Author's note: This chapter is the result of a night of sadness and wine. Love you all. Sorry, Chrissy.
The driver was already seated upon his bench, reigns in hand. The horse, feeling the tension in his hands through the lines, fidgeted uneasily in place. Christine stepped up into the cab, meaning to sit quickly, but paused when she saw a folded slip of paper upon the seat.
"Anything amiss, Mademoiselle?" the driver called from his perch.
"No... Drive on, Monsieur," she said, snatching the paper and sitting in its place.
The cab lurched forward in an uncomfortable way, but Christine wasn't paying attention. Over and over she turned the paper in her hands, wondering at it. It was his handiwork, of course. She recognized it. The night before, it had been one of the untidily scribbled sheets of his music. What it was now, she couldn't quite say. A note, she guessed. But lacking sealing wax, he had folded it into a intricate shape that managed to hold itself closed. Her fingers traced over the folds, crisp and elegant. The tip of one finger pried at the edge... but then released it again. She wanted to rip it open immediately, wanted to gorge herself on whatever tender words there were hidden within, like a child would on a handful of sweets. But she forced herself to stop, and wait.
She laid the note upon the folded cloak in her lap. Was it a love note? A note of reassurance and explanation? Something poetic to ward off her dismay? She smiled, tracing the precise folds again. Was it a new composition, written on the back of an old one, inspired by the previous night? Her smile grew unruly and burst full across her face in a very unladylike way. She turned her face to the window, but saw none of the passing scenery, her eyes turning inward instead to the sightless memories of the night before. How could a single night change the universe so dramatically? The life that had stretched out before her now was nothing like the one she'd known yesterday.
The note in her lap made all the butterflies in her stomach flutter their wings madly, and she savored the feeling. The country rolled past outside the little window. The cab rattled onward, the speed of the horse jostling her, and she didn't care a whit. Let the old world go by, she thought. Let this cab speed me along. On, into this new life. Whatever it's going to be. It's so beautiful. Yes, it was going to be endlessly beautiful...
The sharp sound of the cab driver cursing caught at her attention, drawing her back into the moment. With a clatter of hooves on the cobbles, the cab slowed, forcing Christine to brace herself so she wasn't thrown forward. She could see through the window that they were in the city again, close to the river.
"What is it?" she called to the cabbie through the window. "What's wrong?"
"Beg your pardon, miss," came his reply from the driver's seat. "There's some kind of slow-up ahead. Looks like the police are about their business, and the street is blocked up with lollygaggers... Hey! You there! Get that nag moving! ...I'm sorry, miss, I'll do my best to get through quick as we can. I know time is of the essence."
Christine relaxed back against the worn velvet of the seat, smiling again. Time of the essence. Was it? She certainly did want to rush to his side. But she wouldn't have to if he had just stayed put... It was so early. Here she was, fleeing a church in the misty light of the dawn on the very same day that she was supposed to be rushing towards one...
Her reckless smile faltered at last.
The most sacred day for every good maiden. Her wedding day. That's what today was supposed to have been. That's what she was really fleeing from.
Or, not, Christine thought uneasily, leaning to get a better look out the window. They were heading for the heart of the city. In truth, she was being sped towards the fateful church and not away from it at all. It made her uneasy. She could feel the cold fingers of her shame groping at the edges of her heart, of her mind, trying to find purchase, and she tried to deny them by turning her attention to the street outside. They hadn't made much progress through the traffic. But she had a better view of the commotion now. She could actually see a policeman through the crowd. She wondered idly what had happened. So close to the Seine, it might have been a boating accident? Or someone who had drowned? It saddened her to think that someone else's ultimate misfortune only amounted to a spot of traffic in her own day. Something so awful should make a deeper mark on the world, shouldn't it?
Her eyes were drawn back to the policeman when several of his fellows joined him. The crowd was drawing back, edging away from them, and she looked to see what had caused the stir. Her distracted eyes wandered over the jovial forms of the police, the two newcomers smiling at their comrade, pointing to the thing that held in his hands, and finally she saw what it was – and her heart thundered up into her ears.
Christine burst from the cab.
Distantly, like an echo across some great gulf, she was aware of the cabbie calling out to her in distress. People pressed up against her, blocked her way. And she shoved through them like they weren't people at all, shoved the way she used to shove through the rushes to get to the sandy beach when she was a girl, intent only on her destination. She shoved until she was at the front of the crowd, and the policeman and what he held was right there in front of her.
The loop of the deadly punjab lasso, newly tied and ready to throttle some new victim, hung limp in the policeman's hands.
She strained upwards to try and see beyond them, on pointe, bracing herself on a stranger's shoulder when she was jostled from behind. He had to be there. He must be close by. Perhaps in their custody, trapped, caught – but the panic at the edges of her mind told her no. He had never been caught. He would never be caught. There would only be disaster if he were caught. Where, her mind cried. Where is he?
There – another policeman striding through the crowd, trying to restore order, issuing some unheeded command to disperse – but all Christine saw was the shock of white in his hand. A shirt. A fancy dress shirt. Torn and soaked with river water. Stained. Stained a bright, world-ending red. He brought it so close in his attempt to break up the crowd that she could see the frayed threads where two of the buttons were missing.
Suddenly numb, Christine didn't really feel herself stumble backwards. Her brain didn't quite register the strong hands of the stranger that supported her. The crowed buzzed around her, and dully, as if through some barrier of cotton, words drifted through to her.
