September 16th 1892: Raoul
In the moments before I opened my mouth to reply thousands of thoughts flooded my head, till I felt as if it were about to explode. Arguments bumped into each other like people on an overcrowded market place. Pieces of them flew by, staying hardly long enough for me to hear them.
This is madness. You can't invite him into your house. – He'll protect your family. – You can't trust him. – Christine trusts him. She'll keep him under control. – Unless he'll seduce her… - He respects her wishes. – He doesn't respect anything. – But he's so lonely…
I inhaled sharply. Where had that thought just come from? Since when did I care about the Phantom being lonely? If I started pitying him, it was a clear sign that I was going insane. But then I understood the reason why my mind had singled out that thought. It wasn't pity I was feeling, it was wariness. He was indeed lonely, and that could become very dangerous. What if he liked my family and the pleasant life that went with it so much that he'd refuse to leave again, even after my return? What if he'd steal my wife and children?
The fear that seized me now was bigger than anything I had felt before, the annoyance that once again he knew more about my wife and whom she met than I did, the anger about the way he talked about interfering with other people's lives… yes, even the anxiety that he could make love to Christine hadn't been this strong, this all-consuming. I couldn't think of anything else. It filled my head.
Vaguely I recalled that I had had this feeling before, only yesterday, when I had seen the Phantom in my kitchen, drinking tea like a normal guest. He had looked as if he belonged there, as if he had visited us many times and was always welcome. And later, when Christine and I had sat down as well, that impression had grown stronger. Who'd have thought that this man, who didn't exactly have a reputation for fitting in, would get along with everyone that well?
And that was precisely what I was afraid of: What if I'd come back from Norway, only to find the family sitting at the table with no vacant seat for me? Maybe they wouldn't even miss me… No, I couldn't let that happen! It was true that I needed him, but there had to be something I could do to stop him from taking over my life. There was indeed something.
"All right, I agree," I told him. "But I've got a condition myself."
At once the slightly pleading expression on his face vanished. He looked as cold as marble as he gave back:
"I thought you'd have understood by now that you're in no position to bargain. Yes, I know what you want to have changed, but I will sleep in your bed, unless Christine tells me not to.".
"I wasn't about to start with that again," I muttered, earning a surprised glance. "All I want is a contract saying you'll leave my house again once I'll be back."
He shook his head, probably in disbelief.
"Of course I'll leave then," he stated.
"That's what you're saying now…" I murmured, half to myself. "Can we make the contract then?" I asked in a louder voice.
"If you have that little trust in me, we can do it," he agreed with a smirk. He seemed to be aware of the fact that I didn't trust him. Yet if it bothered him, he didn't show it. Maybe he was used to it.
It was only when I wanted to pull my pen out of the pocket of my jacket that I noticed I didn't have it with me, just like I didn't have a single sheet of paper. My cheeks flushed slightly as I wanted to know:
"Can we go somewhere else? I seem to have forgotten my writing equipment…".
Instead of giving a reply he turned around and left the box. At the door he stopped briefly and faced me again, nodding. I followed him, guessing that this was what he had wanted to tell me in his uniquely friendly way.
To my surprise he came to a halt in front of a door I recognised even after ten years.
"Didn't the managers use to have their office here?" I asked.
"Oh, they still do," he replied casually. "That's why we're likely to find paper and pens there. In other rooms it would be more difficult." He inserted a small object into the lock, and within moments the door was open.
He entered the room, and I went with him. I didn't like the idea of being here without the managers knowing about it, but if I wanted my contract, I had to play by the Phantom's rules. I even suspected he had only chosen this room because it would make me feel uncomfortable. That would be just like him.
Once we were inside, I couldn't help looking around curiously. The room hadn't changed very much since then days when we had discussed how to get rid of the Opera Ghost in here. There were a couple of new pictures at the walls, and one or two pieces of furniture had been replaced by others.
"Do you insist on writing the contract yourself, or can I do it?" the Phantom's voice brought me back to the present. He had sat down at the imposing desk, and a sheet of paper was lying in front of him. He even already had a pen in his left hand. It was clear that he wasn't sitting here for the first time.
I thought about it for a moment, then said:
"You can do it. But I want to have enough time for reading it later, and anything I want changed will be changed. I also want my own copy, so that you can't add things later.". The reason why I allowed him to write it was simple: Like this, he couldn't accuse me of having forged the contract. No one could imitate such a terrible handwriting.
It took him a few minutes to write down what I thought was the first draft. I spent the time reading the newspaper I had found on a chair and glancing at the door nervously. I hardly dared imagine what would happen if the managers came in and caught me here with him. Yet apparently the Phantom had known what he was doing when he had brought me here. No one tried to enter the room.
"I'm finished," he finally announced, and I walked over to the desk. The sheet of paper I picked up and held in front of my face to examine horribly reminded me of the notes I had read ten years ago, with the only difference that this one was written in black ink instead of red. The managers probably hadn't had any other colour. The text itself was rather short.
I hereby declare that on September 16th 1892 I will move in the house belonging to the de Chagny family (Rue de la Garnelette 14, Paris). This action will happen in order to protect Comtess Christine de Chagny, her children Antoinette and Philippe, the servants Jacqueline Tulous, Larisse Gardé, Gabriel Padoir and Jacques Devoirelle as well as any of their guests in the absence of Comte Raoul de Chagny. In that period of time, which cannot be defined precisely at the time of writing this contract, I will take the role of Comte de Chagny, providing his family with money and all the care they need. When the Comte returns from his business travel to Norway, I will leave the house, unless there will be an emergency.
Paris, September 16th 1892
Under the last line there was an illegible scrawl, probably his signature.
"How do you know the last names of all my servants?" was my first question. I had surely never told him. Since he hadn't even met Jacques and Gabriel in person, I was surprised he knew their first names. And how could he be sure there weren't more servants?
Yet he merely smiled.
"I'm a well-informed man," he replied, which probably meant he had asked either Christine or Larisse, who seemed to be particularly fond of him.
"Well, all in all the contract appears to be good," I muttered while I read it again, just to be sure I hadn't missed any little detail. With this man, everything was possible, and I was not willing to take risks. My eyes stopped at a line at the bottom of the sheet of paper.
"What do you mean - ´unless there will be an emergency´?" I wanted to know.
"Imagine you come back and those criminals – whoever they are – have set the house on fire," he said with an intensity that made a shiver run down my spine. "Do you really want me to leave then instead of rescuing your family?"
"Of course not," I replied shortly. "But can't you find an expression less vague?"
"Like what?" he asked, grinning as I struggled for words. It really wasn't easy.
"You can keep it like that," I murmured, trying to ignore the triumphant expression on his face.
"Now you have to sign as well," he instructed me, thrusting the pen into my hand.
"Why?" I wanted to know warily.
He sighed, as if I were a particularly stupid child who everything had to be explained to.
"This is a business contract," he told me. "One should assume you had seen enough of those to recognise it. As long as it's only signed by one person, it's more or less worthless. I couldn't even prove you asked me to write it."
I didn't mention that actually the contract was meant to be for my benefit only. If I had done so, he'd have surely torn it. So I simply placed the sheet of paper on the desk again, next to the copy he had already made, and signed both of them. Briefly I wondered whether Faust had felt like this when signing his contract with Mephistopheles.