Anger pulsed through his body as he marched down the steps, leading to the underground cellars of the opera.
"What a fool," he muttered under his breath, trying to vent his frustrations, "he should know better than this."
His determined steps echoed down, down, down the chambers. The lantern he held aloft to illuminate his path cast long shadows that halted to black. By the small light, the walls were getting dingier with neglect and decay. He could smell mold and thick wetness in the stale air.
His nostrils flared at this predicament. He should NOT have to be down here. He should NOT have to be doing this.
He would much rather be in the warm embrace of La Sorelli, her lithe legs wrapped around his-
Philippe mis-stepped on the stone stairs, taking the next three quite quickly. His stomach dropped as a surge of unexpected adrenaline flooded his body. He instantly felt ill, but swallowed the feeling with a deep gulping breath. Some rocks fell away and metal against stone shrieked behind him.
He gasped, whipping around and shining the beam of light behind him. To his relief, or to his uneasy dismay, nothing was amiss.
He continued down the path.
Thoughts of Raoul raced through his head. His little brother was foolhardy and innocent. The Navy should have been able to toughen him up, make him less prone to spinning sonnets of mediocrity and more involved with the affairs of men.
A smile played on his lips as he remembered the first time he had given Raoul a cigar in the parlor. Swaddled in their Father's smoking jacket, far too large for the adolescent on the cusp of manhood, he inhaled too much at once. He clamped his hand over his mouth and made himself sick in one of the family's old vases. Philippe laughed for about 10 minutes, clapping Raoul on the back as he dry-heaved and coughed the foul fumes.
That was the first time Raoul spoke to Philippe about Christine, seeing her again at the chateau in Perros.
"I love her, Philippe," he told him.
"Splendid, Raoul!" Philippe had guffawed, slapping his knee in delight. Raoul steadied himself and looked intently at the glass of port he was sharing with his brother. "Your first taste of love is always the most exquisite." He leaned in more sternly and approached Raoul with a severe expression. "But she is not someone you should concern yourself with any longer." Raoul did not meet his gaze, but nodded into his drink. Philippe moved closer to him, giving him a reassuring rub on his shoulders. "I know it's painful, but there will be other loves in your life. It's just too bad she does not come from a better family."
Raoul remained silent, unable to answer.
Philippe twiddled with his mustache, as if willing it to grow. He exhaled loudly and poured himself another drink.
"I'm sounding too much like our Father, aren't I?" He shook his head in disbelief, and then smiled. "Did I ever tell you about the time he took me hunting?"
Raoul swallowed his port too quickly and shook his head, entranced by his brother's eagerness. "No!"
"Well, it was a hot summer day, and I was not much older than you when-"
Philippe's revery was cut short yet again when he felt emptiness where there should have been a step. He quickly counter balanced himself back on the previous edge. He clutched for the wall, only to be met with cold, wet slime. He braced himself and leaned forward slightly, his lantern outstretched.
A gaping hole with no bottom to be seen beckoned him forward with its yawning maw. Philippe swallowed his fear, quickly looking for any bit of rubble to gage how deep this pit was. Surely it was just a few steps that had crumbled and the foundation was but a foot drop. He kicked some errant pebbles into the pit and waited for the tell-tale sound of distance.
The longer he waited, the more fear pricked at him.
Finally, after some time, an echo of stone against stone, told him all he needed to know: do not fall in.
He edged himself against the wall, shuffling carefully in the near darkness, one arm aloft before him, the other pressed to feel the reassurance of the wall. He slipped once, but with a leap, made it to the next step.
He panted hard, softly blessing his strong ankles and his fencing lessons when he was younger.
He would have to tell La Sorelli about his ability to jump. He imagined her amusement, lightly slapping his arm as they lay unencumbered by clothing, teasing him that he should join the corps de ballet. He would kiss her deeply and tell her that she was better at pirouettes than he could ever hope to be.
