Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.
Side Notes:
Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic".
Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)
Five more chapters and an epilogue. We're getting close!
Echoes
September, 1882: Chagny Residence, Paris
Raoul de Chagny gently closed the door behind him, the miserable sobbing of his wife striking him to the heart. His hand tightened around the plain gold ring; oh, how he wanted to destroy it! To squeeze the pliant metal between his fingers until he had flattened it into a worthless, meaningless trinket, unfit to grace any finger, let alone his own wife's.
It took a vast deal of willpower for him to slip the evil thing into his pocket, unharmed.
Damn him! his mind cried. He has stolen her from me anyway, her so-called Angel of Music. And she had called him just that—'Angel'.
Her words rang in his ears, mind-numbingly torturous…
"He is dead, Raoul; my Angel has flown away, so it is over now. I must return to bury him…"
Is it truly over? he questioned bitterly. Of course not. It will never be over.
Raoul's face crumpled, and he fled down the hallway towards the sanctity of his office.
Why would she want to return to bury him? Oh, he could see it now; his dear Little Lotte, nearly eight months with child, making her way down those treacherous paths just to give the monster a burial he did not deserve. He had had no choice but to offer to go in her place, she was so ridiculously determined. He angrily gritted his teeth at the thought.
After all that she suffered at his hand—the madness, cruelty, manipulations and despair—still, this thing—this Erik—remains her 'Angel'. She said so herself!
Raoul sighed. At least he knew the truth, now. Since the night they had fled the opera, he had never really been certain whether Christine's lingering melancholy was a consequence of her ordeal at the hands of a madman, or something else. It appeared to be the latter.
Love and loathing…
Both evoked such fierce sentiments; one could easily become the other.
However, are they not both equally wretched? the young husband reflected. Both just as all consuming? In truth, it matters not which she clings to—love or loathing. For whichever Christine holds in her heart, she holds not for me, but for him.
And it means, even in death, he has won.
The Comte yanked open the door of his study and fell into his desk chair, exhausted by the whole affair. He ran a hand over his face and began to sort through the piles of mail and documents, which had collected during his latest trip. So much had been neglected: estate business, preparations for the birth of their child, his duties to the Fraternité.
I must be careful, or Mas Quennell will start to suspect, he chided.
Just as if he had summoned the man with his very thoughts, there was a sudden rap at the door. It swung open before he had bid the person to enter.
"Mas," the Comte nodded to his manservant, careful to maintain a calm he did not feel. "It is good to see you again. I trust that all was well, while I was gone?"
"Of course, Monsieur," Quennell replied, his hard eyes glittering. "No nasty surprises. I have seen to it that your trunks are unpacked and clothing laundered. You will, no doubt, have to travel again very soon." The man leaned back through the doorframe, glanced up and down the hall, then firmly closed the door behind him.
"You met with Jaros Stanek, our investor in Bratislava?" he asked.
"Yes," Raoul said quietly.
"Good." Mas strode into the room with an abrupt air of authority, his hands folded behind his back. "The brotherhood will be anxious to hear how their money is being used. I am sure those fools in the Narodnaya Volya are finding valuable purposes for it: purchasing pardons for their members rounded up for the next wave of trials, no doubt."
"No doubt." The Comte carefully hid his clammy palms under the desk. He swallowed.
Mas' snakelike eyes studied the man. He turned to the window overlooking the garden and pulled back the sheer curtain to watch the comings and goings of the gardeners. At last he spoke.
"The Fraternité is meeting tonight, Chagny. They want to know what the executive committee of the Narodnaya Volya intends to do to keep silent on their connections to us. You must be ready to give a report on your meetings with Stanek and the People's Will representative. Who did they send this time?"
"Ze'ev Borochov."
Mas chuckled, the sound strange and out-of-place. "They are not taking this issue lightly, then; that is good to hear. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but Borochov is one of their more prominent members. He has been with them since their very beginning in St. Petersburg." He let the curtain fall back and turned to the Comte. "He's a difficult man to track, as he prefers to keep his personal life separate from his duties to the Narodnaya Volya. However, he surfaces from time to time when they need him."
