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 and Phantomy-Cookies for betaing! Their own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen names "Chatastic" and "Phantomy-Cookies"..
Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement, readers. You are the most amazing bunch!
Barrels! Barrels!
Christine clutched Jean-Paul's toy horse to her, dreading each step.
Hope. For those who have it, it is a blessed thing. For those who do not, it is a curse.
Erik's words rang in the recesses of her mind as they trudged along the shore of his underground lake in a long, unholy processional of shrouded Frenchmen. Yet, no matter how hard Christine tried to sustain one single shred of hope, reason said that she was walking to her death. Trying to push the burning pain in her arm from her mind, she studied the fluent stride of the tall man in front of her—the way he walked effortlessly along the shoreline, his bony shoulder blades sliding back and forth beneath his fine black coat—ever at ease in his cellars. Christine marveled at his cool confidence, even while her own wall of sanity crumbled about her.
All hope that was left within her rested upon her angel, a man who could be as cunning as a god and as broken as a wretch. Erik was both, but she had no doubt which was in possession of him right now.
He halted. Circling one of the paving stones, he stomped on it. A hollow thud echoed through the cavern. Fixing his cold eyes upon Mas Quennell, he pointed to the ground.
"Here. The trigger appears to be broken."
"If this is a trick, I can assure you that I have no qualms about stripping you of that mask and drowning you in your lake," said Mas impatiently over the soft din of excited conversation behind him, gesturing to the floor with his revolver.
Erik sighed and slid his arms from his coat, folded it in half, and handed it to Christine.
"I will need something to open it with, I am afraid."
"Give you a weapon? Really, Monsieur." Mas crooked a finger and several of the brothers stepped forward. "Pry it up," he commanded.
The men immediately set to work upon the heavy paving stones, digging the blades of their knives around and under them until they were able to work the hidden trapdoor loose. Heaving it open, they held their lanterns over the opening, excitedly peering into the pit.
"Something is down there!" one of them exclaimed. "It looks like a box."
Mas' lips twisted in pleasure. "Fetch it."
The man nodded and crouched next to the pit, carefully lowering himself below the floor to claim the deed box. Several of the brothers heaved him out again. He shook the dirt and dust from his robes and set about untangling the box from the rope that had been used to lower it into the pit. With alacrity, he swept over to his leader and handed him the metal box.
Mas hurriedly snatched the box from his hands and tried to open the latch. Hissing in frustration, he grabbed the man's knife and worked it under the lid, popping it open.
Christine's eyes were not on the box, however. Her gaze was riveted to the thin, dusty rope that lay coiled like a snake at the edge of the pit. Erik had to have seen it too. She glanced up at him, searching for something in his eyes to reassure her. They glistened back at her, cagey and arrogant, seeming to proclaim that he had already bested his enemy.
Fifty men. She closed her eyes and breathed, willing her pounding heart to slow. I pray that he knows what he is doing.
"This is it," exclaimed Mas, drawing all eyes back to him. He was studying the oath in his hands, carefully turning the antiqued, delicate pages as if they would crumble in his fingers. He closed the book and glanced up at Christine and Erik, his face eerily void of emotion.
"Get rid of them."
Christine's heart raced again. Wild eyes darted back and forth between the rope and Mas, struggling with what to do. Several of the cloaked Fraternité advanced towards her, their steps slow and unsure. She frantically looked at each of them, mutely pleading.
Why are they hesitating?
Puzzled, she turned to Erik. He also watched their reluctance under his steady gaze, as if taking in each of their weaknesses at once, his eyes finally resting upon Mas.
"Your men seem to be rather unenthusiastic about your commands, M. Quennell. Tell me, why do you think that might be?"
Mas' lips pursed in anger as his brethren began to turn to one another in silent confusion. "What are you waiting for?" he hissed. One of the men cleared his throat and cautiously stepped forward.
"You see, Monsieur, some of us are unsure of the reason for…dispensing of the Comtesse de Chagny. Many here were acquaintances of Raoul de Chagny before he…died, and knew his wife from certain social circles…"
Christine narrowed her eyes, trying to place the voice of the man speaking.
"She doesn't seem to be much of a threat," he said apologetically. "Maybe if she swore to leave and never to tell anyone."
A quiet mumbling of concurrence rose from several of the members. A second man spoke up.
"Furthermore, the oath of Fraternité does not say anything about the dispensing of the family of members who are led astray; just members of the brotherhood themselves."
"But it does not condemn it, either!" called out a shrouded figure from the back. "We must think of the greater good—the very purpose for our brotherhood's existence!" Another chorus echoed more bravely now, raising their flickering lanterns in agreement.
"If we suddenly began ridding ourselves of any person who might, one day, prove to be a threat to the brotherhood," argued another, "then we would be nothing better than common murderers! Do not forget, brothers, that the Reign of Terror was the downfall of our Jacobin forefathers…"
As all of the fifty men began to debate amongst themselves, Christine carefully edged closer to Erik, pressing her shoulder against his tall frame.
