Chapter Six
My hands trembled within each other's grasps, as I made my slow way to Christine's dressing room. Even the thought of that sapphire gaze being so firmly fixed upon my own caused my very heart to stumble in its beat; where my own morals were concerned, right may have blurred easily together with wrong, but she had firmly-fixed beliefs, and it was her judgment that concerned me, not my own nor that of God Above's. I was certain that she would cast me one righteous glance, and send me withering back into the depths of hell where I truly belonged.
As a result of my trepidation, I must admit to constant procrastination in all the morning's events; because of this, I arrived at her dressing-room door just as she was stepping out into the corridor. So perfectly timed was my arrival and her departure, in fact, that we collided.
"Oh!" she cried, stumbling back from me with a horrified expression. To my relief, however, once she had seen who I was, she visibly relaxed.
"Mademoiselle," I said quickly, "I beg of you to forgive me. I was, I am afraid, not paying any attention..."
"Oh, Monsieur!" she wailed, unexpectedly falling against my chest and wrapping her soft little arms around my neck, as that sweet face buried itself into the crook of my neck. "Monsieur, have you not heard?"
I stiffened beneath her grasp, completely unsure of what was expected of me. Her head leaned back, eyes finding mine, and my right hand slowly, timorously pressed itself between her shoulder blades. As my heart began to beat a staccato rhythm, I attempted a voice without tremor (though I doubt I was successful). "Heard what, Christine? Are... Are you alright? Has something happened?"
Her arms tightened around me, as her face plummeted once more towards my shoulder. "It's horrible!" It took me a moment to recognize that waver in her voice, but once I had, I felt very much as if I should have been upon the gallows just then, instead of guiltily standing within her arms: she was crying! Weeping for the death of a man she did not—could not ever have known!
Or perhaps she wept only because she feared me, the Phantom?
"What is it?" I demanded of her. "What's happened?"
Slowly her head drew back, eyes fastening upon my shirt collar. "Louis Grandec," she whispered, sniffling. "Strangled by the Ghost."
My lips parted in a studied look of dumbfounded horror, and my hands moved to fasten upon her upper arms. "You jest!"
"No, Monsieur!" she responded, voice flying towards the higher ends of her scale—and she was not a soprano for nothing. "It is true! He has killed again, and for—for me!"
My heart skipped a beat, and then another, and then another. For a moment, I feared it would never begin again. She knew about the note. She knew—she knew, and how long would it take her before the passionate words of that note would be compared and contrasted to my passionate words from the night at the lake? How long before she made that fatal connection? Despite common opinions of Victorian women, I had seen the spark of intelligence behind her beautiful eyes. I had heard her when in the throes of ecstasy over some beautiful work—she would make the connection.
It was only my good fortune that she was, as of yet, too horrified to consider what had happened. "Whatever do you mean, Mademoiselle?" I asked after a long, long pause. So concentrated was I on remembering to keep my expression in a state of horror, that I very nearly forgot to respond.
Christine drew her arms from around my neck, tiny hands wiping forlornly at her tears. "I will show you," she said softly, drawing the note from her pocket and handing it to me. "The inspector," she continued, in subdued tone, "he let me take it, when they had finished with it..."
I stared at the envelope for a long time before opening it. It seemed so odd to look upon it from so detached a position; I felt as if I knew, now, what it was that the members of the Garnier felt whenever one of these fateful letters found its way into their hands. So long had I watched them from rafters; it was not until now that I was the watched.
I unfolded the letter and allowed my eyes to run across every line, though I did not need to read it. The memory of that night would burn upon my mind for a long time yet to come. When my gaze reached my signature, I folded the letter away again and turned widened eyes upon Christine.
"You see, Monsieur?" She plucked the letter from my fingertips, and once more tucked it away within the folds of her skirts. "You were, indeed, mistaken in believing yourself to be my greatest of fans. This ... man, this Phantom—he is quite the fanatic, Monsieur!"
Tears were building in her eyes again. Reaching up to dash them away only brought for a desperate sob from her, and without thinking I enfolded her in my warm embrace. She sank quickly against my chest, crying loudly into my shirt. Oh, how wonderful it felt, to hold her—to offer comfort in time of need, and have it be so quickly accepted!
Never once did it occur to me to feel guilty for having been the one to put her in this state. No, on the contrary, I felt much less guilty than I had previously—thanks to the Phantom in me, the man in me was being given a chance at deepening the trust between myself and Christine. I was being given a chance to redeem myself, to undo whatever harm may have been done that night on the lake.
