Chapter Fifty-Six

Erik walked the Persian to the door after a little more than an hour of tea and conversation. "Goodbye, Daroga. Thank you again for bringing these items back to their rightful owner," he said with a slight smile.

The Persian shrugged. "It was no great effort. You would have done the same for me."

"Would I?" Erik cocked a dark eyebrow at him, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes," the daroga said firmly. "I do believe you would have." He lowered his voice again, checking over Erik's shoulder, mentally noting that Christine appeared to be cleaning up in the kitchen. "If there are problems of any sort, Erik, I am here to help in any way I can."

"Thank you," he said darkly. "I hope that there will not be a need."

The men nodded to each other as the Persian left, and Erik closed the door, locking it behind him. "Well. I believe that I have neglected my beautiful new instrument for quite long enough," he said cheerily, trying to ward off his increasingly black mood.

Christine looked up from the sink. "Oh, would you play me something, mon ange? I miss hearing you play, you know."

Erik smiled and walked to the bedroom to retrieve his violin. He returned, clicking the large buckles open and lifting the instrument reverently from the velvet-lined case. Placing it on his collarbone, he checked the bow and the strings until satisfied, and began to play a tune that he had written years before. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Christine had come to rest on the settee, listening intently. She let her eyelids fall closed, and swayed as the melody transported her to another time and place. She sensed a sadness in the music, along with a recurring lilting melody line that seemed to dance in spite of the sadness. She could almost imagine that it performed pirouettes around and around in her mind. All too soon, the tune ended and her eyes popped open.

"Erik, that was breathtaking. What is it?"

"It is something that I wrote several years ago...not long after you first came to the Opera. It's entitled, 'Christine.'" He smiled at her shocked response.

"A song named after me?" she asked incredulously. "Oh, Erik! But why did you never play this for me before?"

He shrugged. "It never felt like the right time. Now, however, I believe that you are the embodiment of this song."

She stared at him, curious. "What do you mean?"

"You are both a mixture of pain and joy, mon amour. Before, your pain seemed to overshadow so much of you...but now, I sense that your joy has begun to drown out your pain in many ways...like the melody of the song seems to overpower the counter melody. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said, truly moved. She stood from the settee and moved toward him as he set the violin back in its case. "I love it, Erik." She laid a gentle hand on his chest. "And I love you." She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and his strong arm came around her back, supporting her.

Erik gazed at her tenderly as the kiss was broken. "You are my music, Christine. I am so thankful for you, mon amour." He kissed her again, with more emotion, lifting her off of her feet. After a moment, he stopped and pulled back, his burning gaze coming to rest upon her face. "Let me show you how much." Her pulse raced with anticipation as he turned and gracefully carried her down the hall to their bedroom.

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Morning came quickly, and the Durand and Laurent families (sans Amêlie) found themselves at Mass once again. Erik wore his flesh-colored mask and was fully cloaked as he and Christine made their way up to the organ loft. Erik found, to his delight, that he could safely play for the service without arousing much suspicion. Rumor had it that he was a strange monk who had taken up residence in one of the vacant rooms upstairs at the church. No one seemed to think it odd that a young woman accompanied him to the loft every week, and Erik suspected that it was because they had heard her sing in the service before...and naturally, she would be on hand to sing again, if necessary. Christine sat down in the corner and sang along with the congregation while he played. Just before the end of the service, he stood and they both made their way downstairs, Erik leading her quietly behind the curtain into the kitchen alcove.

Christine had a questioning look in her eye, and he smiled. "I haven't spoken to Father Michel since our wedding, mon ange..." he trailed off, as a look of understanding crossed her countenance.

"You've missed him, haven't you?"

"Well...I suppose I have...but mainly, I've just missed being able to practice my old tricks on him," he laughed.

She slapped his arm lightly. "Oh, Erik, I know that's not true...not completely, anyhow." Smiling, she stepped closer to him. "He's been like a father to you, and you know it."

Erik tensed his jaw and tried to look fierce. "Stop it. I don't want to get emotional now."

Christine grinned at him, and his resolve crumbled. "Alright...that's enough," he said, his lips curving at the corners.

The heavy curtain was pushed back suddenly, revealing the beaming face of Father Michel. "Erik?" The old priest studied his new mask for a moment before coming to his senses. He strode into the alcove quickly, catching Erik in an embrace. "I'm so pleased to see you! Thank you for blessing our congregation this morning with music. And Madame Christine, how are you?" he asked, patting her on the arm.