His thin lips curled.
"It is hard to guard the secrets of the Fraternité from those dearest to us, is it not?" Mas murmured, twisting the onyx ring upon his finger.
Raoul said nothing.
"Especially when one has such a lovely, unhappy wife. I imagine it is difficult for her to understand why you must keep things from her. She must be extraordinarily persuasive, at times—"
"I have told my wife nothing, Mas," Raoul interjected, his hands trembling at the veiled threat. "And I will be at the meeting tonight, prepared to offer whatever assurances I can to those who worry for the safety of the brotherhood." He cleared his throat. "After all, the Fraternité is my duty, and my heritage; just as it was my brother's, my father's, and those who came before me."
"And the oath?" the manservant snapped. "With the Narodnaya Volya slowly crumbling to pieces, I want it hidden away. It could mean our death sentence if it were to be found."
"No one shall ever find it, Monsieur. I give you my word."
Mas Quennell bowed elegantly, his silver hair gleaming in the late afternoon light, and turned to go.
"I will be at the meeting tonight," Raoul continued, "however, I must first attend to a small matter on behalf of my wife. It will not take long."
The two men stared at each other, their authorities silently warring with one another. Slowly, a sneer spread across the elder man's face. "Now or Never," he murmured. "See that it does not." And with that, he strode from the room.
The Comte de Chagny watched the man's form until he was safely down the hallway. He then rose from his desk, gently closed the door, and peered out the same window Mas had earlier occupied.
"Hidden away," he repeated woefully.
Below him in the Paris home's garden, Norris Nitot was clearing away early autumn brush. Papillon Nitot was tying a scarf over her yellow hair and speaking to her father, her words too muffled to hear. Raoul heard the caretaker laugh; his eyes followed the old man's hand as he pointed to several rakes and shovels propped against an outbuilding.
A weary sigh escaped his lips. I must ask Norry to lend me two of his gardeners and a pair of shovels for this chore of Christine's…
A light suddenly sparked in the Comte's eyes. He crossed over to his desk, opened the left bottom drawer, and pulled out a stoutly made metal deed box. He thoughtfully tapped the old thing, as if testing its durability.
Perhaps he could take care of both problems with one deft move.
Yes, he mused, it will do nicely. What better place to hide the oath from the living, than with the dead?
OOOOO
May, 1885; Na Bojišti 25, Vinohrady residential district, Prague
"…so you claim you knew him…how?"
"Monsieur, I would rather not say; not until I understand what is going on…"
"…must wait until she is awake…suffered quite a shock, I am afraid."
The voices stirring her to consciousness, Christine squeezed her eyelids and moaned. Heavy with sleep, she struggled to lift her hand to her face, and failed.
"I think she's wakin' up."
Norry. The last voice belonged to her caretaker. The other two…
"Madame de Chagny…Christine." A face hovered over hers, full of concern. Though her vision was hazy, she recognized him. Straight nose, fine blue eyes, blonde hair streaked with silver—the picture of aristocratic elegance. For a man who had been dead, he looked surprisingly well. Squinting, she rubbed her eyes, trying to clear the haze away.
"Mon—Monsieur, ah, le Comte," she stuttered, not quite sure how to address this person. The woman closed her eyes and shook her head, trying again. "Monsieur le Comte de Cha…."
The words died on her lips.
Chagny smiled and nodded. "You may call me Philippe, if you please, Madame. I am very aware that your son is now the Comte."
Christine stared at the man as if he had sprouted wings. "Where is Raoul?" she asked quietly.
A flash of intense pain crossed his features, and then it was gone. He laughed softly, the sound rather lifeless and forced. "You are surprised to find me, I suppose. In all honesty, I never expected to see you again. No one knew I was here, except for Raoul…"
An uncomfortable silence settled upon the occupants of the room, their eyes downcast, at a loss for words. Finally, the old Comte cleared his throat.
"Can I offer you anything? Water or tea? Something to eat?"
