Disclaimer: As usual, I must deny owning any rights to these characters...
Chapter 20: As The Devil Turns...
Raoul slowly stirred, and sat up with some difficulty, half expecting to see some ominous-looking smoke swirling around him. When he had completely discovered that there was none, he got to his feet, heart pounding.
The Phantom and Christine had inexplicably disappeared, he knew not where.
Raoul de Chagny frowned, striving to control the sudden sense of dread that was threatening to overtake him. Something sinister was afoot, he had no doubt of that. Just as surely, he doubted not that Erik was somehow involved. Was he a magician after all? Yes, Raoul mused, as he thoughtfully began to walk back toward the inn, on legs that were somewhat unsteady. Yes, Erik was a magician, and perhaps of the darkest sort...and yet...
Surely the Voice had not been a magician's trick! Raoul shook his head, awed in spite of himself. He had known, of course, that Erik was an accomplished ventriloquist, but never had the young aristocrat heard such a commanding voice, such ringing tones. More awe-inspiring yet was the content of that command, which had quoted one of God's commandments prohibiting the taking of life...
Suddenly, Raoul shuddered. A chill crept over him as he felt an unseen presence behind him. He whirled, heart pounding even harder.
"Well, my boy, that was rather quick of you!"
This voice was drippingly friendly, and yet, Raoul could not suppress another shudder. A stranger stood before him, impeccably dressed in an expensively-tailored suit. A satin cravat with a glittering diamond adorned his shirt collar. The ensemble was complete with a very dapper top hat, and a flowing cape. All his garments were of the deepest, darkest black.
"I...beg your pardon, Monsieur?" Raoul felt rather discomfited. The young Vicomte was not known to lose his composure so readily, even if he were startled by a stranger. And this strange man, whose visage radiated friendliness along with a very fashionable goatee, had truly startled him.
"Have I startled you, my young sir?" The man asked with obvious amusement at his own redundancy. Then he raked the young man from head to foot, the friendly expression still on his face. A shrewd expression, however, soon replaced it.
Raoul could not help feeling that he was being inspected for a specific purpose. This man meant to press him to his service. He did not know how he knew this, only that he was completely certain of it.
The feeling grew as the minutes passed, and yet the young man could not pull himself away, even as he began to grow rather uncomfortable under the stranger's very peculiar scrutiny.
"Well, he shall have to do, I suppose..." The man suddenly sighed, and his words were swifly borne away on the wind.
Raoul blinked. "Did you...say something, Monsieur?" He found, to his dismay, that he was stammering. He could not understand what could possibly be affecting him so. He, Raoul de Chagny, was no coward.
The man in the top hat carelessly waved his hand, smiling broadly. "Why, Monsieur, I said nothing, nothing at all! And let me assure you, my dear young de Chagny, you are indeed no coward! You need have no fear of that, no indeed!"
Here the man began to chuckle heartily, while Raoul shook his head, bewildered. What had he been saying? He stared at the stranger as if in a daze.
"Did you...did I...say...?"
"Ah,my dear, dear, boy! It matters not! Come! Let us go into the inn and share a glass of wine, perhaps a card game or two, eh?"
He suddenly threw a comradely arm around the young man's shoulders, and Raoul shuddered again at the contact, but found himself unable to throw off the arm. Instead, he found himself nodding his head in agreement, as the stranger steered him back to the inn...
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"Erik, what is the matter?" Christine stared at her betrothed as he stood, his face contorted in pain, at the entrance to the church. He had not stepped over the threshold, but had stopped just before it. Sweat had broken out on his brow.
"Is something wrong, my dear?" Father Devereaux turned to her. She was standing by the holy water receptacle located just a few feet away from the entrance, inside the church. The pews were a few feet further inside.
Father Devereaux fixed his eyes upon Erik, and his expression hardened. Yet, his eyes remained gentle as they met Erik's.
"Come in, my boy. You have nothing to fear here. It is the house of The Lord."
Erik nodded stiffly, licking his lips, and looking down at the church floor, as if the answer would somehow appear in writing on the flagstones. Then he cautiously took a step inside. He dared to glance at the holy water, and quickly glanced away again.