"I'm well, thank you, Father," she replied, throwing her arms up and hugging his chubby neck. "Erik and I have missed you."

Father Michel turned a lovely shade of crimson. "Well, I must say that I have missed you both as well. I heard that you had gone on a trip. How did everything go?"

Erik spoke up. "We went to Perros-Guirec, where Christine spent summers as a child. We enjoyed ourselves very much, but we had to cut our trip short due to the death of my employer."

"Ah, yes, I had heard about that. I'm sorry, Erik. What does this mean for you and your position there?"

Erik felt a small amount of pride, but spoke humbly. "Well, apparently the Lord has seen fit to bless us...I have inherited part ownership of the firm."

Father Michel nearly jumped for joy as he gave a loud clap with his hands. "Praise the Lord! That is wonderful, wonderful news, Erik! For both of you!" He turned to Christine. "Does this mean, Madame, that you will not be returning to work at the seamstress shop?"

Christine's eyes registered surprise. "I...I hadn't thought about it, actually," she stammered, feeling quite foolish that she had not even considered the option. She looked up into Erik's warm, loving gaze. "I suppose that is something we should speak about soon, yes?"

"Yes," he nodded seriously. "I will, however, leave the choice up to you, mon ange. You secured that job on your own, and I will certainly not stop you if you choose to continue."

She reached out to hold his hand, squeezing gently. "Somehow, I knew you'd say that."

Father Michel couldn't help but smile when he witnessed the couple in front of him so happy and clearly in love. "Well," he began, clearing his throat, "do you have plans for your afternoon meal? If not, I have plenty here to share."

"Actually, we do have plans," Erik responded, glancing at Christine.

"Oh." Father Michel couldn't hide his disappointment. "Perhaps another time, then?"

Erik chuckled. "Father, we would like for you to come to our house for a meal. Right now, of course."

Pleasantly surprised, the old priest grinned from ear to ear. "I'll just get my coat."

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"Wonderful meal. Thank you both," Father Michel said, patting his very full stomach. "I believe I enjoyed it a bit too much," he laughed. "So, Erik, you mentioned something about a house that's being built?"

"Ah...yes, our new home should be complete in six to seven weeks. I'm hoping that you will come and visit us often."

"Really?" The old priest raised his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkling. "I thought you'd be quite weary of me by now."

"Not hardly. You are very...entertaining, Father." Erik fought to keep a straight face.

"Entertaining? What is that supposed to mean? I think I should take that as an insult, my boy!" Father Michel shot him an annoyed look.

"Oh, no, Father. If I truly insult you, I'll be the first to let you know."

The old priest stared at him for a moment before he burst out laughing. "You really had me believing you for a moment there. I was fully prepared to give you a scathing lecture on 'respecting your elders,'" he laughed good-naturedly.

Christine was truly amazed at the way the two men interacted with each other. Father Michel's patience and clear, undisguised love for Erik nearly made her weep with joy. He has always deserved to have a father's love. Thank You, Lord.

As they saw him to the front door, Erik handed Father Michel a handwritten message. "What's this?"

"It's something that I need to have delivered to the managers at the Populaire."

Father Michel's eyes went wide. "The Populaire?"

"Don't worry, Father," Erik chuckled. "I had Christine write it in her own hand for me. Can't go risking my neck just when things are starting to go so well, now can I?"

The priest exhaled, relaxing. "Well, that certainly gives me some peace. Is this regarding some business with your firm?"

"Yes. Informing them of the new ownership. Of course, they won't recognize my name...I didn't think to sign it 'O.G.'" The hint of a smile tugged at his lips.

"Very wise of you...very wise," Father Michel nodded, smiling. "Well, I'll have a messenger deliver this, then, if that's alright with you."

"Of course. I appreciate it very much," Erik said sincerely. "And we'll have to invite you for dinner more often. I hate to admit it, but...I miss your incessant, off-key humming at all hours."

Father Michel chuckled, pulling him into a fatherly embrace. "And I miss your regular critiquing of it, my boy. I'll see you soon," he remarked, waving goodbye to them both as he walked to the main house for a carriage ride back to the church.

