Chapter Summary: The police return a ring to Philippe and update him on their progress in solving his brother's "murder". Their visit brings evokes old memories and brings forth new emotions. The men holding Raoul finally succeed in breaking his will. Raoul does not hear his angel weep but Erik does hear his.

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Raoul stood up, pushing his chair back angrily and strode to the door, his hand reaching for the knob.

"If you walk out the door," Philippe warned, "you walk away from this family forever."

Raoul breathed heavily through his nose, his back still to the room, unable to see the worry on his brother's face as Philippe waited for an answer. "Why should I stay?" Raoul wondered softly. "You have already made your decision." He finally turned back to the room. "And I have made mine." He shook his head. "I am marrying Christine and there is nothing you can do to prevent it."

"I shall cut off your access to the bank accounts." Philippe raised an eyebrow at his younger brother. "I shall forbid access to Chagny, to the Paris home, to any of our properties."

"I can always find work. Was it not you who demanded that I spend some time at sea?" Raoul smirked. "I learned my lessons well and good sailors are always in demand. And I do not need a grand home with rooms into which I never set foot. All Christine and I will need is a room with a roof that does not leak."

"Ah, the foolish dreams of the young." Philippe wanted to rise to his feet but remained seated, steepled fingers at the level of his chest. "And do you fully expect to be received by any of your acquaintance or any member of this family if I forbid this marriage? Even our sisters – much as they harbor a soft spot for you – will never allow you to pass their thresholds."

"Understand me, Philippe," Raoul had dug his heels in and would not be swayed, "I am marrying Christine. I do not care if it costs me everything. I do not care if it costs me my family or my friends. I do not care if it costs me my station or my inheritance. She is my everything! She is my friend and she will be my family. Together we will build a family together that will be greater than any mere monetary inheritance."

Philippe finally rose to his feet. "You expect me to agree to this marriage? You expect me to just say 'yes' while you go off and marry a penniless, opera singer. A girl who danced on the stage. A girl whose actions were responsible for the destruction of an entire opera house?"

"Yes, Philippe, I do," Raoul told him, his eyes narrowing. "And my actions had just as much to do with what happened that night as hers."

"One reason, Raoul," Philippe told him, as he leaned his hands on his desk, praying for the words he longed to hear. "Just give me one good reason why I should give my consent to this marriage."

"Because she loves me." Raoul was quiet for a moment. "And because I love her."

A broad smile lit Philippe's face. "That is all I have wanted to hear for the last two hours." He laughed delightedly. "Of course, I give my consent. You have my consent and my blessings and all the assistance I can give!" Philippe was amazed when Raoul rushed across the room and grabbed him in a huge hug. "I cannot breathe, you young fool!" Philippe said as his hands opened and closed …

Philippe's fingers closed about the object he held, his eyes closing in pain. "It is my brother's," he said softly, opening his eyes to once again stare at the ring in his now open hand. "It was the gift his wife gave him on their wedding day." A single finger traced the intertwined "R-C" on the face of the ring. "He vowed that day that he would never take it off." Philippe finally raised his eyes to the two men sitting across the desk from him. "I thought it lost when … Where did you … how did you …"

It was Chief Inspector Pichette who answered. "It was brought to our attention by a man who runs a rather rough-and-tumble inn on the road leading from Lyon to Grenoble. He found it stuck in a corner beneath a bench." He cleared his throat. "We had put word out on the street that should any items of a specific nature be found, there would be monetary recompense for such information. This inn owner had heard the rumors and he came forward upon seeing what was in the leather pouch he found."

"What else was in this pouch?" Arthur Weldon asked; he had been standing behind Philippe's chair in quiet support.

Pichette turned to Guy Rousseau who was seated beside him. "There was some small amount of money – not enough to signify. A packet of white powder and a map."

"What type of powder?" Arthur wondered aloud, Philippe's attention returned to the ring he held so gently.

