After so long, after five weeks, four in England, one recovering, I am back with a fresh chapter and a pretty long one too! End of the first act is at hand, folks!

X X X

Chapter VII

X X X X

The night of the ball was drawing closer and closer and Christine paled each day until Marguerite would swear she would vanish like a phantom when next to the white walls. She kept asking her friend about what was wrong, with no avail, until she discovered Christine in her room, all alone, crying into what seemed to be a black veil. Never had she displayed this much emotion… or such despair. The girl was lapsing into hysteria with each passing moment, rocking back and forth on the chair, gripping the veil, but obviously careful not to tear it or in any way damage it.

"I can't do this, I cannot, I must not, please forgive me, forgive me…" she kept sobbing, muttering, until finally Marguerite couldn't stand the sight of it any longer and approached her, hugging her around her shoulders.

Christine would have clearly been startled, had she not been exhausted from crying. Her face was gaunter than ever, her eyes red, and she seemed to be fighting back despairing wails. Marguerite tried to take the veil away from her, but the blonde's fingers were clutching it tightly. But she didn't fight Marguerite as the brunette carefully took the veil away from her, merely stared at the piece of fabric as if it had harmed her. Raising Christine's chin with her hand, Marguerite sat down on the ground in front of the girl.

"Christine, what's the matter with you?" she asked, unable to hide her concern. "Something is very wrong here. You keep crying when you think I don't see you, you barely talk to me anymore and you eat as if your meal was for five others. I want to help you, please tell me what is wrong."

More tears fell from Christine's large eyes and she squeezed them shut, shaking her head wildly for a moment. "I will go to Hell." she whispered shakily.

"Why do you say such things? Christine…" the chambermaid reached out to take Christine's hand and felt her skin brush over something solid… metal… quickly, Christine attempted to wrench her hand out of sight and reach, but Marguerite was faster. She pulled the small hand towards her and saw, gasping slightly, a golden band on one of the thin fingers. Simple, graceful, golden.

A wedding ring.

Christine covered her face with her free hand as she began sobbing again.

Marguerite overcame the primary shock within a matter of a few seconds. "You… you have promised yourself to a man! But that is no reason to be crying, Christine, that is a wonderful thing!" she smiled, but Christine only sobbed on, "More than wonderful! Who is he, do I know him? Oh, I envy you so, truly… I never had much time for marriage…yet."

"Marguerite," Christine gasped, revealing part of her face, "Marguerite, I have sinned so terribly! I have lied into the face of an angel! I…"

"Slow down, you aren't making sense." Marguerite interrupted. "Who is the man you have promised your hand in marriage to? He is rich, I see it, this is gold you have here." then she covered her mouth with her hand. "Surely not…"

Christine forgot to cry for a moment as she realized what her friend was implying. She shook her head quickly. "No, no, not the Vicomte, no. This man, he is French, but he has only recently returned here. He… at first I believed him to be heaven-sent, Marguerite, his voice… I lived in the dream that he was an angel sent by my father to guide me! And I… I was blind and stupid!"

"Do you mean to tell me you didn't say yes?"

"No…" Christine drifted off for a moment, her eyes glassy, "I said yes… I said yes… and it was a lie, Marguerite, a lie!" she shrieked, "I do not love him! I pity him for the darkness he must live in and wish him well, but I do not love him! I cannot!"

Marguerite tightened her grip on her hand. "But then why have you said yes? And why do you say you cannot love him – whoever he is, I will not press you. He is the one you have been going away to while I had to tell Monsieur le Vicomte that you were in church, yes?"

"I was in church." Christine childishly defended herself. "With him. We always met there. Before I knew… before I saw…" she took a breath, "His face… it is… mutilated… deformed… he wears a mask at all times… but beneath, he isn't a monster, not to me. That was why I said yes. He gives me everything I might ever dream of, material and spiritual, yet I do not, cannot love him! I am wicked; Marguerite, wicked, and I will go to Hell for this! I said yes!"

"No – because you love le Vicomte de Chagny." Marguerite said, unsmiling when Christine cast her a frightened glance. "I see it. I saw it before either of you did. He noticed you only later, but you couldn't help your daydreams. But Christine, you mustn't daydream now. Remember that this ball we're having is to secure him a wife. Even if he does love you in return, he cannot marry you. His brother would never allow it. Be reasonable. There is no future for that. Stories like this can't come true."