"What do we do?" she asked. "The rope—"
"Shhhh, just watch," he whispered, signaling to the growing confusion in front of them. He bent over her wounded arm, running a thin finger over the sticky, blood-soaked material and pulled it away. She flinched. His hands froze, then carefully resumed the task, wiping away the blood with his handkerchief so he could properly see the wound. He continued his explanation quietly while he tended to her arm.
"Any true architect knows that to create a proper structure, you must first know how to manipulate what you are given to work with."
"Strengths and weaknesses?"
He nodded. "What is the Fraternité? It is an alliance meant to further social equality and brotherhood. Yet, at its heart, it functions as a hierarchy, with Mas Quennell at its pinnacle. And when there is a hierarchy, what naturally follows?"
Christine shook her head.
"Dissention," he hinted, the corners of his mouth quirking in cynicism. "Rebellion."
Wide-eyed, Christine looked at the men scattered about the cavern, studied them as they began to turn to each other, waving lanterns about and gesturing with their arms emphatically.
"I think that man over there—the one jabbing his finger into the other man's chest—might have been Raoul's clerk secretary," she muttered.
Erik grimaced. "I wouldn't be surprised if your banker and grocer were among them, as well." He finished tying his handkerchief over her arm, halting the bleeding. "The bullet only grazed your upper arm, fortunately. It took with it a finger's length of flesh, but it doesn't seem to have gone very deep."
A sudden, loud noise pierced through the growing discord as Mas threw down the metal deed box in a fit of anger, causing Christine to yelp in surprise. Clutching the oath in his hand, he waved it above his head to garner the wayward brothers' attention.
"Fools!" he cried. "Do you not see that if you let them live, they could destroy you? Robespierre himself said that to pity is treason. We must do this for France, for the greater good of the people! Or would you have them go to the authorities and tell how you plotted against Tsar Alexander, befriended the Narodnaya Volya—"
" 'Crime butchers innocence to secure a throne'," Erik interrupted, his gaze locked on the startled M. Quennell as he slowly moved towards him, " 'and innocence struggles with all its might against the attempts of crime.' Do you know who said that, M. Quennell?"
"I care not," he sneered.
"Maximilien Robespierre."
Mas paled, his lips pursing in rage. He opened his mouth to speak, but Erik continued.
"Is that what you seek, M. Quennell? A throne to lord over your subjects? Power, wealth, a place in history?"
"You know nothing—understand nothing—"
"Is that why you butchered an innocent stable boy, Perri Nitot: to secure your throne?"
A sudden murmur rose up among the brothers, the exclamations of "a child?" and "cruelty!" leaping above the undertone.
"Lies!" Mas hissed, his hand trembling in anger as he raised the revolver.
Erik pressed on. "It would appear that your fellow brethren knew nothing of this foul deed of yours, M. Quennell!" He leered at the man, his mouth curling wickedly. "I suppose they do not know that you murdered the avocat, Monsieur Henri David, either!"
And then murmurs turned to an uproar that echoed through the cavern, the quaking, flashing lanterns mirroring their outrage.
"How…how could you possibly know that?" Mas spat.
"Because you used my surname," Erik said evenly. "Only four people in Prague knew of it. One is three years of age. Two are persons of interest to you, and knowing your tendency to gloat when triumphing over others, if you had discovered them, you would have mentioned it. This leaves M. David—a man known to fold under pressure. He is the only man who could have known this!" He moved forward until he towered above Mas, a menace now mere feet away, heedless of the loose pistol in his enemy's hand. "And after he told you about Christine's plans to travel to Paris, you had no reason to keep him alive!"
Christine pulled her cloak more tightly about her neck, trying to ease away from the cries of "shame!" resounding around her. Was Erik speaking the truth about her wayward friend, who had chosen to stay behind in Prague? She pressed the dingy toy horse to her face, sick of heart, wishing away the steadily growing madness unfolding before her. Papi, now Henri—both dead because of this evil, horrible man. This man who had her little boy in his grasp…
Or does he? Christine's head flew up in astonishment, Erik's words coming together in her mind. If Erik was right and Mas hadn't found Ze'ev and Rhivka Borochov, then perhaps…
"Brothers!" Mas cried frantically over the clamor, his voice growing hoarse, "Do not listen to this grand manipulator's poison! Can you not see that he wants you to turn against me?"
"Yes!" a handful of men cried.
"The phantom cannot be trusted!—"
"Then why isn't the Marquis de Bourges among you?" called a commanding voice amidst the rising din of objections.