Christine's head swirled dizzily. "Just water, please," she replied as she struggled to sit up.
Philippe rose from his chair and crossed to a table set with crystal glasses and a decanter, giving her the opportunity to take in her surroundings.
The parlor was a modest affair; nothing like the man's former residence in Paris, and certainly a far cry from the affluent Chagny estate. It was comfortably elegant, though—divans and armchairs coated in rich cream fabric, walls papered in dark burgundy with gold fleurs-de-lys. The entire room was cluttered with furniture and knick-knacks from corner to corner: books, paintings, globed lamps, a piano; even a silver tea service that obviously had seen little use. All the comforts of home.
Christine gazed at one of the paintings. Dreamlike, she rose from the divan and moved closer. In the portrait stood a man, young and handsome, his hand proudly resting on the shoulder of his wife. Raoul and her, done the year after their marriage, before Jean-Paul was born. The original hung in the great hall of the Chagny estate.
Christine shivered.
This was to have been my home…"Raoul had that delivered here, early last year. He thought it would make you more comfortable."
Christine jumped and glanced over her shoulder. She hadn't even noticed Philippe stood behind her.
The man offered her a polite smile and pressed a crystal glass into her hand.
Nodding her thanks, she lifted the cup to her lips and paused, suddenly unsure if she should be drinking anything given to her by this man. Her eyes darted quickly to Ze'ev, just in time to catch his brief shake of head. Lowering the glass, she set it on a table next to the portrait.
"I am afraid I'm not as thirsty as I thought, Monsieur," she said weakly.
He laughed again, and Christine decided that it was one of the saddest, most disconcerting sounds she had ever heard.
"You do not trust me, Madame de Chagny? No, of course not. Why should you, after all that you have been through? I can only begin to guess how you found your way here."
"Monsieur, where is your brother?" Christine gazed at the man with cheerless eyes and repeated her question. "Where is Raoul?"
"He is dead," he replied blandly. "You buried him yourself, nearly a year ago."
Christine closed her eyes. She had known. Deep inside of her, in the tunnels of Jerusalem, on the shores of Acre, and the bank in Praha, she had known.
"He was planning to bring you and Jean-Paul here to live with me," he continued, "and then he would join us later. All of the plans were made—bank accounts, furnishings, explanations to the Chagny estate managers as to your disappearance." Philippe shrugged. "Then he died, however, and it somehow seemed pointless for me to carry out the thing."
"Pointless?" She watched the man before her with incredulity and waited for him to continue.
Instead, Philippe simply turned to the portrait and bent forward to study some small detail in the paint, and the conversation once again lapsed into silence.
"Perhaps," said Ze'ev guardedly, "the best question would be, 'how is it you are alive?'"
"Or better yet, why did you pretend to be dead to begin with?" interjected Norry.
Philippe smiled and smoothed a finger over the lacquered surface, not bothering to turn away from the painting. "Norris Nitot, how I have missed you. Tell me—are the gardens at Chagny as lovely as ever? They were always splendid in May. Spring flowers everywhere, fountains, and fresh air. One of my most favorite places on God's green earth, save for Paris, of course. Raoul and I would often take the horses out—"
"Please, Monsieur," Christine cried, no longer able to contain her anxiety. "Please, tell us why you are here!"
Chagny glanced up from the portrait and started, as if noticing his guests for the first time. He shook his head. "Patience is a virtue that must be inbred in every woman of the French aristocracy, Madame. If you are to be the Comtesse—"
"I am the Comtesse," she retorted quickly. "Or…at least, I was. But this is beside the point. That night after the opera…Erik…"
Patting her hand reassuringly, the aristocrat led her to one of the winged chairs and gestured for her to sit. "And you shall be Comtesse again, I promise." He sat across from her, his elbow balanced on the arm of the chair. "But I am being rude. You asked me a question."
"Yes," Christine said in exasperation. "You drowned in the lake underneath the Opera Populairé four years ago! How could you do it? Raoul was beside himself with grief. And Erik—"
The man held up a hand. "Ah, but I did not drown, as you can see. And Raoul was not as grief-stricken as you would think. Not for long, anyway. As for your masked friend…well, I had rather hoped he would be blamed for my death, but no matter." He met her eyes, his own blue suddenly as cool and candid as she remembered them.
