Chapter 43

Moon in the deep sky,

Tell me, where is my love?

Shine for him into the distance,

and tell him who is waiting for him!

If his soul is dreaming of me,

may the memory awaken him!

-Rusalka, Act I

On the return journey, it occurred to Christine that Mère and Meg would be worried about her. She stopped at a telegraph office to assure them she was mostly alive; then Monsieur Khan's driver Mercier deposited her at the Opéra.

In Erik's lair, she found to her relief that everything was undisturbed.

The mechanism to open the trapdoor to the spring was just as Khan had described it.

It was easy to operate. Suddenly water was everywhere. She had to run out of the torture-chamber, slamming the door behind her.

The sound of rushing water made an eerie music as she ventured back into the grotto that had once been Erik's home.

Scooping up Zenaida's carrier, she made for the tunnel and began the long climb to the street, spooling up the red thread as she went.

She fancied she could hear voices from a few stories above.

They were coming.

If not now, then soon. It was only a matter of time.

Her heart clenched. It made her sick to think of Erik's inner sanctum, his kingdom of music, being invaded by the unfeeling masses, trampled by careless feet.

As she reached the gate at Rue Scribe, she exhaled an anxious, pent-up breath. There was still much to concern her, but at least her greatest worries had been lifted from her shoulders.

Outside, it was pouring rain, so much so that for an absurd moment she almost thought the spring below had found its way to the surface and was flooding the street.

When she emerged onto the sidewalk, trying to shield Zenaida from the water with her free hand, she was greeted by voices shouting her name.

She whirled round, thinking in a panic that someone was about to arrest her.

An immense carriage with crests painted on the doors was pulled up at the curb a few feet away. She scowled, thinking it was the Vicomte come to torture her more. But no, that was not the Chagny crest…

And then Meg was running down the street to her, pulling her into her arms with a strength that belied her small size. Shortly behind her came the Baron, and then Mère. All had exclamations of concern, relief, and sympathy for her disheveled state (the Baron knew never to suggest that a woman was looking anything other than her best, but he could not keep the alarm from his face).

Mère scolded her without drawing breath for what must have been five minutes.

"What has happened? Are you well where have you been I've spent a fortune on cables Babette hasn't seen you - gone by the Opéra three times tonight already - We inquired for you at the police station- Where have you- and what are you carrying?- is that-"

"-I am sorry," Christine said, both regretful and genuinely moved. "Monsieur le Baron, thank you for coming here. That was very kind of you indeed."

"Well?" Mère said, demanding an explanation.

"I, ah, have been looking after a friend's cat this week, and I, ah, brought her to the Opéra with me while I practiced, and I lost her," Christine invented.

"Why, hello, there," the Baron said, smiling. "A handsome little animal. What is its name?"

"You put us through all this – hours and hours of worry - over a cat?" Mère screeched.

"-Maman, never mind that. She's had an appalling day," Meg said, and to Christine's astonishment Mère actually stopped. That was nothing short of extraordinary. Nothing and no-one silenced Rosemonde Giry when she wished to speak. Something out of the ordinary must have happened, Christine thought. "Let's get into the carriage where it's dry."

This, at least, was a suggestion everyone could agree on.

"Listen, Christine," Meg went on when they were rolling down the boulevard. "You're not fired!"

"What?" Christine said.

"You're certainly on thin ice - I wouldn't hold out much hope of seeing a big part in the next production - but anyway… You're not fired." Meg smiled.

"How did you know that Firmin-"

"-Well, when I saw you running out of his office in tears, I surmised," Meg said wryly.

"You surmised correctly... but what makes you think he's decided not to revoke my contract - after a scene like that? You didn't hear the things I said to him."

"As a matter of fact, I did hear them, and I applaud you," Meg said.

"Ooh, I hope you told him how revolting his toupee is," Mère Giry said, and Christine smiled.

"Still, I'm not mistaken," Meg assured Christine. "My information is entirely reliable. You're safe for now, ducky."

"And the Vicomte… I don't have to… ?" Christine froze, uncomfortable with bringing up the subject in male company.

"…Don't worry; Charles has heard the whole story," Meg said.

"I think it despicable," the Baron contributed.

"Thank you," Christine said awkwardly. She turned back to Meg. "Then I don't have to give the Vicomte… what he wants… to keep my place?"

"It would appear not," Meg said.

"But how do you know?" Christine said. "What made Firmin change his m-"

Nothing was going to make Meg reveal that Firmin had fired her because of Christine. She would take that secret to her grave. "-I know everything that goes on in the Opéra," she said. "You know that."