Christine gasped in shock—she would know the owner of that voice anywhere. Her eyes immediately found the broad-shouldered man striding forward from the crowd, his entire person shrouded in brown, just as the others were. All focus was now upon him—even Quennell's—as he turned and faced the Fraternité, pushing back his hood. Christine pressed a hand over her mouth, disbelieving whom she saw. It was Philippe de Chagny whose steely gaze caught the attention of a hundred angry eyes, the broken man in Prague now banished for the cold, straight-backed aristocrat of before.
Christine dared a glance at Erik. He too was watching the man with surprise, the development something he hadn't quite anticipated.
"Impossible!" cried someone from the crowd. "You are dead; drowned right here, in this lake!"
"If you wish me dead, then you may kill me now," Philippe replied, holding out his hands.
No one answered.
"Brothers of liberté et égalité," he continued, "it is true that Henri David is dead. The Narodnaya Volya murdered him in Prague by the command of M. Quennell—the very evil you protect. I saw his lifeless body with my own eyes." He pointed an accusing finger at Mas. "For years, I have lived as a ghost, consumed with guilt, and shame, and fear that this man would hunt me down. I dared not go against his power and the magnetism he wielded us with. He murdered my brother, Raoul de Chagny, and we allowed him to do it!" Philippe's deep voice broke with emotion. "And now he has killed Michel David's brother, a naive man whom we would not even count among our number."
Some of the men began to nod, their heads bowed in shame.
"I ask you, Fraternité, how many must die before we root out this viper from our nest and destroy him?"
A wild roar erupted from the brotherhood. Christine saw—felt—that she was surrounded by barrels of gunpowder, so stormy was the hatred and craze brewing within the murky cavern, and it would only take the slightest spark to cause an explosion. It was as if the whole of the Fraternité had awakened from a long slumber and were now hungry for prey: the gaunt, wide-eyed person of Mas Quennell. Pushing back their hoods and brandishing their weapons, they advanced towards the frantic, howling man, seizing his arms and shaking away his revolver before he could fire upon them.
"This is madness!" Mas screamed, struggling against their brute force. "Imbeciles! You forget who I am—the descendent of the mighty Robespierre! You cannot do this—"
Feeling herself caught up in the current as dozens streamed by her, she fought her way past them to Erik's side and grasped his hand.
"M. Quennell seems to have forgotten how Robespierre met his end," Erik shouted next to her.
"At the hands of his own brotherhood," Christine replied, grimly musing at the irony of it. She shook her head, fascinated and terrified by the fiery lanterns and cloaks swarming before her, like a pack of wolves devouring their game. Some of the men were indeed acquaintances of hers and Raoul's: Baron Pomeroy, Raoul's fencing partner; M. Godard, a cellist with the Académie Royale de Musique; and indeed, M. Audley, her banker.
"Follow me," Erik shouted into her ear, taking her hand and circumventing around the large circle of men. They side-stepped abandoned lanterns and cloaks, stealthily making their way towards a labyrinth entrance to wait until some measure of calm was restored.
Peace, however, was not forthcoming. Before they could reach the safety of the dark labyrinth, the second match was soon touched to the powder kegs, igniting another explosion.
Philippe de Chagny was pushing through the mob to its epicenter, where the angry men were stripping Mas of his shroud and tearing it to pieces. "Do not kill him," he instructed, effectively silencing the crowd. "If justice is to have its due course, we will need him alive to officially stand before the brotherhood and the Marquis de Bourges. Henri David was the Marquis' brother, after all—"
The last part of his instruction, however, was lost as another noise—the high trill of a whistle—shrilly echoed down from the cellars above. And then a man's voice faintly followed, then another, their shouts carried down through the tunnels to the rapt ears of the brothers clustered in the fourth cellar.
"Someone is coming down," murmured the person grasping Mas' elbow. All eyes riveted to the tunnel entrance where Christine and Erik hovered, from which the noises had emanated.
"That would be the Sûreté," Philippe said darkly.
The man blinked several times, wiping his damp brow and sweat-filled eyes with his forearm. "And how would you know that?"
"Because the Marquis de Bourges summoned them to the opera house not an hour ago."
The Comte de Chagny's words hung in the already thick, stale air of the cavern, the weight of them pressing down upon the gathering of aristocrats and proletarians alike, pinning them in place. Then the quiet plodding of footsteps filled the silence as one brother broke from the mass and ran in abject terror, then another, and another, until the whole had erupted into a pandemonium which resounded above Lake Averne, through the cavern, and up, up, into the cellars above. Cries of retreat stirred the chaos as men staggered and fled in all directions, not knowing whether they were running towards the tunnels or to the lake. Lanterns were abandoned, dropping to the stones and shattering, their flames catching corners of robes or fizzling out upon the damp ground. Feet slipped and slid over hot oil and glass as men shouted in pain, shards lodging into their hands when they fell, or when they clutched at another man to break their falls. What little light remained only added to the madness as they cast threatening, frightful shadow creatures upon the walls, magnifying the churning turmoil tenfold.
