Chapter 41
I have no joy in life when she is far away!
-La Traviata, Act II
Stockholm
Erik was in a sorry state.
It had taken all his strength to get up the nerve to write to Christine, and then - nothing! Not even a rejection! He had not thought her capable of that.
He had tried and tried again, but her reply never came. In the meantime, his mental condition was deteriorating steadily.
For companions, he alternated between drink, cocaine, opium, morphine, and the worst vice of all, the gossip pages.
The former owner of this charming little house, whoever he may be, had let the place fall half into ruination but had never cancelled his newspaper subscriptions. Perhaps he had died. (Erik did not care one way or the other.)
Every day, Erik sat waiting so that when they arrived, he could fall onto the gossip sections and devour them.
He knew it was foolish, but he could not help it. Every day there were new articles about her. (He surprised himself by how quickly he'd managed to learn to read Swedish once he saw her name in there in conjunction with the fop's. And to think he'd told Christine he couldn't get his head around it! Really, his brain amazed even him sometimes. Truly it was a magnificent creation.)
The columnists here were obsessed with her. Seeing a daughter of Sweden on the verge of becoming a great star in the most glamorous city in the world, hobnobbing with the crème de la crème of Parisian society, had made them even more hysterical than gossip columnists usually were. Every day there was a new article about her, bedecked with exclamation marks.
Maddeningly, a large number mentioned the Vicomte. In between printing Prince Edward's latest exploits with whatever actress was the belle du jour, correspondents were announcing that Fröken Christine Daae - or Kristina, as they spelled it - was 'certainly the handsome French aristocrat's lover - definitive proof - heard from a very reliable source close to both of them' - and so on. The less reputable publications went still further. They were engaged; they had been secretly living together for months; they were already married.
This did nothing for Erik's fragile state of mind. It became harder and harder for him to separate fantasy from the occasional grain of truth, especially with the opium clouding his brain. He perceived, in a rare moment of self-reflection, that he was losing whatever remained of his already-tenuous grip on reality.
He would go back to Paris, he decided one morning, after reading an article from a particularly unreliable publication that suggested Christine and the Vicomte had several illegitimate children.
Then at least he wouldn't have to live with this intolerable uncertainty anymore.
On the morning of the sixth day, he wrote a letter.
Daroga, my old friend,
I am tired of this game. I am tired of everything. I was happy for a short while and that must be enough - I cannot expect such good fortune again, nor did I expect it to last. Christine has come to her senses and seen what a sorry wretch I am, how stupid it would be to throw herself away on me. That is only right; I could never have given her the kind of life she deserves. You are angry with her; I cannot be, not any longer.
I think this marks a natural conclusion. My life has been a trial for everyone concerned and there is no point in dragging it out any longer. In a few days I shall come back to Paris and let them do with me what they will.
I hope you will be so good as to oblige me by putting my few remaining affairs in order and seeing to whatever funeral arrangements you think appropriate. (I trust they need not be elaborate.) My personal funds will be more than sufficient to cover the expense.
I am sorry to throw away your sacrifice. Neither of us could have known, when you gave everything up for my sake in Tehran, that I would only last another three years. It is a terrible waste.
And yet, had you not saved me… I would never have loved Christine, never been loved by her (for I know, whatever her feelings now, that she truly did love me for a time). For that I thank you forever and ever.
-Erik
And whatever happened, he would never give up his precious secret… No-one need ever know Christine Daae had loved him. He would not do her the dishonor. The story of her indiscretion, her folly, that brief, beautiful insanity of hers that had brought him such unfathomable happiness but nearly wrecked her life, would be safe forever, hers to do with what she will.
She could do as she pleased, her life salvaged, her reputation cleansed forever from the stain of his miserable existence...
Yes, he was prepared.
And then, when he went to post the letter… there was the envelope in his mailbox, postmarked from Paris, but it was not from Christine!
It bore, he was not surprised to find, the de Chagny crest. Once again his plans were thrown into disarray. He abandoned his usual caution, and opened it there and then rather than finding a place to hide.
You have been found out. Do not attempt to see Mademoiselle Daae again. Her affections are engaged elsewhere and she is no longer any concern of yours.