"Yes," Christine accepted this, though she had been hoping for a more informative reply.

"There." Meg smiled. "See that you're at rehearsal tomorrow morning. Don't give that rat Firmin any more excuses to be horrid to you."

"Very well… But I don't understand what happened-"

"-And we have some news, too, don't we?" Meg cut her off. She smiled at the Baron and put a hand over his. "We had better tell her, don't you think?"

"I think she'll have guessed by now," the Baron said in his pleasant, booming voice.

Suddenly Christine's exhausted, distracted mind understood.

"Shall you tell her," Meg said to the Baron, "or shall I?"

The Baron smiled at her.

Meg took off her glove and held out her hand, and there was a good deal of happy shouting and crying. Christine embraced Meg so hard she practically fell out of her seat.

Meg declared she would not have anyone else but Christine for maid of honor, no matter what happened, and the Baron, who fancied himself a music connoisseur, extracted a promise from Christine to sing at the reception.

Thus, in an instant, Christine found herself engaged for two exceptionally demanding duties.

But she found she did not mind. It would help keep her mind off recent events.

The conversation dissolved into happy chatter.

"Where have you been, ducky?" Meg asked suddenly. "I've been dying to tell you. Where did you go after you left this afternoon?"

There was a pause.

"Why - to blow up the Opéra, of course," Christine said.

Everyone laughed.

A few minutes later the Baron dropped Mère and Christine at Mère's appartement.

"Dear," Meg said, "could you have Renard drive round the block so I can go upstairs with Christine for a moment?"

"Certainly," the Baron replied. "Why?"

"Well, isn't it obvious?" Meg said. "She and I need to exchange dresses."

"What?" Christine looked in alarm at Meg's brilliantly hued ensemble. It was stylish, to be sure, and it looked stunning on her, of course – the amount the Baron spent on her clothes was astronomical – but Christine was sure she herself had neither the personality nor the complexion to carry off something so bright. "Why?"

"If you show up to the Opéra in the same clothes you were wearing yesterday…" Meg trailed off.

"Oh." Christine sighed.

"Especially with your reputation already in the state it's in," Meg said.

"Yes. I see," Christine said. "But I can't wear that color. I could just wear something of Mère's…"

"Of course you can't wear apple green," Meg said. "But Mère's three inches shorter than you. Your skirts would drag - it would look odd."

"I could wear boots with a higher heel."

"No, your feet would ache. Besides, if you were wearing an old-lady gown that hasn't been in fashion in five years-"

"-I beg your pardon, Marguerite Giry!-"

"-My point is, people would notice," Meg said. "Trust me on this, kitten."

Christine knew when she had been overruled.

Paris, Chausée D'Antin district

"Stockholm?" Philippe cried.

He and Raoul were sitting to lunch in a private dining-room at their club on rue Scribe.

It was only a stone's throw from the Opéra. Indeed, part of the reason for the location was so that Paris' elite gentlemen could have easy access to their ballet-girl maîtresses.

Perhaps we ought to reconsider the idea, Philippe thought woefully. His maîtresse, Cecile Sorelli, was a dancer in the corps de ballet, and admittedly it was convenient to be able to amble down the boulevard to call on her in her dressing-room whenever he pleased. But it wasn't worth the trouble Raoul's entanglement with that damned Daae girl was causing.

"You needn't say it in that tone," Raoul said. "It is a civilized place."

"But what in God's name did you go all the way to Sweden for?" Philippe cried. "I can't have you running all over the Eastern hemisphere without my knowing it. And what in God's name possessed you to take my revolver?-"

"-I trailed the Ghost there," Raoul said.

"What?" Philippe cried.

Raoul told him the story.

Philippe stared at him, so astonished his soup spoon hung motionless halfway between the bowl and his mouth. Raoul had always had an active imagination, it was true, but he would never fabricate something of this magnitude. "You were lucky you were not hurt!" he managed at last in a shaking voice, setting down his spoon. His appetite was gone. In a rare gesture of affection, he reached across the table and took Raoul's hand for a moment. "Why didn't you have the police there with you?"

"I tried to tell them, but they would not listen to me," Raoul said. "Are you going to be the same? Or do you understand now that we really are dealing with a dangerous madman?"

"I do," Philippe said sincerely.

"You're not going to keep trying to tell me the man in her dressing-room was Christine's lover, then?"

Philippe thought. "You are sure it was the same man?"

"Unmistakably."

"I see." Philippe pondered. "It seems unlikely they would be lovers," he admitted.

Raoul scoffed. "Thank you for acknowledging that at last."