"It is a powerful sleeping drug," Rousseau told him. "I was told by the chemist I awoke to analyze the powder, that it would only take a mere pinch to make someone ill. A slightly larger dose would disorient the recipient, making them unable to function. A normal dose will send a grown man to sleep for up to a day and giving more than that could lead to death. It is odorless and tasteless and any who consumed it would never know."

"Map," Philippe said. "What of the map?"

"It is just lines on a piece of paper," Pichette told them. "There are not specific landmarks that would lead us to discover what the map means."

Philippe raised his eyes. "Do you know who had the pouch containing these items?"

"We do," Pichette said. "We believe it is a man named Louis Foucault. He is a man of our acquaintance who holds a questionable reputation. He is known to often hire out his services to the highest bidder. This Foucault then recruits others with weaker minds to do the work for him." He drew a deep breath. "Do the names Edouard Durant or Francois Amerlaine mean anything to either of you."

Philippe looked over his shoulder at Arthur, who shook his head slightly. "No, they do not," Philippe replied as he returned his attention to the inspectors seated across from him. "Should they? Do you think these are the men who are responsible for what …" He knew he needed to say it. "For murdering my brother?"

"We do not yet know," Pichette had to admit, "but we would certainly like to question them."

"Then why have you not yet done so?" Philippe snapped and was immediately apologetic. "I am sorry."

"No need for apologies, Monsieur le Comte," Pichette assured him. "I have officers searching for these men day and night. I promise you, we will find them and we will get the answers you desire."

Philippe nodded and thought for a moment. "Would it help if I were to add my own funds to this search?"

Rousseau nodded. "It is always helpful and while it is somewhat distasteful, oftentimes it is the only thing that men such as these understand."

"Offer whatever sum it takes," Philippe told them. "I shall instruct my bankers in Lyon to give you anything you require."

"Thank you," Pichette replied softly, turning to nod slightly at his aide. "We should be going."

"Stay," Philippe said and nodded at Arthur who moved to the end of the bookcase, tugging on the narrow tapestry hanging there. "You have traveled through the night to bring me this news; I cannot allow you to leave without a chance to freshen up and have a hot meal."

A knock came at the study door and Mathilde entered. "You sent me for me?" she wondered.

A genuine smile crossed Philippe's face at the sight of her. "I did," he said. "Would you show these two men to the guest rooms so that they may freshen up."

"Oui, Monsieur," Mathilde replied.

"And then would you see to it that they have a hot meal and a chance to relax before they must be back on their way?"

"It shall be done as you ask," Mathilde smiled back, motioning for Pichette and Rousseau to follow her. "And I shall pack a hamper for your trip back," she told them.

Both men inclined their heads at Philippe.

"Thank you for your hospitality," Pichette said.

"You are welcome," Philippe told them and turned his attention back to the ring he held, listening as the door closed behind Mathilde and the men now in her care.

"What are you thinking?" Arthur wondered.

"I do not know what I am thinking," Philippe told him. "I do not know what I am supposed to be thinking." He rose to his feet, walking to the windows that overlooked the front drive, staring silently for a moment before turning back to the room. "No, that is wrong. I know exactly what I am thinking." Storm clouds descended upon Philippe's troubled countenance. "I am thinking that I want five minutes alone with these men. I want to do to them what they did to Raoul. I want to make them pay for their actions in ways they cannot even begin to imagine." His lips curled in an evil grin. "It is too bad we can no longer slowly burn people at the stake." Philippe's eyes narrowed. "Very, very slowly."

Arthur was a bit horrified. "Philippe!"

Philippe let out a long, shaky breath. "I do not mean that – not entirely. Part of me does mean it, Arthur and that is the part that frightens me. That is a part of me that I never knew existed until this happened. I never knew I was capable of wanting such revenge! I am not sure I like this part of myself."

"It is understandable given what has happened," Arthur reassured his friend. "I, too, am not a violent man but I would dearly love my own five minutes alone with those men." He shook his head. "Would you like me to compose a letter to your bankers that can be sent with the Inspectors back to Lyon?"