Christine could only gape as Erik led her away from the tunnel and back towards the lake, pausing only to gather up the abandoned oath of Fraternité from the ground. Not twelve steps away, Philippe was crouching over Mas Quennell, roughly gathering the beaten man's wrists behind his back and pressing his face to the floor. Her trance snapped.
"Erik!" she cried over the uproar, "what about Jean-Paul? We have to go back and make that man tell us where he is, please!"
"You are not going back there!" He clamped both hands over her wrists as she struggled against his superior strength, pulling her along as he weaved around broken glass and fire. "Mas cannot possibly have him—"
"You don't know for sure!" she cried.
"Christine—"
Before Erik could finish his thought, however, a shock of force barreled into his side, sending both he and Christine flying to the ground. She hurriedly spun away from the fiercely growling creatures clutching at each other and leapt to her feet. A quick glance about her told her what had happened. To her horror, Philippe no longer had Mas Quennell imprisoned, but was face-down upon the ground, a stream of blood trickling from his temple. The snarling man had managed to escape and attack her distracted husband, biting and clawing like a wild, rabid beast.
"The oath! Give it to me!" Mas howled. His slick gray hair now clung messily to his bloodied forehead; spectacles long gone, his icy eyes were full of fire and rage as he pushed all of his hatred into his limbs, kicking and fighting against Erik until he had managed to trap the masked man beneath him. Erik ground his teeth, his own face contorted with deadly ferocity. With a sharp jab of the elbow, he managed to throw Mas back just long enough to wrap his fingers around the man's shredded shirtsleeve and fling him to the ground. Crying out, Mas slid out from under Erik just as he made a grab at his throat; once again, they crashed into each other like two black demons after the scent of blood.
It was then that Christine saw it: A flash of metal clasped in Mas' fist, briefly glinting in the weak glow from the last few lanterns. It disappeared and then resurfaced, its blade now streaked with red.
A ragged scream tore from her throat. Frantically, she dropped the toy horse and ran about the now emptied cellar in search of something to hurl at her husband's attacker—a rock, glass, anything that could kill. She stumbled towards the trap door—it had been here, just before—her hands searching the ground in the dim light for the weapon that had caught her eye earlier. At last, her fingers skimmed over the forgotten length of rope. She exhaled in relief and snatched it up, twisting its dusty fibers in her palms.
It was immediately apparent why Erik had not gone after the rope. Rough and shoddy, it was not the proper weight or make for throwing a lasso. As her trembling, clammy fingers hurriedly fashioned a loop and eye, however, she decided that casting the thing would not matter, in this case. Noose clutched in her tiny fingers, she scrambled to her feet and ran towards the bloodied men thrashing about on the stones, fixing her huntress' eyes upon her victim. With a shout, she yanked the unsuspecting man's head back and dropped the rope around his neck, pulling it taut.
Loosing a confused, strangled cry, Mas kicked away from the masked man and flung himself to the ground, desperately trying to dig his fingers underneath the fibers around his throat and dislodge it. It would not move. Christine dropped to her knees over the flailing man, effectively pinning Mas to the ground.
"Tell me where my son is!" she cried. Tears of loathing and grief streamed from her eyes and splashed upon her hands as they clasped the rope with a strength she had never known before.
Mas' eyes widened. "I….don't…have…"
Christine pulled the rope tighter, nearly lifting the man from the ground. "Where is Jean-Paul?" she demanded.
The only answer was a sick choking sound coming from the dying man's lips.
"I hate you!" she sobbed, closing her eyes as red rage filtered into her mind. It clouded her sight, urged her on and on, bidding her to pull and pull until the air was gone from the other end of the rope. "I hate you, I hate you—"
"Christine."
"I hate you—" she rasped.
"Christine." Strong, thin hands closed over hers, working their way around her fingers and gently prying them loose from the rope. "Angel, do not do this. You do not want to do this thing. Your son is safe, I swear to you."
"I do! I want him dead."
"If you kill him like this—this man that you hate—then you will be dead, as well," he said hoarsely, his gold eyes holding hers. "Revenge is a bitter bedfellow, once you invite it in. I should know."
She shook her head, swearing that nothing could be sweeter than killing the man who had nearly destroyed her. Still, ever so slowly, her fingers began to relax around the lasso until she allowed Erik to take the thing from her grasp and fling it to the floor. Somewhere below her, she heard a man sputtering and choking as air filled his lungs again. She dared not look at him. Instead, she turned to her husband and buried her face in his shoulder, crying and shuddering as he enfolded her in his arms and lifted her off of the strangled man, rocking her as if she were a child.
A moment later, she heard him quietly speaking to someone above her. Lifting her blurry eyes from his shoulder, she saw that Philippe was now awake and had joined them, looking haggard and beaten in the small circle of light from his lantern.
"Tie his hands and feet with that thing," said Erik, nodding to the rope.