Erik smiled, and crumpled up the letter he had been going to send to the Daroga. "How thoughtful of the dear Vicomte to write," he said, and then frowned as he remembered Zenaida was not there to appreciate his witticisms.
For now he did not read the rest. He was quite sure the Vicomte could have nothing important to say. He was annoying verbose. The only important information Erik had already gathered: That that sniveling little fop had seen, or at least heard about the contents of, Erik's letter to Christine.
Erik turned for home.
I can imagine thirty or so possibilities, he thought. No, thirty-seven. Two of them are likely... I think we may safely discard the others.
One, of course, which he must face, much as wished not to think of it, was that she was working with the Vicomte to catch him. But the other… the other was that she did not love the Vicomte, that she was not involved with him in any way, and that the fop had been stealing her correspondence all along!
Well, he would soon find out one way or the other… All he had to do was wait, and sooner or later all would be revealed.
The sensible thing to do, of course, would be to flee. But he could not, not just yet. Not when things were finally beginning to get interesting.
Paris, five stories beneath the Opéra Populaire, the lakeshore
There was another way, Christine thought, sitting alone in the cold and the darkness.
To steel her nerves, she helped herself to a generous serving from Erik's extensive wine cellar. It wasn't as though he was ever going to come back and get any of this, she thought furiously.
A particularly intense, dramatic Bordeaux. Its solemnity seemed appropriate.
"If I wait long enough, the opera house will be empty; everyone will have gone home," she said aloud (what did it matter if she talked to herself? There was no-one to hear. Indeed, no-one would ever hear her or see her again.) "Unless there is another Phantom I don't know about."
When she was sufficiently numb to the world, she forged ahead.
It did not take long to move a few more barrels to the lake. it cost her a skinned knee, several broken fingernails, and a number of painful stumbles in the dark, but at least she did not mind so much now.
At length, she returned to the cellar and surveyed her handiwork.
A thought had occurred to her, and upon examination, she found that several of the kegs had indeed been penetrated by the damp, rendering them inert. this was an encouraging discovery. About fifteen were left.
Was fifteen kegs too many?, she wondered. They weren't large. Their weight belied their size. And yet, only a pinch of the stuff could send a bullet straight through a man (as it had nearly done to Erik on the horrible night). It was a chilling thought.
She ascended the stairs again to consult Erik's library. But while it offered books on any number of obscure subjects, it yielded no useful information. And the hour was growing late.
What choice did she have? No-one else could help Erik.
It was too late to save her, anyway. She was ruined; she had no future. At least this way, that miserable fool, wherever he was, God damn him, God protect him, would be safe. All evidence of his career as the ghost, gone.
She would be taking no life but her own. She would gladly answer for that when she stood at the gates of eternity - she would welcome the chance to explain herself. She had some strong words for God.
And Erik would know about this. could not overlook an event like this. He would see it in the papers, wherever he was. Hear people talking about it. This sign that whatever else happened, she still cared about saving his miserable hide.
If nothing else, she would make him regret her.
She returned once more to the torture-chamber, prepared to make her final descent. This time she did not leave the lamp behind.
Tonight the music in her mind was darker than it had ever been before- the judgment from Don Giovanni, when devils swarmed over the damned man with his tormented soul.
The melody had always struck fear into her in the past, but now, it exhilarated her.
No-one can ever say of me that I was afraid!My heart beats firmly! I'm not afraid: I'll come!
Already she seemed to see a demon before her, hovering in the darkness, formless, nothing but a pair of eyes that blazed like blue coals.
She stepped back.
But it was not a demon after all, she saw as it came forward and the light fell upon it.
It was a cat, a cat she had seen many times before, with a tail like a brush dipped in paint.
"Zenaida?" Christine cried in astonishment. She had not seen the little Siamese since Erik left. She had scoured the Opéra for her to no avail, and finally been forced to conclude that, if Erik had not taken her with him, she must have starved to death or frozen in the cold.
Zenaida ran up to her with silent footfalls. The blue eyes were quite ordinary now, out of the glare of the torchlight. Are you all right? they seemed to ask her.
"Go hang yourself, Zenaida!" Christine cried. "What do you propose I do with all of this now? And where have you been?"