"What do you know of the Fraternité, Madame de Chagny?"
"Christine," Ze'ev whispered, warning her to answer with caution.
She caught the Russian's eyes and nodded. "Enough to know of our family's involvement, and to know why Mas Quennell wants me and my son dead."
"Alas, then you have only seen the unpleasant side of the brotherhood."
Christine sniffed. "Forgive me, Monsieur de Chagny, but I find nothing agreeable thus far about this Fraternité of yours."
"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "I suppose it would appear that way to you. The Fraternité has been under the most frightful leadership for nearly a decade, you see. Quennell has far too much sway with the brothers, to the detriment of the club. Before he came to us, however, the Fraternité was a pillar of strength; a faceless, nameless power created by our very Jacobin ancestors, and existed solely for the betterment of France."
"It depends upon one's definition of 'betterment', Monsieur," Ze'ev retorted. "Somehow, I cannot see pitting young utopians and revolutionaries against the government and then leaving them to fail as 'betterment'. It rather seems you were playing a game of chess, but with much greater stakes."
"You condemn because you do not understand. In a market outside the old Paris Jacobin Club hangs a sign, which reads 'Here the impious clamor of the torturers, insatiate, fed its rage for innocent blood. Now happy is the land, destroyed the pit of horror; and where grim death stalked, life and health are revealed.' After the horror of the revolution, the name 'Jacobin' was synonymus with 'monster'. No one remembered their founding ideals of liberté, egalité, and fraternité, save for former members themselves. The purpose of our brotherhood is not only to carry on these ideals, but to moderate power between the government and the revolutionaries." Philippe sighed. "Yes, I suppose a former revolutionary such as yourself would have trouble understanding our principles."
Ze'ev started, his eyes widening. "How did you—"
"How do I know who you are? Come now, Gospadin. I may be a recluse, but it doesn't mean I am completely disconnected from the world. My brother was my utmost concern. When he was in Prague, I paid attention to his comings and goings. I knew he was frequently meeting with a Narodnaya Volya turncoat here in Prague. And as you are now here with his widow and caretaker, I can only assume you have told them of your dealings with Raoul, and thus brought them here. But that is beside the point." He turned to Christine and smiled, his voice softening. "I was telling you why I faked my death."
The woman swallowed. "Please continue, Philippe," she whispered, her own voice barely audible.
"How my brother loved you," the old Comte shook his head as his mind strayed, the cool candidness abruptly vanishing. "I am glad to see that you still wear a wedding band in his memory. It is a sign of your good character."
Christine unconsciously covered the gold upon her hand.
"I must confess," he continued, "when I first learned of his intention to marry you, I was angered." His eyes sparkled ruefully. "Very well, I was panicked. Frightened. He was shirking his duty, betraying his heritage and his family. And in those days, more than ever, I needed him to be responsible. You see, Mas Quennell was planning to kill me."
All three froze at his sudden declaration, their eyes rooted to the man's face in shock.
Philippe chuckled. "Is it really so very surprising? M. Quennell is always planning to kill somebody. I knew too much about his past, and so he considered me a threat to his power. Mas and I have a long history together, as M. Nitot could tell you. He was my valet for nearly twenty years."
"But is was simply a ruse," Christine replied.
"Correct. Oh, he did all the things valets do, in order to maintain his cover. Mas was not supposed to be in France, understand; he was born an exile in Russia."
A look of confusion crossed the woman's face.
Philippe grinned indulgently. "Perhaps I should start from the beginning. Tell me, Madame, have you ever noticed the ring Mas Quennell wears?"
Christine searched her memory, trying to remember the small detail. "Yes. It is a heavy gold ring with an oval, onyx stone. If I recall, there were little etchings around the stone."