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Arriving home after church, Raoul was greeted by the sickening sight of his brother's carriage in front of his estate. He sighed deeply and resigned himself to be civil and respectful, though what he really wished to do could not be considered at all gentlemanly.

Philippe stepped out just as Raoul was making his way to the front door of his home. "Raoul," he nodded.

"Philippe. How are you this fine day?"

"I am well. But let us dispense with the pleasantries, shall we? Have you withdrawn from your commitment to the Populaire project as I asked?"

Raoul grimaced. "Is this the only reason for your visit? To come and lecture me again...to treat me as though I were a child? Forgive me for saying so, but you used to visit me because we were brothers...not because you wished to treat me as if I were a 'loyal subject' to His Majesty, le Comte."

"Perhaps I wouldn't treat you thus if you were being objective and sensible," Philippe shot back, smirking derisively. "Your name has been associated with Mademoiselle Daae as an object of much gossip and disgrace, and now you refuse to let the past go and move on. You are dragging our family name through the mud! Have you no sense of pride?" He was fuming, his voice becoming increasingly strained. "Tell me right this moment...what are your reasons for wishing to see the Opera rebuilt at this time?"

Raoul shifted his weight and motioned toward the door. "Would care to step inside?"

Philippe exhaled sharply through his mouth and tromped determinedly past his younger brother into the large, vaulted foyer. He stopped and waited, rather impatiently, as Raoul closed the door behind them. "Well?"

Taking a deep breath, Raoul intended to give the responses that he had long rehearsed for such an occasion. "Philippe, the Opera is a worthy venture that our parents enjoy when they are back in Paris for visits," and "Philippe, don't you know that the performers will have a difficult time finding work elsewhere in Paris?" Instead, he opened and closed his mouth like a fish before squeaking out the words, "I don't know."

"You don't know?" Philippe hissed in reply.

Raoul closed his eyes, thinking. Why am I really doing this? Because I want to hold on to something that was such a large part of Christine? Am I hoping that she will return eventually to the Opera...where I could again hear her voice and see her smile? Is it so that I can remove the stain of the entire debacle from my reputation, replacing it with the remembrance of a good deed done to support the arts?

Philippe tapped his foot harshly on the marble floor. "There is a reason, I'm sure, and you aren't being honest with me." He noticed Raoul's lack of proper posture as well as the look of hopelessness in his blue eyes. He softened a bit and approached him slowly, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "Raoul, I am your brother. I have cared for you and looked after your best interests for so many years now...it is a very hard habit to break, though you are now a grown man. I'm sorry to lash out at you in my anger...I--"

"It's alright, Philippe," Raoul smiled sadly, feeling defeated and spent. "The truth is...if I hadn't pursued him—the...the Phantom--frankly, the Opera would likely still be standing. I should have skirted Christine away in the night, or the wee hours of the morning, rather than attempting to destroy him. It was my pride...my pride refused to simply walk away with the woman I loved. No, I had to destroy my rival as well. Its destruction, is in part, my fault."

"Raoul," Philippe said gently but firmly, "I admire your sense of duty, but I know you, and I believe that there is more to it than that. You may as well tell me now so that there are no more secrets between us."

Raoul sighed wearily and hung his head. "I...I'm still hurting. I still love her. And there is a part of me that wants to hold on to the only part of her that I can."

"Brother, you must let her go. She has chosen her own path. Perhaps it's what is meant to be...for both of you."

"I understand. But what's the harm, after all, in helping the managers to rebuild? You know that they will have a difficult time finding anyone else to help fund this project, with the stigma that still hangs over the ruins." He shook his head sadly. "Let me think on this, please."

Philippe frowned. "Alright. I will give you some time to think it over. But you already know my opinion on this subject. Don't allow your nostalgia to cloud your judgment, Brother. Try to be objective."

"I'll try." Raoul opened the door for Philippe, who strode outside and into his waiting carriage without another word. As he watched his brother's departure, he felt a wave of longing in his heart. How can I be objective when it comes to the woman I love?

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A/N: Hmmm...how indeed! What do you all think? Do you think Raoul will bail or will he tough it out? Tune in next time...I mean, bite your nails until the next chapter is posted! LOL Thanks to those of you who reviewed! It's nice to hear your comments and guesses as to where this story is going. I just hope I can keep you on your toes and that I'm never overly predictable. Love and blessings to all of you!