Maybe he could convince her to bring that danseur again…
His heart finally settled down as certainty returned to his steps, albeit with an air of caution. He would find Raoul, implore him to rid these foolish notions of marriage with the Daae girl from his head, and return to his duty in the Navy. Or perhaps some other branch of the military Raoul may be interested in! Or he could take up other hobbies, Philippe was open minded to those things. But both brothers were drawn to passion, and the arts, and beautiful things.
Perhaps he was too doting on Raoul. But his admonishments were escalating and Raoul was becoming more and more withdrawn.
Once he retrieved him, things would all settle down. It was not as if he was forcing him to never see the Daae girl again! On the contrary, Philippe encouraged philandering, just as long as it did not go as far as marriage. The scandal of a marriage to someone not of their societal class would reverberate throughout the generations.
The blame would ultimately and inevitably be placed on Philippe. He was responsible for the family's assets and estate, and so his brother's egregious actions would look poorly on him.
A sudden rushing of air made Philippe tense once again. He held the lantern high, looking wildly around. His body shivered from both the cold and damp settling in, and the sinking feeling of being watched by unseen eyes.
"State your name!" He demanded with all the authority of an aristocrat about to get what he is owed. "Who is there?"
A wave of squeaking and squealing rats skittered past him, their claws and teeth nipping at his ankles and legs. He yelled with bravado, kicking at them as they passed without worry.
He set his jaw in determination. Something or someone had spooked them into retreating.
Philippe was about to call out again when the most incredible singing stilled his voice. Ethereal notes wafted around him and cradled his ears as his posture relaxed. Waves lapped in the distance and the voice whispered to him, "come and find me," without saying a single word.
There, just ahead, must be Christine singing to Raoul, enticing him to covet her, and luring him with her siren's song.
"CHRISTINE!" Philippe yelled, anger bubbling up inside him. He wanted to barge in and stop this ridiculous affair, but as he moved closer, the wordless melody beckoned him to come to different conclusions.
Why was he so angry? Could he not handle the de Chagny estate without his brother's input? He had been doing it for almost 15 years at this point. Why was it so imperative that he not marry the girl? Why was it socially acceptable for Philippe to have his way with any ballet girl he wished without the comforts of a wife at home, while Raoul wanted to make an honest woman out of her, not that he did anything to question her innocence.
Perhaps they could come to some arrangement after all.
Yes, he would sit down with the two of them, discuss the situation, and give them his blessing. Raoul, after all, often did not feel like his brother.
No.
He felt like his son.
Philippe was so distracted by this revelation, he did not feel the garrote slip around his neck. It tightened, unaware his arm, still holding the lantern high, was caught in the noose. His hand came colliding with his head as the wind was knocked out of him. He stumbled off of the staircase, the lantern crashing down with the tinkling song of broken glass, and he plunged into the chill waters of the underground lake.
Yet the singing continued.
Philippe struggled, twisting and writhing his body in the murky lake. The lasso tangled itself tighter around him as he tried to kick to the surface. His foot knocked against something hard, causing a rush of bubbles to escape his throat; his last breath. A streak of light from the lantern still flickered and illuminated that which pained him.
A statue, beautiful and pristine beamed up at him with an expression of ecstatic jubilation. Her body twisted into a long, flowing tail; her hair was a halo of curls. Her arms were outstretched, beckoning, urging him to her.
His trouser leg was caught in her reaching hands. Struggle though he may, he could not shake her loose. And the more he struggled, the more he sank deeper into her embrace, the cord around his neck causing his veins to bulge.
Flashes of joyous moments flickered through his mind's eye: tossing the toddler Raoul in the air. Philippe presenting his sisters to society. Pretending to be angry when they wove flowers in Raoul's hair, but making swords out of the sticks they found. Taking Raoul to his first evening wear fitting. Teaching him how to shave and keep his straight razor clean in case he could not access a barber. The fatherly pride when Raoul waved goodbye to set a course to sea..
The light was snuffed out as Philippe succumbed to the siren, her singing still echoing in his mind. His body brushed against her, his forehead pressed against hers as his own light extinguished with only one name on his lips:
Raoul.