"So you say that I should accept the consequences of my actions?" Christine asked bitterly, "I know I must… but I am so afraid." She shivered.

"A promise is a promise, especially in marriage." Marguerite said, "However, you aren't married yet. You can still change your mind. But don't be hasty about it. Marriage out of love is wonderful, but not all of us can afford the luxury. Besides, you hear about marriages for money, land or other gain all the time. And you might come to love your husband eventually."

"Twisted every way," Christine whispered, "Can I betray the man who made my soul soar before I had been exposed to the truth? And do I have a choice in it? After all, everyone gets something out of it. I cannot refuse even if I wanted to… he would never let me go."

A frown crossed Marguerite's face as she listened to those words. "Don't cry anymore, Christine. You cannot sit here as if the world was ending. Come, we will go for a stroll; you will not have to think of this anymore. We will then sort out the cleaned gowns for the ladies here and pretend we can wear them. Come."

Christine stood up, nodding meekly. More thought about this and her heart would burst. And then again, perhaps, seeing that Raoul – the Vicomte, she corrected her thoughts – had picked a suitable bride for himself would stop the pain she felt when she thought of him and allow her to be herself again. Then, she might see a light at the end of the dark tunnel through which she was going now.

X X X

The ball was a lavish spectacle of colors, sounds and masks. A masked ball – the perfect chance for Raoul to find a wife without being concerned about her appearance or name, the ideal way of finally settling down and sealing the future of the family. However, Raoul de Chagny wasn't happy with this arrangement, though he had agreed to do it. He wanted no wife, at least none of those posh, simpering, pampered ladies offered to him by his brother. Philippe meant well, but couldn't understand this. What the young Vicomte craved most was freedom…

And then, Christine Daaé came into the picture.

He had to untangle himself from a less-than-entertaining conversation about the latest fashion in France from a couple of ladies, including Baroness Carlotta Giudicelli, who, according to Philippe's heavy hints, was an ideal match. No doubt the woman was beautiful and rich, but she seemed so shallow. They all did.

Christine Daaé.

Why had she not been born a noblewoman? These days, she vanished on him as soon as she saw him, disappearing in the hallways, but at times, he managed to catch a line or two from some peasant song she was at times singing to herself while working. Recently, even those quiet songs fell silent and it seemed that the house was very much quiet. Truly, Raoul had been spending more time at home – but because of her, not because any of the ladies, which they might have hoped. Christine Daaé, who grew more radiant each day before vanishing in a ray of light.

The beautifully hideous and large ballroom was a mass of gold and red, gowns of each color, masks of any shape you pleased. Most of the visitors were ladies, naturally, but they had their chaperones and relatives with them. But Raoul, whom everyone knew, mask or no, was attempting to spot her among the servants, without avail.

Finally, tired and despairing, he decided to hurry away from the room and get some air. But almost at once, he barely avoided knocking a butler off his feet and promptly crashed into one of the ladies, whose heavy dress gave away underneath her. Immediately, the Vicomte rushed to help her to her feet, apologizing many times.

"No-no harm done, Monsieur." She replied after an awkward moment. Though he couldn't see an inch of her face, due to a thick black veil, her voice was unmistakable.

"Christine…" he whispered, with newfound life in his voice.

She, knowing herself to be recognized, began slipping away through the crowd in panic, almost running into the gardens. Raoul rushed after her, now uncaring whether or not he knocked away any guests. Her black clothes almost made her vanish into the night, but he knew his home well and caught her by the tiny gloved hand in the orchard. She resisted, but only weakly, gave a dry sob, but surrendered as he carefully caught her other hand and turned her to him.

Richly clad she was, like a princess, almost, but like a mourning one. There was a silver diadem upon her curls as he pushed the veils aside, as if this was their wedding day. He face was painted up a bit, but only slightly. The jewels she wore were doubtless worth a fortune. How a simple girl like her had gotten a queen's garb, he had no idea.

"Please, sir, please, don't tell on me." she sobbed, "I know I shouldn't have come, but I thought that no one would notice me. Please, let me go, sir, I must go now, I must…" she stopped, as if realizing something fearfully and looked around with unmistaken horror. "I must leave, sir, I must! Oh, if he were to see…!"

"He?" The Vicomte asked, gripping her hands more tightly to stop her from slipping away. "You are here with a man? He gave you these… clothes, these jewels?"