Zenaida let out a conciliatory meow.
The small, sweet sound restored life to Christine's broken, frozen heart; every emotion she had been trying to restrain these past few days suddenly came rushing out in a torrent. "You stupid creature!" she cried. "How could you leave me? Don't you know that I love you? I was frantic! Don't you know how frightened I've been, you wretched fool?" She punctuated this exclamation by savagely kicking the wall, which earned her an aching foot but discharged some of her rage. "What am I to do now? What am I to do? I don't know what to do! It is hopeless, quite hopeless!"
Zenaida, indifferent to her outburst, rubbed against Christine's legs. I must admit I am happy to see you.
The torch fell from Christine's hand and extinguished itself harmlessly on the stone.
Christine dropped to the floor and seized the little cat, sobbing embarrassingly, clutching her to her breast like a soft fur scarf.
Though normally Zenaida would not have suffered such an indignity, she seemed to sense that Christine needed her, and submitted to this outrage without resentment. She even rubbed her sleek grey forehead against her shoulder. Perhaps she was lonely too.
Thank God, Christine thought, as her tears flowed. Thank God for this small mercy. She had no future. She was ruined. Her love was gone forever. But at least there was this one small heart who cared for her, and she for it. There was still goodness in the world, at least a sliver of it.
She looked round, though there was nothing to look at, and was astonished by what she had been on the verge of doing.
Perhaps she had never really been going to do it.
"Where have you been, Zenaida?" she whimpered. "I-" Her voice caught, and she began to sob again. "I... I haven't any idea where he is... I fear some terrible calamity may have befallen him... What are we going to do?" Suddenly she froze. "Wait. Papa would not have abandoned you! What has happened?" Her heart faltered. She couldn't breathe; all the air seemed to go out of her lungs.
He was dead. He must be. He would never let any harm come to Zenaida.
The room seemed to spin around her.
Her fingers twined into Zenaida's fur.
Suddenly, she noticed something. She had on a tag. She hadn't had a tag before. It wasn't as though Erik could leave an address for people to return her to.
"Well, I am sorry," Christine said, "But I am keeping you, my dear."
With trembling fingers, she burrowed into her pocket and pulled out another match. It took her several tries to light one, but at last she managed to produce a little flame.
Carefully, she turned the tag so the engraving was in the light.
Answers to Zenaida
226 Rue de Rivoli
Appartement 22
Christine stared at this inscription for several seconds, then leapt up.
" 'Zenaida'!" she repeated. "It says 'Zenaida! These people know the name Papa gave you! They must know something!"
Paris, an unimaginably expensive house in Faubourg Saint-Honoré
The Baron de Castelot-Barbezac was seldom seen without a smile.
It had made him many friends over the years (and cost him a few), and caused some people to believe he was stupid, which he was not. Indeed, there was a rumor that he was born with his face stuck that way, and couldn't make any other expressions.
But when he came in his front door late one afternoon - the afternoon, in fact, after Christine had had her fight with Firmin - followed by his favorite hound Ajax, and saw the objection of his affections huddled weeping on the parlor sofa, his smile disappeared at once.
Though normally the Baron's habit was to run rapidly away from any crying person, preferably before they realized he had seen them, in this instance he reacted before he could stop himself.
"Meg?" he cried, and to his surprise and alarm he found himself moving toward her, if not at a run then at a very rapid pace. "Are you crying? What on earth is the matter?"
She leapt up as though she had sat on a hot stove. "Charles! You're supposed to be out."
"Well, I'm not." He hurried to take her in his arms, while Ajax came up beside her with a look of great concern, pressing an anxious muzzle into her head. "You are crying. What is the matter?"
"I never cry. What are you doing here?" Meg said between sniffles.
"This is my house," the Baron said wryly. "What are you doing here?"
"I do live here as well, as you may recall."
"Yes, but you are meant to be at rehearsal, surely," he said. "And what is distressing you so? I cannot have mon bijou crying like this."
She hadn't meant to tell him, but suddenly it all came rushing out. "I lost my place," she wailed, sobbing into his jacket "I'm so sorry, Charles."