"The Opera Ghost!"
"The famous Phantom. What, haven't you heard of him? Uncultured is what you are..."
"Escaped the flames of the Opera House..."
"But only to meet a watery end this time!"
"They shot him? What kind of ghost bleeds."
"The Phantom of the Opera is dead, at last. He's finally paid for his crimes."
"And not a moment too soon! He almost claimed one more victim -"
"That brave man! I would have run as fast as my legs would take me, pistol or no..."
"The only survivor of the dreaded punjab lasso! Hourrah!"
Through the gauze that covered her senses, Christine saw the other policeman clap the first solidly on the back as they congratulated him for his quick reflexes and sure aim. Distantly she saw the pride on his face as everyone gathered around him exclaimed at how lucky he was to be alive. Then she was being pulled back, back through the crowd, people filling in to close the gap in a slow blur. Her rescuer, the cab driver, was speaking to her. But the words just washed over her without making much sense.
"There now, Mademoiselle. This way. Out of that crowd, before you're trampled underfoot. You've had a fright, haven't you! Come on, then. Away from all of that. You'd better sit before you fall. There we are. Careful now..."
Somehow she was back in the cab again, her vision framed by the black interior and the bright little square of the window.
She could feel the brush of paper under her fingers. The rich fabric of the Phantom's cloak. The worn velvet upholstery. The vast expanse of Paris whizzed by outside in a long blur. And then more hands were pulling at her, guiding her out of the cab and into some dim interior. It wasn't until she was seated on her own cushioned stool before her own vanity that she realized she had been returned to her flat. Her flat... from her old life. The life she thought had been left far behind her. The patter of words that had been falling over her like raindrops for the last five minutes finally trickled into her consciousness.
" – out all night, dear, I was worried sick. No note, no word. Honestly, I thought the worst. If you hadn't shown up at the very moment you did, dear, I don't know what. A young thing like you. Lord knows what might have happened..."
Christine blinked at the feel of a brush running through her hair. She focused on the image of her landlady reflected in the mirror behind her. The maternal woman was fussing over her like she was her own daughter.
"It's all right dear. We were all young once, even me, though you wouldn't know it. Thank the Lord you're safe. And whatever adventures you got up to last night are behind us and done. No one needs to know. I won't tell. Every woman has her secrets, whatever pedestal the men want to put us up on. Don't you worry about a thing, dear. This is your day. All the unpleasantness of your old life behind you, your new life ahead. And it's going to be perfect. A Vicomte! He may as well be a prince. After today, you'll be a Vicomtesse. Think about that! And we'll get you looking every inch the Vicomtesse. Lets get you out of these clothes and washed. -Oh! Why haven't you any petticoat, girl? What have you gotten up to... Never-mind. I won't ask. It's none of my business, and what's behind is behind. We've all got secrets... Now. Lets wash."
Christine let herself float on the sea of meaningless words. She let herself be guided through the motions of washing, of dressing, of being made up. Until she found herself seated again at her vanity. Her well-meaning landlady was securing the heavy earrings that would complete her virgin-bride ensemble as Christine's eyes focused on her own reflection in the mirror. A stranger stared back at her, dressed in white.
"Perfect," her landlady murmured happily. "And just in time. The carriage will be here in a moment, I'm sure of it. Here, let me take these things you came in with. I'll get them - ...oh. Well, your petticoat didn't go far, did it. Goodness me. No, best not even to launder it. Dear one, don't you worry. I'll take care of it. What the men don't know can't hurt them, Lord knows. And the stove can burn petticoats as well as it can burn wood. And scoundrel's cloaks and all, too, never you- Oh!"
Her doll-like complacency vanished in a moment as Christine snatched the cloak from her landlady's hands, rescuing it from being burned in the stove.
"No," she gasped, "no."
The curiously folded sheet of music fell from the folds of the cloak and into her lap. For a long moment, she just stared at it, amazed at it being there, astounded that she could have forgotten about it until that moment. Movement in the peripheral of her vision made her snatch the paper up into her hands before her Landlady could take it from her and burn it. She turned her back on the woman, using her own body as a shield to protect the treasured slip of paper, and pried the folds open with frantic tugs of her trembling fingers. There, revealed on the back of the sheet music, were the unmistakable strokes of his pen, jagged and clumsy and unimaginably precious. Her eyes darted over the words.
When Christine tried to stifle her gasp with a trembling hand, the landlady reached out gentle hands to steady her. When she dissolved into broken sobs, the older woman pulled her in against her, catching the torrent of tears in her skirts. She took a cool damp cloth to the girl's face, and soothed her with the calmness of her voice. With the patience of a knowing mother, she reapplied her makeup, and told the carriage man to wait when he came to collect the bride. All women had their secrets. And all women had their heartbreak. And it was none of her business. But she could help as well as she could. The life of a Vicomtesse would make her forget her heartbreak soon enough. When the young soprano was at last tucked tucked safely into the carriage, she stood to watch it go, and waved her goodbyes. But there was one duty left to perform. The poor girl had no mother of her own, so it was up to her. Poor dear.
She gathered up the treacherous petticoat, the scoundrel's cloak, and the note that had caused so many tears, and laid each one in turn on the hungry fire. She waited until each had been consumed, and stirred the embers.
Every woman had her secrets.