Author´s note: Thanks for all the nice reviews! You can be sure I appreciate them. I´m glad you like this story so far and my way of writing it.
Chapter Eight
August 6th 1892: Christine
The first thing I heard when I came round was a woman screaming on top of her lungs. I wanted to cover my ears to escape from this sound that made my blood freeze, but as I reached up I found my mouth standing wide open and realised I was the woman screaming. Yet as much as I tried to stop, it was impossible. All my anger, all my fear, all my worries seemed to have found a new way of coming out: not with the help of tears, but by yelling.
As I paused momentarily to take breath I suddenly noticed something else. It was a tiny hand tugging at my sleeve. Looking down I saw my son staring at me wide-eyed. "Why are you screaming like that, Maman?", he asked in a small voice. "Are you hurt? Or did you have a nightmare?" He had sat up, and I could almost see his heart beating wildly beneath the pale blue nightshirt. I cursed myself for having scared my child.
Brushing over his dishevelled hair I told him: "Yes, I had… a nightmare, one might say. But you don´t have to be worried.". Briefly I wondered how many people I had told not to worry about me over the years: Raoul, Meg, Antoinette Giry, even Jacqueline. Now it was Philippe´s turn. I could only hope I had done a good job in convincing him. At least he didn´t look frightened anymore.
A small warm hand sneaked into mine as he said firmly: "Nightmares can´t harm you, Maman. They´re not real, you know.". His attempt to comfort me was truly touching. I tried to recall how often I had sat at his bed at night, consoling him with the same words. He accepted Marielle most of the time, but when he was afraid there was nothing like his mother. It was a pity that the sheet of paper in my other hand wouldn´t vanish if we pretended it didn´t exist.
We sat like that for a few moments, holding onto each other. Then the door was flung open and a mass of black hair appeared, quickly followed by the rest of Marielle. "What has happened? Is something wrong with Philippe?", she wanted to know, hastily tying up her dressing gown. I could only suspect that her habit of sleeping in ridiculously few clothes had kept her from being here sooner.
"No, everything is all right.", I replied shortly. "But it´s good that you´re here. I´d like to have a word with you anyway." Giving my son a loving smile I said: "Philippe, could you do me a favour? Go to Antoinette and Jacqueline and wake them up. Then you can look what the cook has made for breakfast. I´m sure it´s something delicious on this special day.". "And after breakfast I´ll get my presents?", he asked eagerly. I nodded. "Happy birthday, my dear.", I whispered, pressing my lips to his forehead till he withdrew from me, making a face. He slipped out of bed and left the room at a run, using the door to Marielle´s room.
My gaze followed him, then I focused on the maid. "Did you see anyone walking through your room and into this one last night?", I inquired. Marielle looked slightly puzzled. "No, of course not.", she answered. "Why? Do you think the little boy is wandering around in his sleep? Is this why you stayed here at night?" "I´m the only one with the right to ask questions.", I said sharply, feeling how the composure left me and was replaced by anger. It was none of her business why I was here at night. I was Philippe´s mother, for Heaven´s sake!
I grew even more furious as I took in the first part of her reply. "Then it was you who placed this note here.", I stated, brandishing it in front of her face. I saw her trying to catch a glimpse of what was written on the sheet of paper and snatched it away quickly. "No, no! You weren´t interested in the message when he made you put it on my sleeping body, so you don´t have to read it now.", I called angrily. "Tell me, how long have you kept him informed about what´s going on in this house?"
"I… I have nothing to do with a note.", she defended herself, but the guilty expression on her face showed clearly that she knew very well what I was talking about. "If you continue lying to me, I´ll alert the police at once!", I told her. It was an empty threat. After all, I couldn´t prove her connection to Erik, and it was doubtful whether the police would be interested in the Opera Ghost so many years after the last time they had heard about him.
Yet it seemed sufficient to loosen Marielle´s tongue at last. "All right, all right, I have told him a few things every now and then. But that was all; nothing happened. What was so terrible about doing it?" I couldn´t believe my ears. It had been a long time since I had last heard such insolence. "You´re putting my son´s, my husband´s and probably my own life at risk and ask what was terrible about it?", I yelled.
I felt as if my insides were on fire. My fingers crumpled the note into a ball and threw it to the floor. I barely heard her say: "He never planned to harm anyone, I swear it.". I had had enough. "Get out of here!", I shouted, my voice breaking. "And never come back!" I probably looked quite terrifying in my rage for she went out of the room and into her own without another attempt to justify herself. It was better like that; in my current state I could guarantee for nothing.
Shaking from head to toe I made my way to the other door. My fingers were trembling so badly that I could hardly turn the key. When I stood in the corridor at last I called: "Jacqueline! I need you here at once!". Just a minute later she hurried up the stairs. As soon as I spotted her I said, as calmly as possible under the given circumstances: "I´ve just dismissed Marielle. Make sure she´ll leave the house quickly and don´t let her see the children again! I have to go and meet my friend Meg.". I simply had to talk to someone. I was desperate to find help.
Jacqueline threw me a astonished glance. I could almost see her internal struggle which question to ask first. Finally she decided for: "And what about Philippe´s birthday?". "Well… try to extend the breakfast till I´m back. It won´t take long.", I replied after a moment. Then I called: "Jacques, tell the coachman to prepare the coach. I want to leave at once.". "But Madame…", Jacqueline said in the same soft voice she often used with Antoinette. "… you can´t go out like this. You´re still in your night clothes."
"Oh…", I muttered. "Right. Then I´ll dress first." I turned around and walked to my room. On the way there I passed a mirror hanging on the wall. Looking into it I realised that I indeed more resembled a beggar living in the street than a countess. My hair was dishevelled, and my eyes had an unnatural, almost insane sparkle. "This is what you do to me, Erik.", I mumbled.