Philippe nodded. "I trust you to know what to say and I will sign it." He ran his free hand through his hair. "God, what I would not give for answers!" He looked at his closed fist, slowly opening it. "One love, one lifetime," he whispered to himself. "And what I would not give to have Christine here, to be able to place this into her hands."

Hands that she spread open as she knelt before him. "I am here," the angel breathed.

Raoul sat on the hard floor, unseeing, his back against the wall, his hands bound together and fastened by a chain to a ring in the wall.

The angel placed her hands on either side of his face, desperately trying to get his attention. "Please!" she pleaded. "Talk to me!"

"Nothing left to say," Raoul whispered. "Nothing left …" his voice trailed off.

"Do not do this!" the angel cried. "Do not believe them! Do not give in to them! They are words! They are only words!" Her pleadings were interrupted by the sound of a door opening; the angel looked over her shoulder to see Louis, Nico and Francois enter the room. She quickly turned back to Raoul. "Do not listen to them, I beg of you!"

Louis motioned for his two companions to wait and walked over to Raoul and right through the angel, causing her to disappear. He squatted down before Raoul, taking Raoul's chin in his hands. "And how are you today?"

Raoul just looked at him.

"I asked you a question," Louis said, reaching for an injured hand and pressing down upon a raw nail bed, knowing that Nico was smiling at the cry that emanated from their hostage. "Now, I am going to ask again and I expect an answer – how are you today?"

"Fine," Raoul breathed, able to focus only upon the throbbing pain in his hand.

Louis tsk'd at Raoul. "I find that hard to believe." He shook his head. "How can any man be fine when the woman he loves has fled right back into the arms of her first love? How can any man be fine when he knows that his child will forever be calling someone else "Papa"?" Louis let go of Raoul's chin. "I do not know how you do it. I simply do not know how you can be so calm when your wife is in another man's bed, his hands on her body, on your child, his name being screamed from her lips." Louis smiled at Raoul. "Perhaps they will do things so that your child will never be born. After all, why would they want the child of a dead man to clutter up their new lives? Why would your wife want your child when she can have the child of her lover?" Louis patted Raoul's cheek a bit harder than necessary. "Oh, that is correct! I know why you are so calm. It is because you told Edouard to tell your wife to go to her phantom lover." He laughed at the look of knowledge that crossed Raoul's face. "That's right – we knew about that. We knew about that before poor Edouard – well – lost his head in your place."

Nico took a step forward – he could not resist – and leaned over Louis' shoulder, catching Raoul's gaze. "What do you think I told your wife at your crypt? What do you think I was whispering to her while she squirmed so sweetly in my arms? Whose name did you think was already on those soft lips?"

Raoul looked at the men before him, their words ringing in his head, his breath coming short and uneven. "No," he muttered. "No."

"Fight them, Raoul," the angel urged. "You know they are lies. Fight them!"

Nico tapped Louis on the shoulder and the older man moved aside, Nico taking his place. "Oh, poor little boy," Nico said in that bizarre sing-song. "You know it is the truth. Why else would your faithless widow betray you with me at your own tomb?"

Raoul shook his head. "Lies."

Nico ran his hand down Raoul's head as if he were a beloved pet. "Shall I remind you that I know how her skin smells of lilies? How else would I know such a thing unless she had been in my arms?" Nico leaned forward so that he could whisper in Raoul's ear. "She purrs like a kitten," he breathed and drew back, waiting for a response.

Raoul stared at Nico and the three men before him could see the moment when it happened. They could see the moment when what was left of his resistance snapped. They could tell the exact second when he finally broke all ties with his past, leaving him open and vulnerable to any and all their games and desires. It only took a split-second, the blink of an eye and suddenly the last ember of life in Raoul's blue eyes winked out and there was nothing in them anymore. There was no fear, no defiance, no longing – no life; there was simply nothing. Raoul had finally been broken and now they could do with him as they pleased.

