She cried. She did not mean for this to happen, but it did. She had an idea how it happened; after all, she was not innocent in the ways of love. How could she be? Working and acting in the Opera, she had witnessed countless affairs and flings with the admirers from the upper crust of society. Not to mention the corps de ballet and their endless gossip and boasting.
But her husband was gone during the time she would have become with child… so who was it? Certainly not her beloved Raoul! She breaks down in tears again. Who was that man who came to her bedroom each night—and in her bed that one night—when her beloved was gone on business? He felt very familiar to her, but not really. He was cold to her touch, but she figured it was because he was chilled from the chilly night air that had crept into her room. He was light as a feather, and thin as a rail. In the heat of the moment, the heat and fire encased and delivered in his kisses, his caress. Later, upon ruminating on these memories, her passion cooled, and the fire banked, she came to the conclusion that it was her poor Erik…and now she was pregnant. How would she explain this to him? He didn't have to know, did he?
The birth proceeded without complications, and fortunately, the child did not take after his father that closely. Yes, he was pale, thin, and had hair as black as raven's feathers, but he was in no way deformed. He did have those uncanny yellow eyes, though. In the light, though, they did not look quite so much like his. But in the dark, you could swear he was there, watching you!
Blessed Raoul, he loved the child as if it was one of his own, even as it became more apparent that it was not his as he grew older.