The Comte knelt next to the wheezing, half-conscious man and bound him with the bloodied weapon, sparing no gentleness in doing so. Finished, he stood up and observed his enemy with a shrewd eye.
"It would be folly to leave him alive. He has too many friends yet; there are those that would swear to his innocence, even help him to escape to Russia."
"I know." Sighing, Erik helped Christine to her feet then winced as fire flared through his torso. Lifting away his torn waistcoat, he examined the knife wound just under his ribs and pressed his hand to it, hissing in pain. "I have been stabbed more times in the past months than I care to count. Let us put and end to it, shall we?"
Philippe nodded and stooped to pick up Mas' discarded knife from the ground, groaning as his much-abused head protested.
"Wait," said Erik, his lips twisting devilishly. "I have something a bit more elaborate in mind."
ooOOoo
It did not take Erik long to find the gondola and pole he had carefully tethered away beneath a stone outcropping on the lake's shore. Pressing down upon the corner of the stone, he triggered some sort of mechanism and it sprung up, allowing any passengers to safely step into the hidden boat. He leapt in and steadied the gondola with the steering pole as Philippe tossed a semiconscious Quennell onto the floor, handed Christine in, and then boarded himself.
Christine stared out over the black, still surface, allowing the peaceful sound of the water swirling about the hull of the gondola to calm her jumbled nerves. Somewhere in the tunnels, the shouts of the Fraternité echoed as they clashed with the Sûreté. It was unintelligible and faint, as if it were retreating away from her while she slipped further and further into a dream. She didn't stir from it until the venomous mutterings of an awakening Mas Quennell broke through.
"If you do not release me, the brotherhood will tear you limb by limb and feed you to the cellar rats!" he wheezed.
"I doubt that," she replied nonchalantly and turned her gaze back to the waters.
"You will never see your child again. I have him, you know."
Philippe cleared his throat and turned to Christine. "That is a lie, Madame. I saw my nephew and his companions to safety the day you left Prague."
"Thank God," she breathed.
"After your visit," Philippe continued, "my conscience would not allow me to continue to wallow in self-pity. I had you followed to your inn, you see. When I returned to see you and Jean-Paul, you had already left, and the others were preparing to leave. M. David, foolish boy, chose to remain in Prague. When I went to see him one day, he was dead. It was then that I decided to make myself known to the Marquis, and together, we watched and waited for the right moment to act."
Christine sighed, trailing her fingertips over the glassy waters. "Poor Henri. He never truly realized the danger he was in, I believe."
"And you," sneered Mas, "do not realize the danger that will rain down upon your head if you do not release me!"
Slowly, the gondola skimmed to a halt as Erik lifted the pole from the water. Turning around, he scowled fiercely at the simpering man in the bottom of the boat. Then, he swiftly twisted the pole in his hands, peppering his passengers with drops of lake water, and struck Mas with the end of it, sending him once more into an unconscious stupor.
"He doesn't realize the danger he is in, either," he glowered as he turned back to the water, steering the gondola into motion.
ooOOoo
Christine gingerly checked her freshly bandaged arm, then pulled back the blanket of the bed and tucked it around her feet. Wearily, she gazed about the dimly lit Louis-Philippe room once more—its opulent, dust-covered furnishings strangely comforting—before turning down the light and settling into the bed.
Another shrill cry sounded from the torture chamber just beyond the walls. Grimacing, she buried her face in her pillow, trying to forget what was happening in the gruesome, mirrored room with the iron tree.
Instead, she focused on the musty smell of the pillow, aggravating her nose. The whole house will need to be aired out, she pondered. Then it occurred to her that there really was no way to bring fresh air into Erik's underground home.
Another terrible shriek.
Christine pressed her palms over her ears, but they didn't keep away the imaginings stirring in her mind. It was times like this that Erik's insatiable hunger for revenge truly frightened her. Even though she struggled to remember he was doing it for her, to the man she hated, it did not make his torture chamber any less horrifying.
Mas Quennell had not put up much of a resistance when Erik had escorted him into the death trap. Perhaps he hadn't realized what the unusual chamber was. Or perhaps, at that point, he was so thoroughly steeped in his delusions of power that he truly believed he was an immortal. Despite his bloodied and bruised face and wild appearance, he strode into the room with arrogant dignity and turned to face his executioner.
"I will live forever, you understand," he said evenly, his swollen throat nearly choking his raspy words. "The people still recall the name of the Incorruptible with fervor!"
Erik looked daggers at the man. "The people guillotined the Incorruptible face up and buried him in an unmarked pauper's grave. His screams of torment are the only thing they remember now. Goodbye, M. Quennell; you deserve this fate." And with those parting words, he closed the door and bolted it.
Philippe had stood by as well, observing the destruction of his enemy in measured silence. As the door closed upon Mas' unintelligible barbs and Erik triggered the chamber's mechanisms, he stepped forward and rested a hand upon the wall, his eyes filling with pain.