"Good, good. Excellent memory—very precise. The etchings read liberté, egalité, fraternité, in memory of our Jacobin forefathers. Not every member of the Fraternité is given such a ring, however. It is a symbol of honor, meant to identify those who are descended from the Jacobin leaders who sat upon the Committee of Public Safety in the years of the Revolution: Tallien, Billaud-Varenne, Cambon, Collot d'Herbois, Robespierre—"
"Forgive me, M. le Comte," said Norry, "but didn't all of those men turn on each other in the end? Who's to say it won't happen again in your club?"
Philippe pointed at the old caretaker. "Exactly, Norris. It is the aspiration of the brotherhood to prevent such fractions from ever taking place again. This time, fraternité comes before liberté and egalité. We have survived much longer because of it."
Ze'ev snorted. "If this practice of fraternity has worked so well, then why are you hiding from your fellow brothers?"
Philippe held up a hand. "I am getting to that, Gospadin. Patience, if you will."
"Monsieur," Christine pressed on, rapidly becoming irritated by the interruptions. "You were saying that Mas Quennell wears a ring because he is descended from one of the Jacobins. Which?"
"Have you not guessed yet, my dear?" he said softly. "Maximilien Robespierre. The Incorruptible of France. How could our Fraternité be complete, without one of his descendents?" Philippe gazed significantly at each of the three people sitting in the parlor, as if he truly expected them to nod in agreement. "Oh, I know that Robespierre has no direct descendents. He had younger siblings, however, and cousins—most of who went willingly into exile after his marriage to Madame Guillotine. It is from one of these that Mas claims his heritage."
Philippe settled into his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It was in St. Petersburg that I found him twenty year ago—destitute, weak, dirty and poor, and lifted him up from exile to his current status. At first, the brothers were against letting a descendent of Robespierre join. After all, the man had gone mad in his desire for the perfect Revolution, and was executed in shame. Under my foolish persuasion and insistence that we needed Mas to perfect the Fraternité, however, they at last agreed.
"Although Mas was my manservant outside of the brotherhood, inside, he was powerful, God-like. He exerts a magnetic, charismatic passion that pulls a person in. They worship him." Philippe shook his head in disgust. "'The first maxim of our politics ought to be to lead the people by means of reason and the enemies of the people by terror. Terror is nothing else than swift, severe, indomitable justice; it flows, then, from virtue.' Robespierre said those very words before he began his Reign of Terror, and Mas Quennell clings to them like holy canon. He claims that what he does is for the people of France, but truly, protecting his own egotistical ideals is everything to him; protection of the people means nothing."
Christine held out her hands in bewilderment. "I do not understand, M. de Chagny. How could so many men simply allow him to control the Fraternité?"
Philippe shook his head. "Some are truly drawn in by his methods of terror. Those who are not simply say or do nothing out of fear. Of late, the Fraternité, like the original Jacobin Club, has been subjected to the systematic purging of members who, in Quennell's opinion, do not live up to the founders' rules. Raoul was one such victim. And I am the one who discovered Mas in Russia, at his weakest. Of course he wanted to kill me, and would have, if not for the warning of a lifelong friend. A friend who, sadly, also believes me to be dead."
"The Marquis de Bourges, Michel David," supplied Norry.
"Yes. It was Michel who warned me of Mas' plan."
"But…we have seen the Marquis at Quennell's very side!" Christine exclaimed. "He even sent his own brother to spy on me."
Philippe shrugged elegantly. "Of course. He has more to lose by opposing Mas than by siding with him. A simple game of politics, my dear. Do not take it personally."
"When one has a husband murdered and a son threatened, it is hard not to take it personally, Monsieur," she murmured darkly.
Philippe, however, either did not hear her, or chose not to.
"So, M. de Chagny," said Ze'ev.
"So, Gospadin."
Ze'ev smirked. "You have told us why you faked your death. Indulge my curiosity—how did you do it?"
Philippe smiled in amusement. "Ah yes! How does one feign his own death? Surprisingly, there are those about who are something of experts in this particular field."
"Gypsies," Christine murmured thoughtfully.
The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Do you know of such things, Madame?"
