September 14th 1892: Raoul
I loved my wife. I loved her more than any other person, with the exception of our children. But there were moments when I simply couldn't understand what was going on in her head. Now was one of these moments. We had just left the box when I asked:
"Don't we want to go and see Philippe? You know, just to make sure he's all right…".
It was a suggestion, not more and not less. I behaved much more cautiously than before, for I didn't want to make her angry again. I hated it when we were arguing.
Still I thought it necessary to visit our son, if only for a while. I didn't even insist on him coming back with us anymore. Having done a lot of pondering during the first act of the opera, I had drawn the conclusion that I should allow him to stay with the Phantom till the end of the evening. After all, it would only be one or two more hours, then Philippe would be with his family again.
Yet even though Christine seemed a little impressed when I told her all this, she didn't agree with my suggestion.
"We already know our boy is all right," she said. "We've seen him in Box Five. He looked as if he was having a fantastic time."
"Yes, but… but what if he needs something?" I muttered not very convincingly.
She threw me a sideways glance, raising her eyebrows.
"Erik cared for him for the last days," she reminded me. "I'm sure Philippe gets whatever he might need."
"And what about those things the Phantom has done to the chorus girls and that singer? Shouldn't someone talk to our son and make it clear that it's not right to treat people like that?" I wanted to know.
"Compared to the things he has done ten years ago those jokes were quite harmless," Christine argued. "Moreover, they show that he wants to protect our boy from harm. Or would you rather have him being pushed down stairs and exposed to unsuitable stories? Maybe people will be nicer to him if they know who his guardian is."
I remained silent as I took in her words. My wife did have a point. I was aware that the social position could open many doors or else close them. This process already started in the childhood. Here at the opera, without my protection, Philippe was very vulnerable. Perhaps it was indeed better to ensure everyone would be friendly to him.
Christine seemed to interpret my silence as approval.
"Besides, I recall that you were chuckling as well," she pointed out.
I grinned sheepishly, feeling a little guilty.
"Well…" I muttered. "It was a bit funny, yes. But who can guarantee it'll stay like that? Maybe there'll be corpses next time. Will you go and talk to the Phantom about this topic?"
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
"I'll do it," she replied. "After the performance, when we'll fetch Philippe."
"All right," I agreed, kissing the top of her head softly. I was glad that our conversation had turned out that peacefully.
Together we made our way downstairs. I held her hand in mine cautiously, as if it was something very precious. Every now and then I threw her a brief glance. She was such a wonderful person, and I could count myself lucky that she was with me. Perhaps, if I learned to control my temper better when it came to the unavoidable topic of the Phantom, we'd be able to end all our arguments with compromises. I just had to remain calm.
Yet before long I had to learn that my calm wasn't the problem. The moment we entered the room in which the people who usually sat in the boxes spent the interval I knew we should have stayed upstairs. If someone had missed us and asked later where we had been, we could have made up an excuse. But since I hadn't thought of that before, we were now confronted with dozens of conversations about one subject: the Opera Ghost and his heir.
Fortunately the room was so overcrowded that no one noticed us. Our eyes met, and we both nodded, silently confirming that we'd merely listen, without drawing attention on us. Like this, we could find out what the general atmosphere was like before deciding what we'd say ourselves. Right next to the door stood a few girls, all of them about fifteen or sixteen years old. I recognised some of them as members of families we were friends with. They were chatting merrily.
"When my parents forced me to accompany them to the opera, I thought it would be very dull," one of them was just telling the others. "But it's the most exciting event I've been to in months! It was so funny when the Phantom turned all those dancers' faces blue."
She gave a little giggle, her eyes suspiciously bright. Noticing the empty glass in her hand I assumed it had not been filled with water.
The girl next to her, who seemed a bit older, shook her head disapprovingly.
"It's so like you to find such things funny, Marie," she said. "Personally, I was much too concerned about the boy to let myself be entertained by nonsense like that."
"But nothing bad happened to the boy," a third girl argued. "Our box is right next to Box Five, and I heard him laughing all the time. You're much too quickly worried, Suzanne."
"I only care about my fellow people," Suzanne corrected her. "Has none of you wondered where the child comes from? The Opera Ghost could have abducted him somewhere, and now his parents are searching for him. Or maybe… he has bought him! I've heard that sometimes poor families sell their children… "
I followed the conversation with increasing interest. It was almost a little amusing to hear people's wild theories, knowing that I could have told them the answer anytime.
Yet Marie didn't seem impressed.
"Oh, stop being so negative!" she called. "The worst option isn't always the correct one. The solution can also be simple. Why is your brother your parents' heir?"
"Well, because he's their son… oh!" Comprehension dawned on Suzanne's face as she understood what Marie wanted to say. "Do you really think the Phantom is his father?" she asked. "But that would mean that…"
All girls shuddered.