"What?" Putting a hand on her arm, he hastily guided her to a more comfortable seat on a nearby chase.
"Firmin sacked me." Meg wiped her nose on her handkerchief, but it was soaked through.
He offered her his. "Good Heavens! Did he give a reason?"
"Yes - Because Christine won't sleep with the Vicomte de Chagny." She rolled her eyes.
He blinked. "Perhaps to you there is an obvious and straightforward connection…"
She almost laughed, dabbing her eyes with his handkerchief. "I know. There shouldn't be any connection whatsoever. But there is, I'm afraid. Let me summarize for you. The Vicomte's in love with Christine, you know-"
The Baron hid a smile. "-Everyone in Paris knows that."
Meg smirked. "Yes. He's been donating thousands and thousands of francs to the Opéra because of her. He wants to marry her, in fact."
"Good Heavens."
"Yes. But she isn't interested in him."
"I suppose there's some other fellow?" he said.
She avoided his eyes. "No. No-one."
"Well, why isn't de Chagny good enough for her?" the Baron said uncomprehendingly. "He's agreeable, a good-looking fellow, surely - and those Chagnys are richer than Croesus."
"So I've told her," Meg agreed, "but she won't listen."
"Then she is passing up an excellent offer. I cannot understand it."
"Yes," Meg said. "Nor I. But I suppose it's Christine's affair. She's the one who would have to live with him."
He took this in. At last he nodded. "There's no accounting for personal taste, I suppose."
Those words are truer than you could ever imagine! Meg thought wryly. "I suppose not. Anyway," she went on, eager to leave behind any subject that ventured remotely near the ticking time-bomb that was Erik, "the Vicomte is very determined, but sooner or later even he is bound to give up. He's starting to get discouraged. Firmin knows that, so he tried to force Christine to become the Vicomte's maîtresse to keep the donations coming."
The Baron scowled. "He sounds like a scoundrel."
"He is!" she said. "And his loyal dog Andre isn't any better. Well, you know Christine - she said she wouldn't do it. Good for her. So for revenge, instead of firing her he sacked me."
"He can't do that!"
"Yes, he can." She scowled. "The snake! He knew it would make Christine feel far worse. She'll never forgive herself when she finds out."
"You don't want to leave the company?"
She laughed. "I can't say I like being fired from my employment, no."
"Can't anything be done?" he asked.
"No. He holds all the cards. I daresay he'll throw her out soon too. At any rate - I'm never getting back in there. Or any other company, no doubt." Meg shook her head, blinking back tears. "I don't know what I shall do. I really don't!"
"Well, Firmin is a fool," he said. "You are the best dancer in the company."
She snorted. "No, I'm not. Don't be silly."
"Well, I always loved to watch you," he said.
She almost smiled. "You sentimental fool. Thank you."
"I am sorry you shan't get to dance with them anymore."
"I don't care about that!" she laughed sadly. "I hate dancing. But I..." She plunged back into miserable contemplation. "Forgive me. You don't have to stay and listen to me blubber. I'm putting a damper on your afternoon."
The Baron looked at her for a moment in silence. "Excuse me," he said suddenly, jumping up, and he rested a hand on her arm for a moment as if to say "I won't be long."
"Charles?" Meg said, startled by something in his tone. "Where are you going?"
He did not reply, but darted upstairs to his dressing-room, where he rummaged around in his sock drawer for a few moments.
He returned a few moments later with his hands clasped behind his back, an awkward attitude that resembled a tourist ambling through the Louvre. "Meg, look, ah, will you, er, come out to the back garden for a moment?"
"What?" she said, staring at him incredulously. "What for? It's the middle of winter."
"Never mind why. But it's… ah… it's important. I shall explain in a moment." He ran a hand through his hair with one hand.
She scowled. "I'm not letting the neighbors see me like this. My hair is a disaster."
"No, it isn't. It looks charming."
"You liar."
"Here, come." He tugged her gently toward the door.
"I'm not going anywhere til you tell me what you're going on about!" she said.
He sighed. "Very well. Then I shall do it here in the parlor."
"Do what?" she said.