She blushed furiously. "No. Well, that is, I have been told."
Philippe waved his hand in dismissal. "Gypsies carry a number of magical potions in their caravans. For the right price, they can be obtained. Zombie poisons, for example; they are made from a flowering plant found in the heart of Africa; they slow the breath and heartbeat down so much, that it gives the illusion of death. The effects of the poison wears off in several days and the person awakes."
"Like Romeo and Juliet," Christine asserted.
Philippe laughed. "You opera ladies and your romance. Yes, I suppose, minus a tragic love affair and a meddling friar. My undertaker was moved by money, rather than good will. You and Raoul had already eloped by the time my 'body' was discovered, which made the undertaker's duties all the more easier."
"When did you reveal yourself to your brother?" Ze'ev asked.
Philippe immediately sobered. "After he and his bride returned from their wedding trip in England. He had to be told, you see. Mas was still living under the Chagny roof, and was a danger to everyone. Raoul was more than a brother to me; he was like my own son."
The old Comte's voice broke. "I wrote to him through the paid undertaker, asking him to come to Prague and I would explain all. Fortunately, after he left the Navy to become Comte, he never traveled with a valet; claimed his years as a sailor proved he could do very well without one. Therefore, Mas had no reason to question his being left behind."
He rose from the chair, crossed to the window and gazed out upon the street, masking the threatening tears from his company's sight.
"He came to Prague at once. In retrospect, perhaps I should have kept my involvement in the Fraternité a secret, but I could not. Our legacy had to be told to someone. So I explained to him the hidden heritage of our family, and the importance of the brotherhood. And what did he do?"
Christine shook her head.
"He went to Michel David and told him my will had instructed that he step into my place as secretary of the Fraternité! Never was I so proud of him and yet so frightened, than at that moment. Shouldering his duty as Comte de Chagny, as if he had been born to do it. Since he was Comte de Chagny, and a Chagny had always served as secretary, the brotherhood readily agreed."
His eyes glazed over as he mused over his willful junior. "In the mean time, Raoul was secretly sending me money through an account under the name 'C. Daaé'."
"The entries in my bank ledger!" she exclaimed. And then, realization struck her. "You use the name C. Daaé?"
Philippe gave her an apologetic look. "From Raoul's end in Paris, it looked as though it was another of your household accounts. From my end in Prague, is was an account for one 'Charles Daaé', the name I used for my banking."
Christine face went ashen. "You and Raoul used my dead father's name?" she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. "How could you?"
Philippe crossed the room and took her hand. "My dear Christine, please believe that the entire situation caused my brother a great deal of guilt. There were many times he wanted to tell you of the secrets he kept, but chose not to upon my persuasion. The greater the number of people who knew of my existence, the more lives would be endangered. He could not risk it."
"That's just it, M. de Chagny! He did risk it." She met his eyes, her voice soft. "You know he told others, because you knew who Ze'ev was only a moment ago."
"Ah. You are clever. Yes, I knew that he went to the Sûreté, against my distinct wishes, mind you."
"But why would you be opposed to that, M. de Chagny?" Ze'ev questioned fervently, rising up from his chair. "After all, if the Fraternité fell, you would be free to resume your former life. Something does not add up, sir. I wonder, how did the Fraternité discover Raoul's plans to testify against them in the Trial of the Fourteen?"
Philippe stiffened. Blood drained from his face, leaving him pallid and pained. "You cannot understand the pain I suffered, Gospadin," he whispered wretchedly, his collected façade crumbling before their very eyes. He collapsed against his chair. "To watch my beloved boy turn against the very brotherhood our ancestors founded with their own sweat and blood, risking their lives for its existence. To see him reject our proud heritage, even his name…"
His face fell into his hands, his shoulders silently shaking.
Christine swiftly walked over to her broken brother and gently placed her hands on his arm, comforting him. "Philippe, please do not—"
"Christine, step away, now." Ze'ev quietly commanded, and the girl halted. He slowly advanced on the man, his face growing grim.
