giry has sent you a visitor and I do not know … I do not …"

"Madame Giry?" Christine brightened and looked around, seeing Marcel coming through the parlor door. "Thank you," she smiled at Marie and walked to the parlor door.

"You do not …" Marie said but she was unable to stop Christine; she looked at her brother, worry evident in every aspect of her face and body.

Marcel looked from his terrified sister to the woman who walked past him, unseeing, her eyes fixed on the parlor she was entering. He turned his gaze from his sister to the interior of the parlor, ready to intervene at the least little sign of trouble.

Christine stopped just inside the parlor door, seeing a figure turned toward the fireplace, away from her. She put a smile on her face. "Hello," she said softly and took another step into the parlor.

"Christine," Erik said as he turned around.

Christine froze in mid-step. "You," she breathed.