"This isn't the glamorous occasion I had hoped for," he said awkwardly. "Indeed, I had hoped to leave this a little longer, so I could plan something worthy of you, but circumstances being what they are, I think I ought not to leave this any longer-"
"-What are you doing?" she cried.
"I am kneeling down. Perhaps you are familiar with the practice. It is most commonly observed in men who have found the woman they-"
Meg leapt up and emitted a scream so loud Ajax jumped up and ran away. "-Great Heavens!"
"Marguerite Marie-" the Baron began, a little taken aback, but determined to get through his speech.
"-Charles, you-"
"-Marguerite Marie Giry," he repeated when he could get a word in edgewise, "Will you do me the very great honor of becoming my bride?" He took out the little velvet box he had been hiding. Inside was a splendid ring of pearls and emeralds. "It was my mother's. She has given her-"
"-I can't believe it!" she cried. "You're proposing to me?"
He looked up at her in surprise. "Surely this cannot be wholly unexpected, ma minou."
She laughed. "Unexpected? Why, I'm absolutely astounded! This is like a dream!"
"Why?" he said. "You must know I am in love with you."
Suddenly she was blinking back fresh tears, of a wholly different kind than before. "Well… yes… That is, I hoped you were... But…"
"But?" he said.
"Well, what do you think? - I'm nobody - I'm just little Meg Giry! Daughter of a butcher. You're the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac."
"Well, I'm just Charles Barbezac. Grandson of a butcher." He shrugged. "You know I'm not a real Baron. Napoleon gave my father the title for making a fortune. That doesn't count."
"Yes, but..."
"My darling Meg," the Baron said, beginning to grow a little agitated, "I would not rush you for the world, but I am forty-one and my knee is starting to ache, you know."
"What?" she said. "Well, get up, dear, you need not stay in that attitude."
He would have laughed had he not been so anxious. "You have not yet done me the honor of giving me an answer, mon bijou."
"I haven't?" she said. "But I thought I..."
"No. You have not, I assure you. I think I would have noticed," he said wryly.
"Oh! Forgive me!"
The next few minutes passed in a daze. Meg cried a great deal, while the Baron, having risen at last from his semi-recumbent posture, sat beside her, faint with relief, and while he could not be said to cry, he did blink rather more than usual. Meg's words washed over him - 'they must go tell Maman at once, she would be ecstatic, Christine must be maid of honor, but oh dear, they had quarreled, but not over anything important, no; she would surely come round after this, she was going to look charming in pink' - without quite sinking in.
His heart, he noticed, was pounding. Til now he had not quite realized how anxious he had been.
All his life he had vaguely assumed that being rich, handsome and agreeable - all of which everyone who met him universally agreed he was - would get him a hasty assent from whichever woman he decided to propose to. It would be a tidy business, easy to arrange. But it had occurred to him recently that being rich and handsome would have made it all the more pitiable if he were rejected. And that Meg - who, it had become clear to him within a few days of meeting her, was, in fact, the girl he was going to propose to - was twenty years younger than himself and so beautiful she could have had her choice of admirers even wealthier and better-looking than he was.
And, most alarmingly of all, that he was really in love with her. He had always thought himself immune to the condition, and finding out that he was not, that he had somehow given someone the power to break his heart, had been frightening in the extreme.
It was an immense relief to have the matter brought to a successful conclusion.
Simply put - he was happier than he had thought it was possible to be.
"Dear," Meg said at length in a different tone, "You didn't just ask me because I lost my place at the Opéra?"
He looked at her in surprise. "Whyever would you say that?"
"Well, you are such a gentleman-"
"-Am I?" he guffawed.
She smiled. "-Yes. You are such a gentleman that I know you would think it your duty to rescue a poor young girl who had fallen upon desperate circumstances… And I would not want that, you know..."
"Thank you, my dear, but no," he laughed. "I didn't just happen to have an engagement ring in my dresser drawer, you know."
"Oh!" She laughed. "Of course."
"I come of my own free will, my dear," he said, smiling. He had never called a woman 'my dear' before. He'd given his various lovers over the years any number of ridiculous pet names - they went nicely with all the flowers and chocolates and promises he hadn't intended to keep - but somehow it seemed that one should be reserved for the future Baroness. He found it enormously enjoyable to say. "You aren't coercing me into anything. Surely you know I am too hardheaded to allow that."