"Monsieur, I ask you again: how did the Fraternité find out about Raoul and the Sûreté?"
Philippe gazed up at the man with haunted, desperate eyes. "I had to," he whispered. "Raoul was going to destroy the one thing which generations of Chagnys had a duty to preserve."
"Good God," Norry murmured.
Christine's hands froze on his shoulder. Slowly, they slid back to her sides and she stepped away in complete and utter shock. It couldn't be real. She hadn't heard properly…
"No," she breathed.
Philippe turned to his sister-in-law, pleading with her. "I tried to explain to him what I have told you: that the Fraternité was noble and good, and that Mas was the evil one. Yet he was ready to raze all that our own father stood for! I didn't know what else to do…"
"Please stop!" she sobbed, her hands flying up to her throat. Her head was spinning with this revelation. Raoul's brother…Philippe. Oh God, help me, she prayed.
Yet he did not stop. "At the time, I had been so certain that duty came above all else. Duty. Always duty." The old Comte choked in anguish. "Now I know that nothing was worth the life of my poor boy."
Blind rage welled up within the woman; she angrily swiped at the hot tears stinging her eyes. "Murderer! Your own brother!" she cried, glancing about the room wildly for something, anything to strike out with.
Norry caught her shoulders. "Madame, listen to me—"
She shook her head, pushing the caretaker away. "You murdered your own brother!"
"I did not mention his name, nor mine—only that there was one among their number which might destroy them, and encouraged them to cut ties with the Narodnaya Volya." Philippe grasped the back of the chair, his legs barely able to support his weight. "I swear, I would take it back if I could. I would gladly give my life for his! This agony shall haunt me till I die."
"I hope you burn in hell for this."
"I already do."
His blue eyes met hers.
Raoul's blue eyes…beseeching her, begging for forgiveness.
It was too much. She felt the weight closing in on her, constricting her heart. Tears slid down her cheeks as her lids closed against the pain…
Against the blue…"Madame Reinard," said Norry quietly. Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding her up. "Perhaps it is time for us to leave."
Christine froze for a moment, then relaxed against the man and nodded. "Yes," she replied shakily, "I want to see my son."
Philippe's frantic eyes widened, filling with sudden hope. "Jean-Paul," he stuttered. "Jean-Paul is here, in Prague?" The man strode over to her with new energy, reaching out for her hand.
She quickly clasped her fingers behind her, taken back by his abrupt change of spirit. "He is, but he is of no concern to you. Good evening."
Ze'ev opened the parlor door and quickly guided her through.
The old Comte was not deterred. "Please, I would like to meet my nephew. Allow me see him—"
"No! Stay away from my child!" Christine shook her head vehemently and strode through the door towards the waiting carriage.
Philippe trailed after them. "Do not leave—not yet!" he cried, holding out a hand. "Please! I have no one here; no one at all, and I grow lonely…"
For a split second, Christine paused, considering his plea. Then she shook her head and continued on. "It is your own fault, Monsieur," she murmured to the ground, and closed the door. As she walked down the path towards the brougham, the sound of pitiful weeping followed her. Its echo would live with her forever, of course. Her insides twisted in disgust.
Forgiveness cannot come so easily, she reminded her traitorous heart. Not yet. Possibly, not ever.
"Mon Dieu, I am through with running," she whispered passionately, her hands fisting at her sides.
Tomorrow, she silently vowed, I leave for Constantinople; Mas Quennell or no.
OOOOO
Christine eased into the rocking chair and settled Jean-Paul's sleeping form upon her lap. Wrapping her shawl around the both of them, she gently swayed back and forth, struggling to calm her bundled nerves.
Dear God, for once I know what I must do, yet haven't a clue how to do it, she prayed silently. If I had some guidance…
Lowering her cheek to her son's curly head, she rested it there, letting his warmth soothe her troubled spirit. An oil lamp flickered low on the table next to her, bathing the room in orange light and casting odd shapes and shadows on the walls around her. She focused on the little flame as it danced for her, its movements hypnotic and calming.
Tomorrow, she would have to leave her little man in the care of Ze'ev and Rhivka.
