Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge-podge of Kay, ALW, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. Characters: I love all of them, own none of them.
Side Notes:
Yes, I am going somewhere with this; I have my research done, and an ending written! Of course, it will take a few twists and turns before we get there…
Thanks to both of my betas, kimberwyn and barefoot advocat! This chapter contains a slight nod to my beta, barefoot advocat-See if you can spot it, just for fun!
A Clever Plan
Christine lowered her head to the glass top of her secretary, cooling her flaming cheek from the exertion of the long, brisk walk home. Breathe…she told herself, still heaving in gulps of air, trying to slow the rapid pace of her heart. You can do this, but you don't have much time.
Where to begin? She hadn't the slightest notion of what to do from here, her brain a mess of clutter and paranoia, barring any rational thought from making its way to the surface.
Just keep breathing…breathe, there now, she chanted, gradually slowing her heart and unclouding her mind.
"First step," she stated aloud, logic and reason once again her friend. "I must write to M. David She slid open the drawer of her secretary, pulling out a sheet of crisp, heavy paper, adorned with the de Chagny crest. Dipping the nub of her pen into the inkwell, she cleanly wrote in a swooping, swift hand:
M. Henri David, Avocat
2 Rue Pied nu, Place du Lépine, Paris
Dear Monsieur,
Your presence is requested at the southern end of Ile de la Cité flower market, in place Lépine, at seven o'clock tomorrow morning. My man, Norris Nitot, shall meet you there in my place, and shall seek your advice on my behalf. Please bring your satchel, and remain inconspicuous. Any arrangements made can be conveyed to Mme. Giry of the Opera Populaire; she will know how to contact me.
Yours respectfully,
Madame the Comtesse de Chagny
She skimmed over the message quickly, folded the note and pressed the de Chagny crest into the hot, green wax to seal her words.
Christine then rose, and pulled open the door of her elaborately carved armoire. Crouching down, she pulled a hatbox from the bottom of the closet, hidden under a blanket and plopped it in front of her in disdain.
All the notes… why had she saved them? They should have been burned as the filth that they were. Perhaps it was the paranoid feeling that if she destroyed the missives, somehow they would know, and they would punish her. She took the top one in her hand, and unfolded it again.
"Dead little mice tell no tales. N or N."
This had come the night theyfound Perri…
She was mistress of this estate, protector of all who worked and lived under her roof, and she had failed them. Papi's screams of despair at the sight of lifeless son still haunted her dreams. The image of her friend clutching her fist to her mouth, her back to the wall, eyes wild with disbelief and terror. Norry, the old caretaker, sinking to his knees and pulling his only grandchild to his breast, rocking back and forth as if to comfort the pale boy.
There at Perri's feet was the note…
Grabbing up the piece of paper, she flew down the gravel path, slipping once or twice, to the guard posted at the gate of the estate, pleading for his help. "Perri," she gasped, pulling at the sleeve of his coat, "our little stable hand. Someone has killed him!"
The officer scurried along behind her to join the growing crowd of servants surrounding the sad picture. He circled once, twice, taking in all of the details his sagging face could spot, then turned to the Comtesse wearily.
"My lady, I do not know what to say. Perhaps he just fell-"
"—Read the note," she interjected harshly, bristling at his obvious lack of compassion. He took it from her outstretched hand, skimmed over the words, and handed it back to her.
"I shall speak to my superior about this," he sputtered, trying to appease her anger…
Shuddering violently, she crumpled the threat and threw it into the fire, glaring as it flamed up, crackling and breaking to pieces, swiftly consumed into a black mass of ash. Why the boy? She let loose a shriek of rage, longing to hurl the missive's brothers to the same fate. Instead, she slammed them to the floor, and bound them together with a ribbon.
The saggy-faced man was as good as his word. A few more guards had been posted at various points along the grounds, but it was not enough to prevent the delivery of the latest note, this time threatening her very life. No, the Surete were useless; she had to act on her own—there was no other way.
"Oh, Raoul," she had sobbed, desperately longing for the security of her husband's arms, clinging like a child to his loving assurances of shelter from the evils of the world. "What would you have me do?" She pounded her fist to the floor in futile frustration.
It was then that Christine had remembered his letter on the top shelf of her armoire, tucked away among the other precious reminders. It had remained unopened as instructed, her curiosity much overshadowed by her grief.
"Sweet, you must only open this if you have no where else to turn…," read the front, the inside instructing her to see Mme. Giry. So she had gone to the ballet mistress in one last effort to save her tiny family. But in turn, Mme. Giry had told her that Erik—
Light and understanding coursed through her very being, startling Christine from her memories.
Raoul had known!
He had wanted her to go to her Angel, not just Mme. Giry! Why had she not made the connection earlier? Of course, at the time, the sight of her long-lost ring drove away all other thoughts, so desperate was she to fly to the side of her resurrected angel, to go down below, once again, to his welcome arms.
They never found his body, so at some point Raoul must have gone to Mme. Giry for an explanation, leaving the gold band for her to keep…Christine's hand went to the dainty chain at her neck, clutching the ring that now hung from it, twisting it slowly between her fingers in thought, trying to fully comprehend Raoul's note.
Why would he send her back to his rival, the man he loathed so? He himself had told her that to see her return to her Angel's side, even for his funeral, would destroy him. He had hated him, feared his madness, and feared what he would do to win her back…
"Good God!" Christine cried aloud, realization once again forced to the forefront. Her hand flew to her lips at the thought. What would Erik do for her…help her and Jean-Paul to disappear, perhaps? Even kill for her? He would, of that she was certain.