"Yes, I certainly do." She beamed.
"You really and truly are happy?" he said after a moment.
"Why - I am as happy as anything!" she cried. "My darling - I love you!"
As he held her close and she rested her head against his chest, the Baron realized something with a flutter of happiness.
He had said those words to her many times - usually under cover of being very drunk, but no less sincere for that. But this was the first time she had said it back. And indeed, the first time she had ventured to call him 'my darling'.
And from the look on her face, no-one could ever have doubted that she meant it.
Stockholm
Every day for a week, Erik visited the mailbox he had taken at 27 Västra Trädgårdsgatan, unobtrusive in a postman's uniform and long grey cloak.
When at last he saw the Vicomte standing guard there, one afternoon just after the mail was delivered, he was delighted.
After all, whatever else might happen, the sight made him all but certain Christine did not love that sniveling little fop. If she did, she would never have allowed him to come here and put himself in danger like this. (Besides which, if they had begun an affair, or if - horror upon horrors - Christine had taken it into her head to get engaged to that brainless, inbred, amusical little fool, he would have far better things to do than go tearing around Europe like this. This was not the action of a man who had been happy in love.)
Of course, it did not necessarily follow that Christine still loved him. Indeed, she might very well hate him. She had been furious with him that night…
But curiously, Erik was somewhat less distressed by the thought that she did not want him anymore if she did not love the fop either. The idea was deeply consoling. To lose her was one thing, but to lose her to the likes of him was unimaginable.
He strolled up to the Vicomte, whistling under his breath.
"My dear Vicomte, I bid you good afternoon!" he said, not trying at all to keep the gloating note out of his voice. "What an entirely unexpected pleasure. To what do I owe the great honor of this visit?"
The Vicomte whirled round. He did not answer the question. Erik had not expected he would. "I am surprised you came," he said severely. "Surely you knew I would be waiting."
"I hoped as much, certainly," Erik said.
"Hoped?" the Vicomte demanded, incredulous.
Erik did not favor him with an explanation. "It was foolish of you to reply to my letter," he said instead. "I had hoped for better from you, my dear Monsieur. For instance, if you had simply shown up here today unannounced - or better yet, forged a letter from a certain young lady of our acquaintance, telling me a time and place to meet - I should have been quite taken in, and you might finally have managed to capture me - might, I add."
"Unlike you, I do not deal in duplicity," the Vicomte said. "And I note, you came anyway. That was your foolishness."
"It is foolish of you to imagine I did not have a particularly compelling reason for doing so."
"I suppose you thought you would see Mademoiselle Daae here, waiting for you with open arms," the Vicomte sneered.
Beneath the mask, Erik winced; what could be seen of his face, however, remained impassive. "No, no," he said. "The climate here is perfectly atrocious. Only a madman or a fool would come here at this time of year."
The Vicomte pulled out a revolver.
Erik chuckled. "What, the same trick again? This is exceedingly tedious. I had hoped you might at least try to make things interesting for me."
"-I trust you aren't indulging in any foolish notions that this is not loaded?" the Vicomte cut him off. "You cheated death at our last meeting, but I doubt you would be so fortunate a second time."
"No, no, dear boy," Erik assured him, patting him gently on the shoulder. "I have no difficulty believing you are still stupid enough to carry loaded weapons around in your pocket."
The Vicomte's mouth was a tight, compressed line. "You will accompany me to the police station."
Despite this new development, Erik was still several moves ahead. The gun was nothing he had not anticipated. But it was convenient for him that the Vicomte not know that yet. He wanted to keep him talking as long as possible. The more information he could glean from him, the better.
"I am entirely at your disposal; I have no pressing engagements," he said pleasantly, and meekly turned in the direction the Vicomte had indicated.
"At last, the Opéra Ghost who has given us so much trouble, here before me," the Vicomte said.
"He himself," Erik said pleasantly.
"I hardly dare believe I have bested you at last."
"You are quite right not to."
"Take care what you say. You are entirely at my mercy."
"Oh, dear, no," Erik said with a chuckle.