And it was breaking her heart.
She could not take him with her, of course. Istanbul was no place for her child, as Ze'ev had gently pointed out again this very evening. It would take many weeks for Norry and her to become familiar with the city and search the prisons. There was no way of knowing whether Erik would even be there, let alone Nadir Khan and Papi Nitot.
Jean-Paul would only be in danger.
The mother sighed and pulled her son closer. Erik would know what to do, she ruminated sadly, then hastily banished the thought. If I am to get through this ordeal and remain standing on my own two feet, I have to take care of myself this time.
But oh, how she missed him.
A quiet rap on the door stirred her from her reflections.
"Come in," she whispered.
The door hesitantly creaked open, as if the person behind it was reluctant to intrude. And then Henri David at last slipped around the door and closed it behind him. He leaned against the wood, his eyes dark and unreadable.
It frightened her. "Yes, Henri?" she questioned unsteadily.
He only stared, lost for words. Running a hand through his golden brown hair, he breathed deeply and let his head fall back against the door. At last he spoke.
"Borochov tells me that you and Norry are leaving for Constantinople tomorrow."
She nodded slowly, worried where he was going with his questions.
"Then you are a fool, Christine Reinard."
Christine started.
"What, you are surprised to hear the blunt truth from me?" Henri sniffed sardonically.
"No," she said quietly. "This is the first time I have heard you use my married name, that is all."
The avocat sighed dismally. "A man knows when to give up, I suppose. It is of no use to try and convince you to stay in Prague with me. But Istanbul is no place for you." He strode over to the rocking chair and knelt down, placing a hand on her arm.
"Christine, I am speaking plainly now. No hidden agendas, no secret desires, do you understand? Horrible things happen in Ottoman prisons. Not only to prisoners, but to their wives. It is not uncommon for a woman to be sold, or…or worse."
She swallowed, her eyes widening in fear.
"I have heard of several such cases from my colleagues; men not given to exaggeration. Believe me, your husband would not want you to go to him."
Christine closed her eyes, struggling to still the violent pounding of her heart. She breathed deeply.
"I have to go, Henri. No turning back."
The man pursed his lips and stifled whatever he had planned to say. "Very well," he whispered. "I will remain here in Prague, should you change your mind." He pushed himself up from the floor and hovered for a moment, as if weighing a decision.
"Where do you plan to go after you return from Constantinople?" he finally asked, his voice filled with false optimism.
"Paris." She laughed softly as his eyebrows quirked up. "Does that shock you, Henri?"
"Nothing shocks me anymore, my girl. Why Paris, might I ask? Last I knew, the city was the bed of all evil."
Christine smiled. "Because I am tired of running. Because they will always find me. And because I intend to end this thing, one way or the other. Why are you staying in Prague instead of leaving tomorrow with Ze'ev and Rhivka?"
"The same. I am tired of running."
Henri lightly touched a finger to her cheek and held it there, afraid to move it. "Good luck to you, Christine," he murmured.
She placed her palm over his hand and squeezed it, thanking him for his friendship. "And to you as well, Henri."
A/N: I did an in-depth author's interview at PFN this past week. 65 questions in all, everything from Frat characters and plot, to personal stories, to writing advice. I am posting the link in my profile, if you would like to find out about this authoress, and maybe learn a lil something.
I am also posting information about Maximilen Robespierre to my website, for those who need a refresher. He's a fascinating person.
Story Recommendation: Pomegranate Seeds, by Titania of the Fae
If you're in the mood for a shorter read, take a look at this story. Pomegranate Seeds is a series of chapters in the works; each chapter could work as a stand-alone piece, but put together, they give us a bigger picture of the author's interpretation of Erik and Christine's relationship. The fine line between Love and Hate is a prominent theme of the story, reminiscent of Leroux's "love of the most exquisite kind" dialogue, and one of my favorite E/C aspects. Titania's analogies and imagery are darkly beautiful and otherworldly. Her characterizations are spot-on. Can't wait to see where she takes it!
Enjoy!