"This is for Raoul," the Comte murmured. His fingers balled into a tight fist, his knuckles turning white as bone. And then they relaxed and slid from the wall to his side. He turned to Christine and held out his hand, smiling gently into her morose face.
"Come, my dear lady, we must properly tend to your arm."
Christine glanced at her husband with concern. "Erik, that gash at your side—"
The masked man waved a hand dismissively, his eyes never leaving the door of the torture chamber. "I shall tend to it later. By all means, leave this grisly sight."
It wasn't long after she had bandaged and cleaned her wound that the screaming had begun. Christine could not be sure, but she swore that the screams were followed by a low, delighted cackle…
A quiet knock upon the Louis-Philippe door was a welcome interruption to her thoughts.
"Enter," she drowsily answered, turning up the lamp again and smoothing back her dark hair. Philippe de Chagny peered into the room, the oath of Fraternité tucked under his arm. Mutely, he handed it to her then stepped back, waiting. She stared, not quite sure of him.
"It is yours," Philippe said. "Open it."
Christine smoothed her palm over the worn, leather surface of the book, then carefully opened it to the first page. Her eyes skimmed over the faded black scrawl. It was an explanation of the Fraternité—its reasons for existing. The swooping letters told of how the brotherhood's purpose was to carry on the ideals of the old Jacobin Club and use their influence and power to make all peoples equal and free from the constraints of a monarchy. It went on to detail the three inviolate rules of the brotherhood: Heritage, influence, and loyalty above all else.
And then there was the oath of Fraternité itself:
For the love of France and for her people and our common purpose, from this day onwards, in wisdom and power, I shall protect these Jacobin brothers of mine with aid or anything else, as one ought to protect one's brother, so that they may do the same for me. And I shall never knowingly make any covenant with the monarchy and those that would harm these brothers of mine.
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.
At the bottom of the page was the bold, elegant signature of Georges Léon, the Comte de Chagny; Secretary.
"I wonder if he knew what the consequences would be, the old Comte," Christine said softly. "How sad, that he composed the very oath which led to the death of his own great-grandson."
"It is a grief that our family must now bear for many generations to come, I am afraid." Philippe crossed the room and sat next to Christine, hesitantly touching her hand. "I did not know you had remarried, my dear. You might have mentioned it in Prague…but that is of no consequence now. You deserve a chance to be happy, and so does Jean-Paul. However, I am afraid I must question your choice of—"
"Did you swear it, also?" Christine abruptly interrupted, refusing to go down the conversation path that Philippe had chosen. "The oath? And did Raoul?"
Philippe nodded. "I swore it and lived by it, even after I knew that Mas Quennell wished me dead. I know it is difficult for you to fathom just now, but the Fraternité has not always been so corrupted. Turn the page, please."
Christine cautiously flipped the delicate book page, her eyes widening at what she saw.
"My Lord," she breathed, "there are hundreds of names! Look at all of them…" She read over the pages of listings, well-known names leaping out at her, each one making the enormity of the secret more unbelievable. Eighty years' worth of members: politicians, artists, businessmen, aristocrats and bourgeoisie alike, many of them the brightest minds of their time.
"For years, our brotherhood did a great deal of good for France, as you can see. Underneath our shrouds, we were all equal; we functioned as one, using our growing influence to promote liberty and equality." Philippe removed his hand from hers, not quite meeting her eye. "However, the lust for power always corrupts the best of intentions. As we grew stronger, more influential, we became fanatical in our pursuit of the Jacobin ideals. When the Communards rose up in Paris, we saw an opportunity and supported—even encouraged them, knowing that our own families and estates would be safe from them. We watched as dissent grew against the Russian tsar and took a chance to gain influence in that country by financing those who would destroy the Romanov dynasty."
Another strangled cry from the torture chamber peeled through the home, breaking into Philippe's story. It hung in the silence for a long moment, and then faded away. The Comte uncomfortably cleared his throat and continued.
"And if these deeds were not enough, we sought out Mas Quennell—the young, exiled descendent of Maximilien Robespierre. We wanted an emblem of sorts—a banner to wave amongst ourselves, proclaiming our greatness. So we glorified him as a leader. We thought we could wield his charisma, so we encouraged his megalomaniacal tendencies. How wrong we were." Resigned, Philippe sighed and rose. "We Chagnys began the Fraternité, and now we must end it."
"What do you want me to do, Philippe?" Christine asked.
"Tomorrow, at first light, I want you to take this book to the Sûreté."
"But…" she stuttered, "this would condemn each man for crimes against France, including you. You know what the punishment for treason is, Philippe—"
"We reap what we sow, Madame." A tired, wistful smile graced his face. "Perhaps I shall have the opportunity to see the latest opera before they come for me. However, the ballet truly is not what it used to be. Read the last page, my dear; I think you will find it of interest." And with that, he turned from her and quietly slipped from the room.
