Chapter 2: Dread
Raoul was in the study. Christine was having her midday tea in the formal dining room. Even though Raoul was not making any audible sound in his study, Christine could hear the gears ticking and turning in his head. The new Opera House was going to start construction come next summer, but there was still much work to be done. Even so, he was determined to build it as soon as possible. He had been trying for months to get Christine to consider working there as the lead soprano once it was complete. She was adamant in her refusal; it was just one of many things about herself that she wouldn't try to explain to him. He wouldn't understand.
The tang of lemon remained in her mouth as she got up and walked towards the kitchen. She never liked calling for the maid to do such trivial tasks for her. She was still not yet accustomed to Raoul's extravagant lifestyle. They had been married almost a year now, and she had moved into his manor immediately after the honeymoon. The move-in wasn't much of a process; she only had a few keepsakes that Madame Giry had rescued for her from the fire: a doll she had from when she was a child, a portrait of her father, and his Swedish pocket-watch. All of her clothes and other belongings were ash now.
She reached the kitchen. There she saw the cook, humming to herself while prematurely cutting up vegetables for supper. They smiled at one another, then Christine set her teacup and saucer in the large sink. She turned to exit, but saw Raoul standing in the doorway, an odd look on his face .
"Christine, would you join me in the sitting room? The police are here and they want to talk to us," he said carefully, "It's nothing to worry about, darling."
He was lying. She could always tell when he was lying. His attempt to soothe her made her even more stressed. He's back, she thought, what has he done now?
Still, she nodded her head and followed him back into the sitting room. Two policemen were waiting for them. They sat next to each other on an indigo sofa. One was older with a handlebar mustache framing his mouth. The other looked young and sort of aloof, a fact that he tried to conceal beneath a deadpan expression. It didn't help much. He also had a pad of paper in his left hand, and a pen in the right. Upon seeing the couple enter the room, the two public servants stood up.
"Good afternoon, Viscount and Viscountess de Chagny. I'm Inspector Duchamp, and this is Inspector Rousseau," the older policeman motioned to the younger, "We're sorry to bother the both of you, but there's been an incident."
"What sort of incident?" Christine asked.
"Why don't we sit down first, sweetheart," Raoul said, taking her arm and guiding her over to the love seat across from the police.
She hated it when he treated her like a child; she may have been through a lot, but she was nowhere near simple. Now, though, was not the time to get upset over it. She let him lead her there. They sat down in unison, and Raoul put his hand over hers.
The senior lawman shifted his gaze between them both before speaking, "Last night, there was a fire at a freakshow run by some gypsies in a town outside of Bordeaux. It was started intentionally, and the perpetrator sent us a note. It was signed by the same 'O.G.' that was responsible for the Paris Opera House fire."
Christine felt her heart fall into her stomach, "How many were killed?"
"Sixty-three were killed, and nineteen were injured," Duchamp replied softly, "We were wondering if you have any idea―"
"May I see the note?"
Raoul gripped her hand, "Christine, I don't think that'll help anything."
"May I see the note?" She asked again, louder.
"I'm sorry, but we don't have it with us, Madame," he told her.
Inspector Rousseau jutted in, "We have some questions we need you to answer, " he paused, "If you would be so kind."
His elder shot him a look, but he didn't seem to notice.
"Of course," Raoul said, "What do you need to know?"
The boorish cop began, "Well, first―"
"We wanted to know if he's contacted either of you since the fire," Duchamp stated, cutting him off.
"We haven't heard from him. He's been out of our lives ever since that night. I wish we were better able to help you, gentlemen, but if your questions are all concerning whether we've seen him or heard from him, then we won't be able to help," Raoul spoke on behalf of himself and his wife.
"Then, that's all we need to know," the policeman said, "We thank the both of you for your time, Viscount."
Christine was sitting still, her eyes locked on the floor. Raoul glanced at her briefly before replying, "It's no trouble at all, monsieurs. Has this incident helped you in your search for him?"
"Well, it's certainly breathed new life into it. If you hear, or remember something, then please come down the the station. Anything may help," Duchamp stood up, followed by his junior.
"Renée, please show these men out," Raoul called out to the butler.
The two policemen were led out through the double doors in the front of the chateau. The butler's footsteps echoed throughout the otherwise quiet home, retreating back towards the kitchen and servant's quarters. Christine still hadn't looked up, and Raoul hadn't stopped holding her hand.
"It'll be alright, Christine. You're safe here. He's done with us. He won't come back to Paris," Raoul said, his eyes on her blank face, pleading at her to look at him, "What's on your mind?"
"I didn't think he would kill again. He changed. I just don't understand," her voice broke as she said it.
Raoul opted to stay silent, hoping she'd keep talking.
After a prolonged pause she said, "He must've had some sort of reason. He wouldn't kill people for no reason."
Raoul frowned, and took a deep breath before he spoke, "Does having a reason make it okay to kill people?"
Christine abruptly took her hand out from under his, whipped her head to face him and made eye contact, "Of course not," her voice rose, "You know I don't think that. I just..."
"You just what?"
"I just don't understand why he would do this after everything that's happened," tears began forming in her eyes against her will, "Good people don't just kill for no reason!"
Raoul's jaw locked, "Good people? You think he's a good person? After he terrorized everyone at the opera house? He kidnapped and lied to you, and he almost killed me! How can you still be so blind, Christine?" He stood up and started pacing around the room, "There's no excuse that you can possibly make for him. He's not a good person; he's barely even a person, with all the things he's done. Why, in God's name, do you keep on defending him?"
"He is a person," she cried, "and he's done horrible things, I out of anyone would know that! But he has good in him; I've seen it. He wasn't all bad. No one is. He―"
"He manipulated you! And he's done a damn good job of it, apparently, with you as his champion," Raoul scoffed, "He tried to force you into marrying him. He's psychotic. God only knows what else he might have forced you to do."
"How can you say that to me?" Christine looked at him through narrowed eyes, sobbing.
Raoul turned to face her, opening his mouth to speak, but took a moment to collect himself, "I'm sorry, Christine. I shouldn't have said that."
He made his way back to the couch, and got on his knees in front of her. She looked away, but he took her hands in his and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. You know how I feel about it, and when you defend him, it upsets me. But, that's no excuse. The last thing I ever want to do is to hurt you, darling," he brought one of his hands up to touch the side of her face.
"I know that," she said quietly, "And I know that he's done terrible things, but I can't help the way I feel."
It's been almost two years, and he still has this much of a fucking hold over her, Raoul thought, he's still ruining our lives, even now. I should have killed him after he let me go. Christine would've been upset, but she would've forgiven me. She's too kind-hearted. I wish he were dead. I'd give anything to watch him hang. I should've killed him. I could've killed him. Then that piece of shit would be out of our lives forever. Christ, I―
"Raoul?" Christine was looking at him once more, "I'm sorry. I wish I didn't feel the way I do, but I do. There's no excuse for what he's done, I know that. I'm sorry."
"No, Christine, you've got nothing to apologize for," He kissed her forehead, "I just hope that's the last we ever hear of him. You deserve, we deserve, to be able to move on and live our lives."
She nodded, solemnly.
"We have to leave the past behind," he stood and began to walk out, but stopped at the doorway, "I love you, Christine."
She wished she could truthfully return the sentiment.