Christine reached out to him, attempting to take his hand.
"No, Christine..." He looked into her eyes, sending her a silent plea. "Do not touch me, I beg you..."
Christine's eyes grew moist. She knew this look of his. He was immersed in an intense, inner agony. She could not understand why, for they were hundreds of miles away from the Opera House, and surely no one threatened him here...
"Do as he says, Mademoiselle," the priest said quietly, his voice soft and very, very gentle, yet unmistakably commanding.
Christine slowly stepped back, away from Erik, although her very being ached for him. All she wanted to do was run into his arms, comfort him, assure him of her staunch love. It was so difficult for her to simply stand by while he was obviously suffering...
Erik hesitated, then began to walk into the church, slowly, his breathing unsteady. Devereaux watched him, his eyes never leaving the Phantom's figure for a moment.
As he walked further and further into the church, Erik felt the feeling of oppression that had suddenly overcome him at the entrance lift slightly, although not entirely. Sweat still beaded his brow, and his breathing was still labored. He walked rather unsteadily down the aisle. At one point, he stumbled, and would have fallen, but he steadied himself by grasping the edge of a pew.
Christine gasped when he stumbled, and would have rushed forward to help him had it not been for the priest's softly whispered, restraining command. She twisted her hands together instead, and turned her distraught gaze upon Devereaux.
"What is wrong with him, Father?" she whispered, tears in her voice.
"Do you not know, my daughter?" he replied. "You have been with him for some time now, have you not? Do you not know when someone is under the thrall of the Evil One?"
Christine gasped again, and herself grasped the edge of the nearest pew.
"Then you know..." She could not continue, for she could read the priest's all-too-knowing look.
"Indeed," he answered, smiling wryly. "Indeed I do, Mademoiselle. Ah, yes, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Fear not. I am also very much aware of the great love between you two. And the good Lord is nothing if not merciful and patient with His little ones."
"Oh, Father!" Her cheeks took on the bright glow of red apples.
The priest chuckled again at her discomfort, and took her hand, which he lightly and respectfully kissed.
"Come, come, my dear! You are not the first maid to succumb to love's heady temptation! We shall remedy that presently, shall we not?"
"Ye...yes, Father," she mumbled, tears sparkling in her eyes. She was sure she had never met a priest such as this one. Truly he was quite out of the ordinary.
"But now," he continued pleasantly, as he began to steer her along the aisle, in Erik's direction, "we must attend to your betrothed. I do believe he is in some distress, which I will do my very best to remedy."
Christine nodded, dazed.
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Raoul's head was spinning. Beside him, the strange man laughed suddenly, as he threw down a pair of aces.
"Well, my young Monsieur! You appear to be losing again! At this rate, I will surely win your ancestral chateau, will I not?"
Raoul bobbed his head at the man, and had to grasp the edge of the table as the entire room suddenly tilted precariously to the side.
"Well, enough! I tire of this tedious game! I do believe we have some business to discuss..."
About an hour later, a very determined, very sober Raoul de Chagny strode firmly out of the inn, and into a waiting coach that the stranger had mysteriously procured for him.
"Where would you like to go, Monsieur de Chagny?" The driver obsequiously inquired.
The Vicomte did not stop to consider the peculiar fact that the coachman already knew his name. Then he realized that this man must be in the stranger's employ. Shrugging, he calmly stated that he wanted to be conveyed to the village that lay down the road.
Entering the coach, he settled back in his seat, adjusting his coat around himself, thus concealing the magnificent brace of pistols that the mysterious stranger had so generously bestowed on him.
When Raoul questioned him, the stranger had refused to reveal his name.
"It does not matter, my dear boy," he had glibly replied, smiling that too-perfect smile. "I am, after all, quite glad to be of some help in matters of true love! Buy you may henceforth remember me as 'Monsieur Le Mystere'!" He had chuckled most merrily at this, tipped his hat at Raoul, and then turned on his heel, walking briskly away.
A slow smile stole over Raoul's features as the coach rolled away. The stranger was gone from his thoughts as suddenly as the man himself had appeared.
Erik had absolutely no idea of the surprise that awaited him...