Christine waited until he had closed the door before doing as he asked. She gasped, the neat penmanship at once familiar:
To whoever comes into possession of this grave thing, it began;
Count yourself fortunate that you are still alive, for this book may very well be your death warrant. I must assume that as the oath is not under my care, I did not live to stand witness at the Russian trials upon the dealings of the Fraternité, and their role in the assassination of Tsar Alexander II.
I do not regret betraying my fellow brothers. Truthfully, there was never a choice to be made, for I could only do what I knew to be right. To remain silent would have been to betray France, whom I first swore allegiance to. I pray that my actions against the Fraternité will eventually bring truth to light in these dark times.
My one lament is that my wife and child will have suffered for my decision. To them, I give something greater than my presence. I leave them my honor and my love.
Honneur, Patrie, Valeur, Discipline
Raoul, the Comte de Chagny
SecretaryQuiet tears streaming down her cheeks, Christine held the book tightly in her arms and rested peacefully, at last able to shut out Mas Quennell's screams.
ooOOoo
Christine did not wake again until she felt a cool, gloved hand gently shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes and met the adoring gaze of her husband, kneeling next to her bed.
"Is he gone?" she murmured sleepily, stretching her arms and yawning.
"Nearly an hour ago. I didn't want to wake you—you needed the rest. We waited to dispose of him, though, because I thought you might like to be there."
"'We'? Is Philippe still here?" she asked, somewhat surprised.
Erik nodded. "It has been a rather uncomfortable hour."
"I suppose I had better be up, then," she said in bemusement. Languidly pulling herself from the bed, she went in search of her discarded stockings. As she began to lace up her boots, she felt Erik's eyes upon her.
"What is it?"
"It is nothing," he shrugged. "Just…it is pleasing to see you in this room. That is all."
Christine tenderly smiled, resting her hand upon his. "All of my things are still here, just as I left them; even my dresses."
"Though rather out of style, I am afraid. We shall have to buy you pretty new things, shan't we?"
"I won't need Parisian fashion to hold my son again."
Erik blinked in surprise. "You do not wish to remain in Paris?"
"The sooner we can leave for the Tatras, the better; tomorrow, in fact. I am aching to be with Jean-Paul again—"
"Christine," Erik said firmly, "leaving tomorrow will be nearly impossible. There is the Sûreté to contend with, not to mention the mess you will have to straighten out regarding Jean-Paul's inheritance now that Philippe de Chagny is known to be alive."
Christine smiled sweetly, wrapping her arms around his thin waist affectionately. "You have never been one to conform to the demands and responsibilities of others, Erik. Let us not start now." Pulling the man to her, she was abruptly halted when she felt him tense beneath her hands and hiss in pain.
"Oh Erik," she apologized, "I forgot about your side. Does it hurt much?" She pushed away his waistcoat to see the white bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.
"No more than the last time," he replied through clenched teeth.
Sighing, she took his masked face in her hands. "I cannot bear it! How much you have suffered for me and my son." Leather-clad hands wrapped around hers, pulling them to his dry, thin lips.
"Don't you know that I would happily suffer it all again, Christine? All I have ever wanted was to live solely for you." The corners of his mouth quirked mischievously. "If fifty such madmen decide to plunge their knives into my side like Mas Quennell did today, it would be of little consequence to me, as long as you were there afterwards to fret over my little injuries. Besides," he said, his gold eyes suddenly dark and threatening, "if any man ever dared to hurt you as Mas did, I swear that I shall send them to the devil."
Christine shuddered at his chilly threat. Circling her arms about his neck, she pressed her face there and exhaled, murmuring a soft "thank you."
"Come," Erik said, taking her hands and leading her to the door. "I have a gift for you."
ooOOoo
The body was in the parlor, shrouded from head to toe in a gray wool blanket that thankfully obscured what Christine knew was a ghastly sight. Philippe stood next to it, watching her warily as she entered the room, ready to catch her should she faint in hysterics. Steeling her expression, she ignored his chivalrous impulses and gestured to the door.
"To the boat, I assume?"
"One moment," said Erik as he crossed the parlor and entered a laboratory of sorts. A minute later, he emerged with a small wax vial in hand. Tucking it under his coat, he dropped his black felt hat upon his head and bent to lift up the corners of the makeshift body bag. Philippe did the same.
Careful not to drop their load, they made their way to the lakeshore where the gondola glistened, sleek in the small circle of light from the lantern.
Erik steered the boat through the darkened labyrinth, gradually carrying them into parts of the cellar Christine was unfamiliar with. It wasn't until they ran to ground on the other side and she alighted from the gondola thather surroundings began to bear a resemblance to some place she had seen before.
"I…I think I may have been here, once," she said unsurely. "It was all rather hazy."
