"Charles," she attempted softly, putting a hand to his arm that held the gun, gently pulling it downwards. "Charles." As she said his name over and over again the resistance in his arm became less and less. Once his hand was completely down, he finally looked at her. Their eyes met solemnly.
"Please," the girl whispered, and took his arm. He nodded shortly and they turned, leaving the older man as they finally began to walk away.
The man in the distance finally spoke, "Ah! I smell fear! You know I can't shoot a man with his back turned, Moreau, you seem to know my weakness." His words were bitter in the night air. "But don't forget - I also know yours."
Before the girl could even feel the shiver that would have run down her spine at these words, she was shoved aside into the snow, and a deafening crack filled the deserted square. She watched numbly as the young man beside her fell into the soft snow. Blood seeped gently from a hole in his neck, and his dead eyes still gazed at her.
Manon's eyes flew open. She gasped and bolted up. An unexpected rush of excruciating pain shot up her side. She gritted her teeth in an attempt to keep from crying out. She eased herself back with a gasp, closing her eyes and gathering her wits. After a moment she opened her eyes again, and took in her surroundings.
She was in a dark room softly lit by a lamp that was set upon on a bedside table. She lay on a musty but comfortable bed in the corner. A small vanity and a large mirror were the chamber's only furnishings.
It was then that Manon noticed that, under a woolen blanket that covered her, her bodice lay wide open to expose bandages wrapped around her waist. Eyes furrowed, she propped herself up on her elbows, and reached out to touch the dressing.
"They must be changed tonight," came a voice from the shadows.
Instinctively, Manon vaulted out of the bed, groping for a knife that wasn't there. Agony lanced again through her side, and with a moan she collapsed unwillingly onto the floor.
She felt a hand grip her arm and set her firmly down upon the bed. Momentarily blinded in the pain, she barley cared whose hand it was. But as the throbbing subsided Manon opened her eyes. This time she was barley surprised to see the man, the phantom - or whatever he was – of the opera, towering beside her bed. Phantom, assailant, defender, and wound dresser?
In the dim light of the room, she observed him briefly. Tall, broadly built but thin, with an attitude of coiled strength in his bearing. His flesh was gaunt over a strong jaw and sculpted cheekbones. The features were menacing in the dim light. He was not precisely 'old', but etched in his face were lines that suggested a longer, crueler road than his years should have earned. She felt an unexpected twinge of pity.
Reluctant to ask such trite – yet frankly relevant – queries like 'who are you?', 'where am I?', and 'do you still plan to kill me?', Manon stayed silent.
She looked down at the bandages and noticed that her bodice still lay wide open. She quickly drew it closed, biting her lip. She felt more vulnerable now then she had in a long time, and as always, Manon hated it. She was wounded, weak, in bed, breasts evidently having been bared, and before a man that had wanted to kill her, yet who had spared and saved her life. She was once again known to the policiers after many years and they were after her as if that night was yesterday. She could barely move without a lightening pain in her side and nausea blooming in her stomach. Manon was, to say the least, overwhelmed.
She looked up at this 'Phantom of the Opera' conscious of his piercing gaze. He was looking at her without expression, and she wondered nervously if he could tell what she was thinking.
Their eyes met. She lost herself in the pooling darkness.
All her life, if Manon had one fear, it would be to look another being in the eye, to hold their gaze, and know that they would see her pain in her eyes. Yet for the first time, as she gazed into his eyes, she felt no fear. Wonder and apprehension perhaps, but not fear. At that moment the good he had done to her outweighed the bad. Now she owed him the debt of her life - but why, she didn't know, and her skin prickled with foreboding.
The Phantom pulled a wooden chair from the near vanity and sat down elegantly, swinging his dark cloak around the chair, mask glowing.
"What is your name?" he demanded. His voice was cold, melodious and deep.
To her horror, Manon didn't hesitate but answered like a subservient child.
"Manon Moreau."
The Phantom raised his brow, likewise surprised and somewhat amused that she responded so readily.
"I must inform you, Mademoiselle Moreau, that the bullet which struck your side is embedded deeply, and it has not been extracted it, yet. Tonight we must resort to the grim task of removing it or your blood will be poisoned." He said this in a frank and clinical tone.
Manon closed her eyes. This was the snarling man that had held her by the throat, the man who had called her an "insolent harlot"?
"Are you a surgeon?" she asked pointlessly.
The Phantom smiled slyly, the corner of his mouth upturned.
"No, I am not a surgeon, but I am capable."