Christine bit her lip, then gently withdrew a hand from his grasp and raised it. Upon the black glove, the golden ring shone brightly. "This… this is but a present, monsieur, but it forbids me to speak to you or to be with you. I must go!"

But Raoul only stared at the ring, as if a ton of bricks had hit him. She was engaged to be married. Engaged! And, by the looks of it, to a more than wealthy gentleman. To whom? Who had gotten her yes from her? "You… you have a fiancé?" Raoul stuttered, "You are to be married… Christine!"

Shuddering, Christine put a finger to her mouth and pulled him away deeper into the orchard, looking around feverishly as she did so. Only once they were out of sight of the house did she stop. For an engaged woman, she was very nervous.

"Monsieur, I explain this to you because you want to know. I am… engaged. My husband-to-be is… is a good man." It was clear to the Vicomte that this wasn't what she had meant to say. "He is… strict, he disapproves of your attempts to seek my company, however unintentional they might be."

The Vicomte almost laughed. In fact, he did, but dryly. "Unintentional! Christine, my love for you might be unintentional, but my attempts to speak with you most certainly aren't!"

Immediately, she went chalk-white, then her cheeks gained a rosy color. "Do not jest, please, monsieur, I have little time. I…"

But the Vicomte took her face into his hands, forcing her to look at him. "Mademoiselle, I curse myself every day for it. Understand that I have been brought up to believe that classes must remain as they are and that a scandal as a marriage between them is horror unleashed. But you haven't sought any of this, the blame lies with me, with me for cherishing the sound of your voice, the look of your face… all of you. I know I shouldn't say these things, but I must, before you truly marry the man who gave you that ring. I shouldn't marry you, but I can. I care nothing for titles. I can renounce them… and for you, I would. Simply tell me what your eyes are saying, that you love me in return, and by tomorrow, we will be far from Paris, together, away for a new life!"

As he spoke, Christine looked at him with wide eyes, thinking of the possibilities surfacing from this dream. Titles were nothing. He meant everything. "Raoul…" she breathed.

"Yes, speak those words, Christine, please!"

And then it seemed that she saw stars where they shouldn't be and at once she was back on the ground, wriggling out of his grasp. "No! No, you are foolish, monsieur, more so than I! I have promised myself to a man who is good…"

"And yet you don't say you love him!" the Vicomte interjected. At once, Christine fell silent, lowering her head in shame. "Your mouth may lie, mademoiselle, but your eyes do not!" he said triumphantly.

"What does it matter? My mouth spoke words that bound me to him. I do not deserve him, or you. What use is love? What can it help us in a battle against the world when with Erik there is naught but peaceful darkness…" she said softly.

"Erik?" Raoul asked quickly and Christine clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Do not speak his name, monsieur, I beg you! He might be near!" at once, she looked around, but saw nothing. "I beg you, monsieur, forget me and find happiness."

"Happiness? I feel happiness now, mademoiselle, because you fear for me, because your voice trembles!"

"You are blinded by your own hopes." She shook her head. "My hand belongs to another."

"But your lips are unclaimed still!" said the Vicomte softly and, before she could stop him or escape, closed the distance between them, drew her nearer and caught her mouth with his own.

Had any reason remained then, it would have told Christine to pull away. Had she realized, remembered what danger they were both in, she would have remembered her reason. But there was no reason. There was no world, no dark, no light. There was only this moment and it would last a lifetime. No need for fear as long as he was close. Uncharted distances and unnamed fears were far away, only peace and tranquility were near. The heat was more than either could bear, but even the blazes of inferno couldn't have torn them apart. When they did, it was out of the human need for air, and the young Vicomte watched his beloved's reddened face and trembling lips, her still closed eyes fearfully, anxiously opening.

"Your lips do not lie, mademoiselle." he breathed, "One word from you and I will follow you to the ends of the world."

A tear slipped down her cheek. "You truly love me, don't you?"

"With all my heart." A nod.

"Then guard me and guide me, love, Raoul, away from this world of wickedness and cruelty, where none can reach us or darken our days ever again. Dazzle me with talk of distant lands and the flowers that will grow in front of our house and the sun and the beauty. If you love me, I can conquer any danger."

The kiss that followed sealed their fates, entwining them, seemingly forever. But it couldn't silence the reason that should have sparked from the first moment within her mind.

Lies.