The Vicomte was not impressed enough with this remark to reply.
For a time neither of them spoke.
"This simply will not do," Erik said at last. "After we have had such a fortunate reunion, it would be a pity to waste our time together in such a gloomy silence."
The Vicomte merely snarled at him.
"Very well, I will begin," Erik said. "Have you been enjoying Stockholm? I do hope you will make the most of your time here. The Nationalmuseum has an outstanding collection. And I am told the veal soup at Café Blanch is excellent. Although, Christine would not like that, of course; she fancies herself a vegetarian. Oh, is she not here with you? Do forgive me. I had assumed you would not be going to so much trouble for her unless you two were a couple. She has indeed made a most devoted spoony out of you, if you are willing to do so much for her with no assurance of her regard."
The young aristocrat merely scowled still more deeply. "Did you really imagine she could love you?" he said at length.
It took all Erik's strength not to tell the fop exactly what he and Christine had been doing in her dressing-room, and what they had been about to do - or at least, what he had very much hoped they had been about to do - before he washed up on her doorstep that night. "What enigmatic creatures women are," he said instead. "What man can fathom what goes on their hearts, don't you agree?"
The Vicomte stared at him. "You are mad!"
Erik allowed himself a small smile. "That is hardly a secret, my dear fellow."
"You are obsessed with her! It will be your undoing."
"Well, you cannot blame me - she is a lovely creature, and if one must die for a woman, it ought to be a woman like her," Erik said. "Your obsession with me is more difficult to account for."
The Vicomte sneered. "Hardly an obsession - and no, it is not so very difficult. You made dishonorable overtures to the woman I love. I vowed to ensure that you never again impugn her honor. Nothing could be simpler."
'The woman I love', Erik thought. Not 'my fiancé'. Not even 'my lady'... Hm... "Yes, it was rather amusing," he said aloud. "I rather think I might try it again sometime."
The Vicomte, in retaliation for this remark, jammed the pistol into Erik's ribs, sending pain searing through his wound. He stifled a cry. As he looked down at the pistol, he noticed something interesting. "That is a handsome article," he said through clenched teeth. "Not, I note, the one you did me the honor of shooting me with, however. What have you done with the other one?"
"Mademoiselle Daae has it," the Vicomte said, not seeming to notice his discomfort.
"-What?" Erik exclaimed, truly surprised for the first time.
"She took it that night, shortly after you left, in fact. A wise precaution."
"Indeed," Erik said quietly. "And she did not return it?"
"No. She still has it. Remember that next time you are tempted to break into her dressing-room!" the Vicomte cried.
Erik, not heeding him at all, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his pain forgotten for the moment, and began to laugh. Why… if Christine was on his side, if she cared about him at all, she would have given his revolver back that night, surely - not left him with no way to defend himself... It is true! She does not care for him! She did not care for him that night! She was not lying to me!
"What is there to be amused about?" the Vicomte said, startled by the sight of a man laughing while threatened with a gun. "You do not seem to understand the delicacy of your position. You will obey my instructions."
Erik composed himself. "I think not," he said at last. He had heard enough to satisfy him. It was time to play his hand. "I regret that I cannot accompany you any further. But you see, the fact is, I do not want to be imprisoned today."
"What?" the Vicomte said.
Erik held open one side of his coat for a moment. Inside, wrapped around his midsection, an ominous network of wires crisscrossed each other before disappearing into his pocket.
The Vicomte sucked in his breath.
"As you may have anticipated," Erik said, "If you were to shoot me in the chest, it would blow us both to kingdom come, and take a number of unfortunate Swedes along with us, which would be regrettable. If you decided you were clever and aimed for my head instead, it would produce the same result once I fell to the ground. And, of course, I have the ability to trigger the mechanism at any time, should I choose." He let his cloak fall shut again with a flick of his wrist.
The Vicomte stood as if stricken dumb.
"This is a charming street, do you not think so?" Erik said pleasantly. "If I am correctly informed, the architecture is historic. But then, they are always tearing down the interesting buildings to make way for more commercially viable enterprises; we might be contributing to the progress of industry by demolishing this block-"
The Vicomte, at last finding his voice, spat out some words Erik could only assume he'd learnt in the Navy. "-You villain!" he finished at last.