"Her morals may be rather spacious, but I do not think she is as wicked as-"

"-They are nothing of the kind, and I will thank you not to-"

"-Why was he in Stockholm?" Philippe interrupted.

"What?" Raoul said.

"Why was that man in Stockholm?" Philippe asked.

"He was hoping to meet Christine."

"What?"

"He sent her a note asking her to meet him there," Raoul said.

Philippe's mind whirled. If Christine had showed Raoul the note, he thought, did that mean the two of them were in confidence? Had Christine changed her mind about Raoul? "Why did he think Christine would go?" Philippe asked.

"Because he is out of his mind!" Raoul scowled. "Although… I think a part of him knew she would not want to go, and that I would come on her behalf." He furrowed his brow in thought. "He wanted to challenge me."

"Why was he threatening to blow things up?" Philippe asked. "I take it he had some sort of terms?"

"Yes," Raoul said.

"What did he want from you, precisely?"

"Nothing- well, he only wanted me to let him go, and not to shoot him," Raoul said. "And he wanted back the note he sent Christine. And… he tried to work out… whether Christine and I had an understanding. I did not tell him."

"I see," Philippe said. "Why didn't you have the police there?"

"The Stockholm police?" Raoul flushed. "I tried to tell them about the situation, and that he would be there. They did not believe me."

"I see." Philippe scowled. "One cannot trust these Northern races."

"That is not true!" Raoul said. "Christine is perfectly-"

"-Those lands may appear civilized but there is all kinds of lawlessness there. Their ancestors worshipped frogs, you know, not so very long ago. Now they are all Protestants, which is not much better." Philippe paused. He'd realized he was growing irritated, and he hated emotion. "What did you do next?" he asked once he had collected himself.

"I made a report, and they are looking, though they have not found any record of a man buying that quantity of explosives in recent months." Raoul rolled his eyes.

"He might have been bluffing, I suppose," Philippe said.

"Yes, that did occur to me," Raoul said irritably, "but since we have no way of knowing, we must regard him as dangerous."

"Yes, you are right," Philippe admitted.

Suddenly Raoul flushed. "Please… don't tell Christine about this."

"She does not know already?" Philippe said, eyeing him.

"No."

"Well, surely she ought to know?"

"I would prefer she did not," Raoul said.

Something in Raoul's expression made Philippe suspicious. "Why not?" he demanded.

"Must I tell you?" Raoul said.

"Raoul." It was the same firm voice Philippe had been using all his life. Scowling, Raoul told him about taking the letter.

Philippe sighed. "You must not do that anymore. If she were your maîtresse and you had reason to suspect she was being unfaithful, that would be perfectly reasonable – and certainly if she were your wife, you would be entitled to read all her correspondence; in fact, you would have a duty to, if you feared she had fallen under bad influences, but she is not any of those things to you – "

"-But don't you see?" Raoul said. "That is exactly what I fear – that a dangerous man has somehow gained control over her. Don't you think I was right to be concerned?"

"I agree this is troubling," Philippe said. "But I also know that you have no further obligation to the girl, now that she has rejected you-"

"-But she was coerced into doing so, and she is the woman I love-"

"-Regardless of whether she was coerced or not, you are still free," Philippe said. "You have a chance to get away from this madness and you must take it."

"What?" Raoul said.

"This is too dangerous," Philippe said. "Speak to the police here again, and then be done with the whole matter – don't go near her again."

"Philippe!" Raoul cried.

"If she has any sense, she will move far away – and neither of you will have anything more to do with the other."

"Philippe!" Raoul cried, distraught. "Don't you remember what it is to be in love?

Philippe sighed.

He did not believe for a moment that Christine loved Raoul. But nor was he sure she would keep rejecting him forever. She had, after all, refused his bribe in the end. And there were rumors that she was about to lose her place at the Opéra. The possibility of becoming the next Vicomtesse de Chagny would doubtless be more appealing once she realized she was never going to be a great diva.

Perhaps I should offer more money, he thought.

But first he would see if there was an easier way of resolving this. He had another piece of ammunition. It was time to use it. He had asked a few of his friends, discreetly, if they knew anything about Christine that might be useful. The Baron de Castelot-Barbezac's brother had passed on a most illuminating piece of information.

"You know that Meg Giry girl has been living with Charles de Castelot-Barbezac?" he asked casually.

"Yes," Raoul said, puzzled by the change of subject. "What of it? Just because Christine's step-sister would live with a man without their being married, does not mean Christine herself is not virtuous- besides, they are not even step-sisters, really-"

"-I have not finished," Philippe said. "Charles and Meg came to the New Years' ball together and they brought Christine-"

"-What is the harm in that?" Raoul protested.

