A/N: Well, now for another, not totally unexpected confrontation...
Chapter 17: The True Tale Emerges...
The sunshine felt so good on her face, and she turned it up to that golden orb, her eyes closed. She delighted in its warmth, drawing in a deep breath. She had felt she needed the healing daylight upon her skin. As if, she thought, in sudden bitterness, it could cleanse her somehow...
Although the garden would not be in full bloom until spring, there were a few lingering blossoms here and there, and she enjoyed their enveloping scent. She could scarcely believe that Erik had allowed her to come out here, without him, for a short while. She would have wanted him to be with her, of course...would she, really? Was she instead not relieved to be away from his consuming presence for a time?
"Ah, Mademoiselle Daae! I see that you have escaped from your keeper for the moment!"
The voice, all too familiar to her, startled her out of her little reverie. She opened her eyes in alarm, rising from the heavy metal garden bench.
"Raoul! Why are you still here? Have I not been more than clear as to my final choice?" Her heart started beating much too fast.
"Oh, yes, my little Lotte..." He smiled pleasantly, walking slowly over to her.
"You must not call me that, Raoul, please..." She turned from him, gathering her skirts up as if to flee.
He took three quick steps toward her, and grasped her arm, turning her toward him.
"And why should I not call you that, Christine? You have never objected to that name before!"
"Everything...is different now, Raoul..." she whispered, not meeting his eyes. "Please let me go!"
"Christine! No, do not turn your eyes away! Look at me! You have never avoided looking directly at me, in all the time we have known each other!"
Her eyes filled with tears. Seeing them, he felt the cold grip of fear clutch his heart. He slowly released her arm, but stepped even closer to her.
"What is wrong, Christine?" he whispered, with mounting concern.
She shook her head mutely, her tears flowing freely now. She tried to turn from him again, but he would not allow it, taking her in his arms. He was alarmed by her behavior, and knew quite well who was the probable cause.
Christine felt helpless to do anything but weep into his chest, wetting his shirt, cravat, and elegant jacket. She had been holding in her sadness for far too many days...She wept and wept, while Raoul held her tenderly, caressing her hair, murmuring endearments to her. At last, she began to calm down, and gradually, her sobbing ceased. She still clung to him, however, and he relished the contact. She remained in his embrace for a few moments, but then, increasingly aware of the impropriety of her behavior, she placed her hands on his chest, and pushed herself away from him. He let her go, reluctantly.
"Can you tell me what is wrong, at least?" he prompted, very softly.
She had ducked her head once more, refusing to meet his eyes. "I...cannot...tell you, Raoul...Thank you, but it is really not...your..."
"Christine! You cannot expect me to remain indifferent when I see you so greatly distressed! Out with it! It is Erik, is it not? What has he done to you? Why do you insist on staying with a man who causes you such pain?"
She finally turned her tear-swollen eyes to him. "No...Raoul...it is not he..." She suddenly hiccuped.
"Then what could it possibly be?" he demanded. "What else is there, here, so far away from Paris? You know no one in this town!"
"I...could not possibly tell you...Raoul..."
"You must, Christine! Remember, little Lotte, remember, how we spoke on the rooftop of the Opera House, planning our escape! Remember your fear of Erik! You swore to love me forever!"
"Stop! Please stop, Raoul..." She started to walk away from him. He stayed by her side, refusing to allow her from his sight.
"You must tell me what is causing you to feel like this..." he had softened his voice now. "I cannot tolerate seeing you in such a state."
Her eyes filled with tears again, and she began wringing her hands. Suddenly, she looked over at him, then down again.
"There are...nightmares..." she whispered, distraught. Her voice rose a little as she continued. "They are the most horrible dreams..."
"Everyone has nightmares at one time or another. Once you awake, you realize it was only a dream."
She looked directly at him. "And is it normal to have them nearly every night, as well as to know that they are not merely visions spun by a sleeping mind?"
"Christine, you don't mean to tell me that you believe in these dreams!"
"But they are so real, Raoul! I think they are my other life now, my life while my body sleeps!" she cried out passionately. "Perhaps...I am losing my mind..." Her eyes took on a faraway look as she said this.
Raoul grasped her shoulders and shook her hard. "No, Christine, you mustn't think that! Tell me, for the love of God, why you say such a thing!"
She stared at him in horror, as if she had just recognized him. Her eyes widened in fear. "No! I absolutely cannot tell you! I will not tell you! You...oh, why can you not simply leave me alone?"