"You were not altogether alert at the time, I believe," Erik replied enigmatically. "Up a way, into the labyrinth, there is a little well."
Philippe looked puzzled. "I am not quite following your logic, Monsieur. If I remember correctly, are not the Communard roads on the other side of this cellar? Surely it would be better to leave him there, among the other bodies—"
"If I wanted him to be mistaken for a dead Communard," Erik snapped, "then I would have taken us to those roads. Just carry his feet, Chagny, and leave the rest to me."
Taken aback by the masked man's irritation, Philippe could only nod and heft the body's feet up, getting a better grip on his share of the load.
At last they reached the little well in the labyrinth, its gloomy, forgotten stones a welcome picture in the dim glow of the lantern. Dropping the corpse, Erik knelt next to it and pulled the rough blanket aside, then took the wax vial from his coat and unstopped it.
"You may want to stand away," he called over his shoulder to his companions, the vial poised over the dead man's face. Whipping a handkerchief from his pocket, he held it to his mouth as he cautiously poured some sort of chemical over the right side of the corpse's face—his forehead, nose, cheek, jawline—dripping it strategically as if he were creating a work of art. When the vial was empty, he stopped it again and hurled it into the labyrinth.
"What was that?" asked Philippe.
"Hydrofluoric acid. A rather new substance used by glassmakers for etching and cutting designs." Erik peeled his gloves off and tossed them onto the blanket. "It is very potent; I wouldn't recommend touching or inhaling it, if I were you."
The Comte watched the dead man's face, brow furrowed. "Forgive me, but whatever it is supposed to do, it does not seem to be working."
"Give it time, Monsieur. The acid destroys flesh from the inside out, so the facial structure will go first. We cannot take any chances of his being identified, you see, if someone were to happen upon him in the near future. Very soon, he will look like a corpse."
Christine studied Erik's masked face as he spoke, the yellow intensity of his eyes riveted to the body beside the well. And though Philippe could not fathom what Erik was doing, she understood completely, her heart softening. Resting her hand on her husband's shoulder, she watched Mas' still face as the acid began its handiwork. Soon, the face was truly that of a corpse—sunken cheek, mottled, yellowed skin, caved-in nose—the right side completely devastated.
Erik lifted her fingers from his shoulder and kissed them, his lips lingering over her wedding ring. Suddenly, he started and held her hand in front of him, staring at the gold band; a new thought churned in his genius mind. Kneeling next to the corpse, he lifted its hand and pulled the onyx ring from its finger, then held it out to Philippe.
"You may want to keep this." He looked at the Comte's hand. "Give me the gold ring on your small finger, if you will."
Philippe placed a hand protectively over it. "Sir, this…this was a token from Mlle. Sorelli," he explained, somewhat embarrassed. "I'd rather not—"
"The ring, Monsieur!"
Sighing, the Comte slid the ring from his finger and relinquished it to Erik. Placing the gold band on Mas' own dead hand, he stepped back to observe his work.
"Perfect," he whispered, his lips curling fiendishly.
Christine could not help but shudder. The resemblance was uncanny. Her eyes locked upon the corpse, she did not flinch when two cold hands grasped her shoulders and slowly pulled her backwards until she felt Erik's thin torso behind her. Leaning into him, she sighed in contentment as his mouth brushed her ear.
"Look what I have done for you, Christine, my wife," he whispered, his breath warm upon her neck. "I have killed him, and he will haunt you no more. He is dead."
Philippe's fine eyes shot to the couple and saw that each was lost in the other, in a way he could not understand. Something significant had passed between them—something more important than the destruction of Mas Quennell—though he knew not what. Shaking his head, he turned to go back to the gondola.
As he did, however, something odd caught his eye. Squinting at his former sister more closely, he blinked several times, puzzled.
"I say," he asked hesitantly, "is that my opera cloak?"
A/N: Yeay! One chapter left, and then an Epilogue. Again, thank you all for following and reading this story.
I'd like to ask a favor of each of you. If you have been reading this story, please take a moment to leave a review. I would be very grateful if you would do this for several reasons. First, I just want to hear from you, period! Second, it would be very nice and helpful to know what you enjoyed about the story, and what you didn't. Lastly, I may consider writing a one-shot sometime in the future, and I'd like to know what readers might be interested in.
Again, thank you so much for your support!
Story Recommendation: Teacher of Music, by Allison E.L. Cleckler
I had heard of this story a long time ago and always meant to read it, but couldn't locate it again until its author reviewed my writing. I happily found it once more, and now I am kicking myself for not picking it up earlier! The story is ALW-based and features a much overlooked but delightful character: Monsieur Reyer, chief répétiteur. The premise is that the Phantom truly is insane, and that Reyer is the more logical "secret teacher" for Christine. I'm not very far into it yet, admittedly, but it is a delightful read, infused with wonderful characters, detail, humor, and best of all, good storytelling.