How little credit she had afforded her dear husband! Through his letter, he was, in effect, relinquishing her (albeit reluctantly) to her Angel's safe keeping, knowing that he could save her when the inevitable happened. Erik could protect her when Raoul finally succumbed to the ravages of his illness, and left Christine to deal with the shadow that had stalked him.
Who better to drive away the demons than the devil himself?She mused at the irony of it, quietly chuckling at her husband's clever plan.
And then her head hung low, all laughter replaced by bitter regret. Tears of shame ran down her cheeks. Oh, yes, Raoul had known everything. He had somehow understood the peculiar relationship between she and her teacher, had seen the love that she thought was successfully secreted away for no one to know of. She remembered those far away words at Apollo's Lyre, so long ago…
"Oh, I hate him!" cried Raoul. "And you, Christine, tell me, do you hate him too?"
"No," said Christine simply.
"No, of course not...Why, you love him! Your fear, your terror, all of that is just love and love of the most exquisite kind, the kind which people do not admit even to themselves…"
Raoul saw through the façade, because he truly knew her heart, just as well as he knew his own. His had beat with love for her, thrived in her presence. And because he understood this about himself, it was innate, then, that he recognized the same sort of devotion in his rival, somewhere in the madness.
Raoul would never harm her, because he loved her. And Erik would never harm her, because he also loved her. He had proof of it; after all, Raoul had been there when Erik had let her go…
Her chest painfully throbbed for the heart of the man she had called "husband;" a man that had cherished her so greatly, he had quietly tried to understand why she never fully gave herself to him, why she had kept back a piece of her heart to save for her poor, unhappy Erik, her beloved fallen Angel.
"Thank you, Raoul, for understanding…" she whispered hoarsely, finality hanging in the air. It was accepted that in some ways, she would never be absolved from her remorse, and was at peace with it.
Sighing in resignation, shaking away the cobwebs of recollection, she turned back to the task at hand. Perhaps M. David will be able to make something of these notes, she pondered.
Gathering her bundle and the letter for the avocat, Christine placed them in her little blue satchel. She then went back to her armoire, pulled out a little jewelry chest, and pulled out a few small sacred items to take with her:
Alittle porcelain box, containing a lock of Jean-Paul's fine baby hair;
Arose-embroidered handkerchief that had belonged to her mother, browning slightly in one corner;
An exquisite brooch Raoul had given her on their third and final wedding anniversary; that was in fact, a locket. On the left, a miniature portrait of her father; to the right, her husband.
Anything else that was too large to carry with her – her father's violin, several unadorned, practical dresses, a few toiletries, a childhood book of poetry, now Jean-Paul's favorite—was left on her bed for Papi to pack.
The clock on her mantel chimed nine…ten…eleven…midnight. She only had a few hours to sleep until she must rise again and complete her tasks. Christine scurried down the stairs to rouse Papi and Norry, so she could give them some last few instructions. Only those two faithful servants would be traveling with her and Jean-Paul, to wherever M. David chose to conceal them. She knew that Papi and Norry would be in quiet chaos the next few days, meeting with M. David, packing the bare necessities, arranging for the care of the estate, ever careful of dangerously watchful eyes…
Christine slipped stealthily into the lovely little nursery, careful that the light from the hallway would not wake her precious one. Though a small shaft of light crept around her silhouette and illuminated the toddler's rosy face, he slept on, lost in some secret childhood delight. One chubby hand grasped the satiny-blue of his pillow; the other rested under his nose, tiny fingers curled in, thumb safely ensconced in his mouth. Wispy dark curls clung to his forehead as he shifted slightly.
Her heart fluttering with the need to grasp his little fingers, Christine sank into the bed, protectively gathering him close her breast. A soft sigh escaped his lips, and the hand that had clung to the pillow moved to the soft white cotton of her nightgown. She pushed back a few of the stray curls so like her own, kissing him lightly on his forehead.
"Mon garçon précieux, je t'aime ainsi!" she fervently whispered into his ear.
A desire welled inside of her to release something long held back, to give everything she had to her little one. Softly, for the first time since that fateful day she lost her muse, she sang an old French lullaby, one that had been sung to her as a child…
Au clair de la lune, Pierrot repondit
Je n'ai pas de plume, je suis dans mon lit
Va chez la voisine, je crois qu'elle y est
Car dans sa cuisine, on bat le briquette…
ooo
She dreamed that night of her angel. The gaunt man lay slumped against the cold stone wall, wheezing heavily, obviously pained by each rise and fall of his aching lungs drawing in ragged breaths of the damp, putrid air.
She reached out to him, but something kept pushing her back, relegating her to the post of mere observer; no matter how hard she tried, flailed her hands in front of her to break through this invisible barrier, she couldn't fly to his side, lift him into her arms.
He could not hear her calling to him, would not even lift his beautiful gold eyes to meet hers. But he knew she was there…oh yes, he was well aware of her frantic presence, but chose effectively to shut her out, have nothing more to do with the miserable wretch that called to him.
And then, ever so slowly, his piercing eyes rose to stare up at her, cruelty, coldness written in every fleck of color. He hates me…
And then he began to laugh, a spiteful, bitter sound that echoed through the passage, mocking her feeble attempts to help him. "Come now, my dear, did you expect to find me any different? After you left me alone to die here in hell, did you think that I would lay my head at your feet like a pathetic dog? Even you cannot be so thick-"
Christine started awake, drops of perspiration beading her forehead. She blinked once, twice, in confusion at her surroundings.
Not the labyrinth…I'm not there, I'm in the nursery…
She shook her head to clear away the cruel words, her worst fears incarnate. She stretched, leaned over to look upon her child's face once more, kiss his plump cheek. She leapt up, driven from the bed with a new purpose. It was time to rescue her Angel from hell, damned if he wanted her to or not.