We stood in that corridor in each other's arms for many a long minute, she crying softly, I breathing deeply of that perfect scent, trying to imprint this memory on my mind forever while I murmured gentle words of comfort. My voice was muffled, for my lips remained pressed against her hair, but I do not think the words themselves mattered; it was only the tone, the meaning behind the words. As with an animal, she did not need specific words to be calmed and reassured—she needed only the intent.
With a shaky breath, she drew back from me, hands again wiping furiously at the tears gathered beneath her eyes. "Merci, Monsieur," she murmured, eyes downcast. "If you will forgive me, I think I should like to go home, now..."
Nodding, I stepped aside, but as she passed me I fell into step beside her. "Would you like for me to walk you home, Mademoiselle?"
She thought about it for a long time, and then turned her head and looked up at me with a smile that very nearly sent me to my knees. "Oui, Monsieur. That would be.. wonderful."
A slight darkness veiled our journey down the streets of Paris. Lamps had not yet been lit, but the sun was quickly dipping behind the rooftops, casting long shadows across the quickly emptying streets. This was the Paris I knew, the Paris I was familiar with; once, long ago, had I traveled the streets in the daylight, when they bustled and teemed with bourgeoisie society. So much easier to travel the streets now, when the lanes were open and invited one to stroll as casually as one pleased, rather than being forced to dart in and out of the traffic like some maddened insect trying desperately not to be crushed by the masses.
Not that being crushed had ever been much of a fear for me, in those days—I was generally given a relatively wide berth, in those days when I had been young and brash enough to walk around with my mask on full display. However, the principle was still the same.
"Will you be alright, Christine?" I asked as we walked, turning a concerned look in her direction.
"Oui, Monsieur," she responded, smiling a little. We did not speak for a length of time, she preoccupied in her despair, and myself too preoccupied in her. I allowed my hands to slip into my trouser pockets, and found my so-very-human shoulders giving a little shiver in the crisp air. I tipped my head back to look at the sky, allowed my senses to taste the night air.
"It will snow tonight," I said absently.
There was a long pause, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw her head swivel to look at me. She regarded me steadily for another moment, before asking bluntly, "Who are you?"
I gave a little shrug, head inclining towards the ground before me. Discomfort swept through me, instilling in me the profound desire to squirm about. "No one, really, Mademoiselle."
Christine began immediately shaking her head, golden curls bouncing about. "No, no, Monsieur, you cannot escape the question so easily this time. Please, Monsieur—tell me."
"There is nothing to tell," I said sharply, putting a quick end to the discussion. Meekness immediately returned to my angel, and she fell utterly silent. Misery began pronouncing itself in my chest, misery at my own temper, my own sharp tongue. I had hurt her, and I hated myself for it.
She seemed to recover quickly enough, however, for not long afterwards she was asking another question of me. "Monsieur, where do you live?"
Why all the questions I could not answer? With a sigh, I said, "Not far from here, Mademoiselle."
Undaunted, she repeated, "Where?"
One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "A rather unremarkable place, on the Rue Chaveau-Lagarde."
"Oh." She seemed disappointed; attempting to try again, she asked, "And your family?"
"Dead," I said blandly; it was difficult to invoke emotion in a matter about which you could have cared less. "I did not know my father, and my mother died before I came to Paris."
"No siblings?"
"None." Thank God—being an imperfect child had been torture enough. What horrors would have been granted me, had I been an imperfect child amongst perfect ones?
Carefully, she asked, "Are you.. lonely, Monsieur?"
Immediately, without considering, I answered, "Well of course I am lonely."
She looked down, as if embarrassed, but plowed ever onwards, though her voice became softer. "Why did you wait so long, Monsieur? You are.. beyond the age at which most seek out a bride." She flicked a glance at me, as if to find whether she would be punished for such a question.
I breathed a forlorn sigh, head drooping. "That is a long and painful story, and an impossible one to repeat, Mademoiselle."
I could feel her hesitation, but she refused to give up. Determined, she said, "Was it fortune? Did you fear that, without station, you would find no bride unless you had a fortune to your name? I know many men do not—"
"No," I interrupted. "That was perhaps a little of it, but it was certainly not why I waited so long."
"Then why, Monsieur?" she asked immediately, one hand reaching out to touch lightly against my arm.
I glanced away from her, off into the dark streets to our left. "There were certain circumstances, up until now, that made me.. unfit for marriage, Mademoiselle," I said darkly.
"What—"
"I would prefer not to discuss it," I growled. I was beginning to feel as if she were backing me into a corner. When I risked a glance in her direction, I found her studying me with unabashed compassion.
"As you wish, Monsieur," she murmured. "As you wish..."
A/N
For those of you who are Princess Bride fans, I hope you catch that little connotation!