"-Nothing, of course. But they left without her," Philippe informed him.

"What are you insinuating?" Raoul said. "Madame Giry no doubt escorted her home, then. You are looking for-"

"-No," Philippe said. "Madame Giry went home by herself."

Raoul's face darkened. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure," Philippe said. "I saw her get into a hansom."

"And Christine would not have stayed at the party by herself," Raoul said.

"I think not," Philippe said. "After midnight the Opéra ball becomes a most disreputable affair. A lady would not feel safe there by herself late at night. Especially after that commotion with the supposed 'ghost'."

"Then… you think Christine went home with some… man?" Raoul cried.

At last, Philippe thought. It took him long enough to understand! "It would appear so."

"No… no… it can't be!" Raoul cried, distraught. "She… perhaps she stayed the night in her dressing-room. By herself. Quite innocently. She does that sometimes, when she is going over her music."

"It wasn't her dressing-room yet," Philippe said. "Cecile told me. It was still La Carlotta's dressing-room then."

Raoul was silenced.

"I am sorry," Philippe said, ready to be magnanimous in victory. "I know you believed her to be virtuous. I am sure this must come as a shock-"

Suddenly Raoul looked up."-I shall get to the bottom of this if it is the last thing I do!"

"What do you mean, get to the bottom of it?" This was not what Philippe had been hoping for. Surely finding this out about Christine would drive any thoughts of marriage from his head.

"I shall found out who he was!" Raoul cried. "That villain!"

"-How can you possibly do that? Everyone was wearing masks," Philippe said dryly. "I wouldn't have recognized my oldest friend."

"-I can work it out," Raoul said. "Tell me, what was she wearing at the ball? I can begin there."

"I don't know. I did not see her." The lie was out of Philippe's mouth before he could stop it. He hoped it would not come back to bite him, that no-one would let slip to Raoul that they had danced together.

Suddenly his brow furrowed in thought. That strange man at the ball who had interrupted their dance, who had snatched Christine away from him in the middle of the floor, in front of everyone (the effrontery!)… perhaps that was the man Christine had come with…

But no, why would she deny it?

But then… Raoul had said the man in Christine's dressing-room had dark hair and green eyes, and a memorable voice, very deep… That man at the ball had dark hair and a deep voice too… Philippe tried to remember what color the man's eyes were… he could not recall… it was not the sort of thing one paid much attention to. How irritating.

But that was all nonsense anyway, he exhorted himself. He was chasing a wild hare. Raoul's paranoia was starting to rub off on him. The lad needed a vacation.

"Philippe, I asked you to dance with her for me!" Raoul said impatiently.

Philippe shrugged, annoyed, jolted out of his thoughts. "I did not see her," he repeated.

"Well, then I shall ask Charles, or Meg Giry," Raoul said. "They will be able to tell me how her costume looked, and-"

"-And what will you do with that information?" Philippe asked.

"I will find out who the photographer was at the ball, and he can give me copies of the proofs; someone will have recognized them- there will be a picture with them in it together, I am sure, and then I can work out-"

"-How do you propose to make him give you the proofs?" Philippe said.

Raoul shrugged, as though it were obvious. "He will not say no to me."

Philippe lost his temper. "He will not say no to a Chagny, that is what you mean! How dare you purport to use the family name to further your scheme? Have you entirely taken leave of your senses?"

"It is necessary- I need to find out- this is all connected somehow, I know it!" Raoul cried. "Far too many strange things have been going on for it to be a-"

"No, that is not what has happened!" Philippe cried. "What has happened is that you have lost your head!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Understand this once and for all!" Philippe cried. "I shall never allow you to throw the family's reputation away for some scheming little chorus-girl tart!"

The irony was too much. Raoul leapt up, slamming a hand down on the table so hard Philippe jumped and the silverware rattled. Then, seething, the young man snatched up his hat and stormed out of the room without another word.

Thank you so much for reading!

Just a couple quick notes.

First, I made a mistake while writing this. There is supposed to be a period of well over a week between when Raoul reports to the police about the "attack" in Christine's dressing room and when they actually start making the tunnel (Firmin put up a fuss about it, and so did the government because they didn't want people damaging the Emperor's favorite fancy building, yada yada yada). The way I wrote that scene made it seem like that happened the next day. But for the rest of the story to fit together, there would actually have to be a gap. So that's what we're going to go with.

I apologize for any confusion!

Second - to the best of my knowledge, the Swedes never worshipped frogs. I based that reference on a traditional Swedish dance called the midsummer frog dance... which actually came from France originally. ^^ But I could see Philippe leaping to that assumption.