"How could a woman have done that with him?" the third girl asked. Her voice had dropped to a whisper, so that Christine and I had to lean forwards to keep listening.
"I've heard that there are women who get money for… lying with a man, Claire," Suzanne explained hesitantly, as if merely putting that concept into words took her a lot of effort. "And I guess they sometimes become pregnant if they're unlucky…"
"Well, the Phantom must have paid very much then," Marie pointed out. "I mean… he's not even really… human…" She glanced around quickly, obviously afraid he could stand somewhere, listening.
Quickly my wife and I pretended to be engaged in conversation.
"Let's go away from here," Christine muttered pleadingly. "The way they're talking about Erik is horrible."
Looking down I saw that there were tears in her eyes.
"Of course," I muttered, leading her away.
With all the noise the other people were making we only had to take a few steps till we could no longer hear the girls. I almost regretted it a little. They had been funny to listen to, unlike most others in this room. Besides, I could understand them, at least to a certain extend. The thought of an unfortunate woman having to lie with the Phantom wasn't pleasant for me either.
Before we decided whether to stay in the background or join a discussion, a waiter offered us a tray with different kinds of drinks. Taking two glasses of wine and handing one of them to my wife I remarked:
"The atmosphere is rather positive, isn't it? All in all, everyone seems to approve of the Opera Ghost's doing.".
"That's because nothing serious happened," she said. "As long as the chandelier doesn't fall down from the ceiling, people regard everything as a nice pastime."
I nodded in agreement.
"But what about Philippe?" I then returned to a more important topic. "You heard those girls; they're already wondering where he comes from. Should we tell them he's our son?"
Slowly Christine brought the glass to her lips and took a sip of wine. When she was finished with that activity, she seemed to have done some thinking.
"I'm not sure," she told me. "If we said it, wouldn't it only make the rumours worse? I mean, how would we explain the fact that Erik is allowed to… well, to borrow our boy?"
"People will probably stop gossiping more quickly if they don't know who he is," I muttered. "They won't see him very often anyway, and only from a distance. One day they'll simply accept that he's there. After all, there's not much talk about where the Phantom himself comes from, is there?"
"So we won't tell anyone, at least not now," Christine concluded.
I had no idea whether it was the right decision, but for the moment it was the safest. Judging by the expression on my wife's face she shared my opinion.
We continued wandering through the room, listening to fragments of discussions here and there, yet none was very interesting. After a few minutes we passed an elderly couple, the Baron Gilbert Davon and his wife Lavinia. We had met them on several occasions. Moreover, I could have recognised the Baroness without looking at her. It never ceased to amaze me that a woman with such a booming voice had never considered a career as an opera singer. Eavesdropping on any conversation in which she was involved was about as difficult as it had been to persuade Antoinette to come with us to the opera.
"I've told you once, Gilbert, and I'll tell you again," she said. "There is but one possibility where the Phantom could have got that boy he calls his heir: Christine Daaé."
I felt my wife's body grow tense and squeezed her hand reassuringly. There was no way in which those people could have found out the truth. I listened attentively as the woman went on:
"I'm sure she is the child's mother, and the Ghost is the father. I always suspected there was more between them. All those stories one used to hear about the poor singer being abducted and held prisoner down in his lair… I've never believed them.".
She looked at her husband, apparently seeking approval. Yet it didn't come. Instead, the Baron argued:
"But she hasn't been to the opera for more than ten years, and that boy can't be older than four or five. Besides, she is married to the Comte de Chagny. We saw them at that dinner a few months ago, don't you remember?".
I gave a soundless sigh of relief, and Christine seemed to relax as well. Fortunately that Baron was far more reasonable that his wife.
But the only reaction to his sensible words was an impatient gesture by the Baroness.
"That only proves that you have no imagination, my darling," she told him in a much too sweet voice. "All that is merely a façade. Actually Christine has never stopped meeting her lover, the Opera Ghost. She only married the young Comte to have a respectable life among the best part of society. Poor boy – he surely still think she loved him, while she betrays with that masked madman..."
She continued talking, but I had had enough. Anger welled up inside me, stronger than anything I experienced in quite a while. I felt like banging my fist against the wall… or throwing my glass to the floor… or shouting. Yet unsurprisingly it was Christine who reacted first.
"How dare you talk about us like that?" she yelled, her voice breaking.
Suddenly all eyed were fixed on us. So much for staying in the background…
Author's note: You probably noticed that I've done the paragraphs differently this time. After two reviewers (let alone my two lovely betas) had advised me to do it like that, I decided that it was worth the try. But of course I need your opinions now. Does it make reading easier or maybe more difficult? Just tell me...