"How are you?" Nico wondered, his lips curling in a strange half-smile.

"However you wish me to be," Raoul replied in a monotone.

"If I free your hands, will you try to leave?"

"I have nowhere else to go."

Nico leaned back on his heels and sighed happily. "Such a good little boy," he said, turning to Francois, motioning for the other man to come forward. "Would you like us to take care of those nasty little cuts?" Nico asked as he turned his attention back to Raoul.

"If you wish," Raoul said.

"Oh, I wish," Nico assured him, "I wish very, very much." He watched as Louis moved to the ring in the wall, releasing the lock that held the chain there. Nico waited until Louis had released the bindings about Raoul's wrists and lifted the old shirt from his body before leaning forward once again. He pushed a single finger hard against the ribs showing through Raoul's skin, running it over them, enjoying the moans of pain that came from Raoul. "Too bad we cannot do anything for those ribs but," Nico's fingers reached out to trace the inflamed wounds across Raoul's abdomen and down his arms, "we can do something about these." He looked at Francois. "Put it down and hold him still."

Francois put down the small bucket of rags he carried and moved to Raoul, placing him in a chokehold.

"Grab his legs," Nico told Louis waiting until the older man had a firm grasp on Raoul's legs before turning his attention back to his victim. "Since you are being such a good little boy we are going to take care of those nasty cuts on your tummy and arms." Nico talked to Raoul as if he were a wayward child barely out of the nursery. "And we all know that taking one's medicine is not always pleasant." Nico reached into the bucket next to him and pulled out a long strip of white linen stained red and dripping with iodine. "This is going to hurt," he chuckled.

The screams that tore from Raoul's throat as the iodine soaked bandages were wrapped tightly about the infected knife wounds on his arms and stomach echoed throughout the isolated house, causing two grown men to turn their heads and another to chuckle gleefully.

In a corner of the room, an angel wept.

And in another room, another angel also wept. She sat in the darkened room, rocking in a chair, a sweater drawn tightly to her chest.

"I miss you so much," Christine said through her tears, her words punctuated by her uneven breathing. "I want you back. I want you back." She leaned her head against the back of the rocking chair, placing the sweater over the child she carried. Christine raised her hands to her lips and screamed into them until her throat was sore and she could scream no longer. "I love you. I love you," she kept repeating as the tears continued to fall.

Marie having grown used to the sound of midnight weeping from Christine's room placed a pillow over her head and rolled over, desperately trying to block out the sounds of distress. She had gone the first night to try and comfort her former mistress only to find that Christine wished no comfort and – in fact – wished to mourn alone and unheeded in the dark stillness. Now Marie knewthat the best thing to do was allow Christine her time of sorrow and be there in the morning with a hot cup of tea and a friendly smile, a warm embrace.

Erik, though, had never heard such sorrow from his beloved angel and he paced back and forth behind the closed door of his room. His first instinct upon waking in the darkness was to reach for the bottle of opiate solution always kept by his bed and used to chase away the nightmares he could not outrun. Yet there was something different in the cries he heard – something that was real and true and drawn from a depth of sorrow that he understood all too well. Erik lay in the strange bed, struggling to get his bearings, when he realized that he recognized the sound of the weeping.

"Christine," he breathed as he sat up abruptly in the bed, dizzy but rising to his feet, rushing to the door. As his hand closed around the door's latch, he paused. "Oh God," he said to himself. "What am I doing?" He knew he could not leave the room, could not do as he wished and run to Christine's side, drawing her into his arms, kissing away her tears, and soothing her pain. Erik drew back from the door and began to pace the room, his hands over his ears as he struggled to block out the muffled screams that reached his ears.

"Oh my angel," Erik said as he lowered his hands and could hear no more screaming. Yet the weeping he heard was in some ways worse than the screams.

Erik did not know how to deal with the tears of an angel.

He never had.