"It remains to be seen who the villain in our little drama is," Erik said. "It may well be you, my dear Vicomte - or who knows? Perhaps the shoe is on the other foot, and pretty Christine has been deceiving us both. Has that idea occurred to you?"
"How could she deceive you when she has never promised you anything?" the Vicomte sneered.
"She has never promised you anything."
"I would not be so certain of that if I were you."
Oh, I would! Erik thought gleefully.
"She would never deceive a man," the Vicomte went on. "She is a woman of principles - a thing you are incapable of understanding."
"A 'woman of principles', hein?" Erik sneered. "A few days ago she was a 'chorus-girl tarte'." His blood boiled at the memory. He wanted to castrate the fop for that remark alone. Insulting him was one thing - he had been called every vile name imaginable more times than he could remember, and he doubted the Vicomte was capable of breaking any new ground there - but insulting Christine was sacrilege.
"What in God's name do you want from me?" the Vicomte said.
"What do I want?" Erik said. "That is an interesting question. One possible response to it is that I want you to do everyone a service and fling yourself into the nearest ocean. But despite what you may think, I find unnecessary bloodshed distasteful. And so I suppose I would settle for the return of my letter."
"Your letter?"
"You try my patience," Erik snarled. "The letter I sent to Christine - Christine Daae; do you remember her? Tall - a hint of a Swedish accent - rather lovely brown eyes? - telling her to meet me here!"
"I don't have it."
Erik smiled and shook his head. "You are incapable of memorizing a seventeen-letter Scandinavian address. And you are too lazy to copy it over again. You brought the letter with you."
Scowling more darkly than ever, the Vicomte withdrew the letter.
"Ah," Erik said. "I wonder how you came by it?"
He had not really expected to gain any new knowledge by asking this, but as it happened the Vicomte very obligingly helped him by turning a damning shade of red. "She gave it to me," he lied, but it was too late.
Erik was nearly certain now the fool had stolen it.
Why, Christine might… she might not have known where I was, all this time!
He was growing more and more convinced: There was a chance! A chance that all was not lost, that his angel still loved her poor, miserable Erik!
The Vicomte held out the letter.
Erik snatched it away. He was pleased to have it back in his possession - he couldn't have the Vicomte noticing that the handwriting that of Christine's vocal instructor, whose notes, Erik flattered himself, he had probably kept out of spite. "Thank you, my dear Vicomte."
"Will you let Mademoiselle Daae alone?" the Vicomte said.
"I make no promises," Erik said. "It would be ungentlemanly to deprive her of her only source of interesting male conversation. Good day." He turned to go. After a few paces, he glanced back. "Oh, and do not make the catastrophic mistake of attempting to follow me."
The Vicomte's eyes could have burnt holes into him.
Erik put a few blocks between them before jumping onto the back of a hansom. It was soon swallowed up amid Stockholm's bustling streets, and if the Vicomte had tried to follow, he would have lost the trail by now.
Still, he took the precaution of jumping from cab to cab several times.
As luck would have it, the last one he selected was on its way out of the city, moving in the direction he wanted to go at a fast clip.
It saved him a great deal of trudging. He only had to walk the last half-mile or so. Within an hour of setting out, he was back at the abandoned house.
Inside, he lit a fire and shrugged off his coat, disentangling himself from the harmless network of copper wire he had wrapped around his midsection.
He chuckled. He had done that several times on the way home, and since hearing what the Vicomte had said about Christine, he had already smiled more than he had in weeks.
He knew not what was going to happen now. But one thing was for certain. If Christine still loved him - why, then, he did not care in the least how far he had to go; he would journey on for as long as it took, cross the globe if he had to, til he found somewhere they could be safe.
End of Chapter 41. Thank you so much for reading! Chapter 42 is in the works.
Holy smokes, I forgot to thank my reviewers. Bad, bad, bad! Thank you so much to WolfShadow, Luca, StrangeLove21, WraithSnakeZenith, Marzz, IndyBean, Bridgey2007, Illuniaone, LadyMyth, LC, and the guest, and of course to Olive!
Happy 2020!