She wrenched herself from his arms, gathered up her skirts again, and abruptly ran away from him, into the inn. He made no attempt to stop her, but merely stared after her, bewildered. He had never seen her so agitated before, except...yes, except on the rooftop of the Opera House...He was sure that Erik was the cause of this. He should have torn her from his side by force! Yet, how could he, when she had been so firm in turning the Vicomte away? He would never understand the hold that damnable monster had on her. She was clearly afraid of him. Perhaps not all the time, but enough of it for the relationship to be worrisome.
He sighed, turning to walk through the garden himself, lost in thought. He had already sent a messenger back to Paris. The message had advised stealth and diligent care, for the Phantom was, of course, well capable of spiriting her away under the Vicomte's very nose...
"Monsieur!"
He turned around at the unexpected, rather loud whisper. At first, he knew not whence it came, but then, he perceived some movement behind a nearby shrub.
"Who's there?" he called out, not in fear, however, for the voice was that of a female. Still, he then cautioned himself, females could be deadly at times...
"You do not know me, Monsieur, but I know very well who you are..." the voice went on.
"Very well, then, show yourself! What is it you want, beyond obviously spying on things that are of no concern to you?"
"Oh, but they very well could be, Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny! They very well could be..."
A young woman now stepped forth, and he recognized her as one of the maids he had seen in the inn, bustling about.
"I am Antoinette Gaspard, at your service, Monsieur. I have...been told that you would pay most handsomely for any information pertaining to the young lady who has just left the garden." Having said this, she curtsied very prettily.
"Ahh..." He smiled grandly at her. "A willing accomplice at last! And have you something of interest to tell me, then?"
"Why, yes, Monsieur!" And here she curtsied again.
"Well, well!" His smile grew ever broader. "Let's have it, shall we?"
She shyly lowered her eyes, simpering at him, as she folded her hands behind her back.
"I would prefer for payment to be tendered first, Monsieur..."
"Why, you little minx!" He laughed, reaching into his pocket, and bringing forth a fifty-franc note. "Very well...will this do?"
Her eyes took on a greedy shine. "Most certainly, Monsieur!" Stepping nearer to him, she swiftly reached forward, snatching the money from his hand before he could stop her, and, giggling, moved out of his reach.
"Well, so what is this information you have to impart to me?" he demanded, impatiently.
She sighed as she folded the note into her ample bodice.
"Ah, Monsieur, it is about the young Mademoiselle..."
"Yes, yes, what is it?" He wanted to throttle her!
"Well, M'sieur...she is no longer a maiden, if you take my meaning, sir..."
"She is...what! What do you mean?" He took a threatening step toward her, but she scuttled away, and he knew that she might bolt at any moment.
"Surely you know my meaning, sir...She has...well, been on intimate terms with the strange gentleman she has been caring for..."
"He is no gentleman!" Raoul roared, startling the young maid, who now indeed fled, totally terrified. She would never have imagined that such a refined, genteel, young aristocrat would bellow in such a manner. He was no better than that oaf, Pierre, who constantly accosted her whenever she needed to pass by the stables...
Raoul fell to his knees, impaled by grief and rage. His Christine, his pure little flower, now sullied forever by that madman! He grasped dirt from the garden floor, burying his face in it.
Antoinette, now safely beyond his reach, watched, astonished, from an upstairs window, as the Vicomte continued to tear at the dirt with his hands, his face still on the ground. Marguerite stood beside her, open-mouthed.
"There, did I not tell you? He still loves her! And she being bedded by that man! Uf, he frightens me! Have you seen him, Margot?"
"Only for the merest instant, when I took the tray up to their suite once. He had his face turned to the wall, and she immediately took the tray from me. She would not allow me to enter the room."
"This is the stuff of the best gossip, Margot!" Antoinette exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with glee.
Marguerite glanced at her friend with a smug grin. "I, my dear Antoinette, am above such trivial matters!" Turning her nose up in the air, she began to turn away, but suddenly began to giggle.
Antoinette joined her, and now brought out the fifty-franc note. Marguerite's mouth opened again, and she backed away. She shook her head at her friend.
"For shame, Antoinette! How could you accept money from him, and for such a thing!"
Antoinette shrugged, putting the note away. "And why not, pray tell? He has plenty of it to throw around, and I intend to get more of it, so there!"
The two then walked away from the window, Marguerite shaking her head, while down below, in the garden, a young, handsome aristocrat now arose, his mind bent on one purpose. His face and hands were smudged with dirt, and his trousers and shirt also had dirt stains on them. Uncaring, he strode away with great determination.