His grandmére had a saying, one she repeated often: it's hell growing old. Raoul had always thought the expression an exaggeration, but now, as he whispered it to himself, he understood it was very much a reality.
Raoul's body was failing; he could feel it. He went about his day, fulfilling useless tasks and asking himself the same questions over and over again. Is this the last time? Tonight, shall I pass on in my sleep?
Perhaps it was morbid to spend his last days pondering death. But he felt ready for the grave, so very ready for this painful existence to be over. All life had left him two years ago, with the death of the Countess de Changy…or maybe it had left him years before that, in a dark, wet labyrinth. Whatever the case, the truth remained the same: he was not long for this world, and he was at peace with that notion. Almost. Only one thing remained for him to do before he submitted to the call of eternal slumber.
He settled himself deeper into the leather seat of his town car and watched children dart about in front of the Opera Populaire. His bleary eyes strained to discern a tall figure exiting the theatre. Her stately step identified her as Madame Giry. Raoul felt the weight of the music box in his lap, and again, soul-deep gratitude stirred him. . She had sacrificed so much for him, for all of them. She would never know what she had come to mean to him.
The familiar question surfaced, and an answer came, startling in its certainty. He would never see her again.
Ignoring the pain that made the old wound in his arm throb, he reached up and removed his hat, placing it over his chest. He met Madame Giry's eyes across the short distance, and dipped his head in utmost respect. He looked up to see her return the nod, her eyes gone soft around the corners.
The car lurched forward, and the Vicomte bid adieu to the Opera Populaire for the last time.