***
(Concurrently)
***
Follow her, follow her. Raoul kept his head low. He was close, so close! Close enough to touch the small of her back, but he must keep his head low. He kept focus on the bustle of her skirt and the green bow that sat on her arse. Jostling up and down, and what a beautiful bow!
Where was she headed? That was the question. He had followed her past the Opera House and the Louvre, and now she was panting as heavily (in her ladylike manner) as ever. She stopped. For a moment. She touched her cheek. Did she forget something? Please don't turn around now. We were doing so well. Let me follow you to the end!
And she didn't turn at all! She kept on walking. They were in front of the Sainte Chapelle now. Oh, they should've be married here! Why didn't he think of it? Why didn't he marry her right away? This was a lovely chapel, yes. Raoul admired it, but only form the corner of his eye, for fear that he'd lose her. And he mustn't let that happen – not again!
They made a loop around the Chapel and the courtyard. He slid silently behind a horse-drawn carriage and watched her pause at the steps. Her head seemed focused, but her body seemed lost. Yes, she was like a woman possessed, but not by the demented Angel this time. No, she wanted something and she wanted it badly.
As if she heard him, her gaze fell in his direction. Raoul shrank back. He didn't want to be discovered, not now. But she did not see him. She was looking at the carriage, and she walked up to it and exchanged words with the driver. Raoul didn't recognize either any of it and was relieved. No need to fervently hide. He jumped into the next cab he saw, and followed suit.
They were back at the Opera when her carriage stopped and so did his heart. It could not be! Not here -- not the rue Scribe or the gate, or the -- Oh, there she was! She'd reached for the keys! She was locking the gate behind her before hurrying into the dark.
If he had learned anything from their most recent ordeal, it was to be prepared. He had brought his own key, just for this purpose: the purpose of preventing a terrible mistake!
He slipped through the gates with baited breath. Ugh, the smell was terrible! But he arrived at the lake in time catch her hanging the lantern at the tip of the boat.
Christine!
He wanted to shout madly. But he didn't want her to panic. Panic meant poor decisions, and poor decisions lead to him. He slid into the water as silently as possible and swam behind her. He stayed far enough behind her so that she would not hear his strokes. For as long as he could see the green glow of her light, he knew she was safe.
She rowed steadily, his poor Christine! She seemed so tired! How could she not be, when she's been plagued by such unfortunate events? But wait -- something was wrong. Why had she stopped rowing?
He wadded in the water. She must have been lost. Erik had taken her down many times, but he'd always been the one steering. Yes, she must be lost. So lost, poor dear! He was so filled with sympathy, he did not feel the cold sting of the water against his eyes, his hands and his feet.
When she began rowing again, his heart nearly burst with love. Christine! Once again, he chased the unblinking light, the halo in the darkness. Her light was so warm and pure, and he forgot how his arms grew stiff as his legs grew limp. He was young, and he would swim far.
But, Christine, why can't you row faster so we can reach the shore? Why wait our lives to get on with our lives!
He was getting very cold now, so cold that he wasn't sure how well he swam anymore. The water, like a thousand bits of ice, nipped him as he swam. He didn't seem to be getting closer, but the light was still there and it warmed his soul. Faithfully, he followed.
His adrenaline died slowly, and he began to pant without embarrassment. The space echoing with water was now filled with his splashing and gasping.
"Christine!"
He couldn't care if she saw him anymore. Timing was less important than life. He swam towards her with large strokes and called to her with hollow cries.
"Sweetheart! Look at me!"
To his dismay, she started to row again.
"Stop!" He pleaded. "My love! I'm tired!"
He hadn't realized he'd begun weeping until his tears ran hot streams down his face, and he suddenly wondered why his youth was too often exhausted on chasing dreams.
He wouldn't be able to swim much further. Still, no begging nor sound seemed to wake her from her stupor.
The first time he'd seen her as a woman, she was sitting in her dressing room without her shoes. Her toes played absently with a split on the floor, and even then she looked unattainable. The glow of triumph from still emanated from her in that little room, just as it had from the stage. It was in that moment that he realized he would love her no matter what she did or where she was.
Nothing had changed in him. The lantern illuminated her stoic silhouette, and in her small body, there was a resoluteness and power. He wanted her more than ever.
Oh my love, please turn around! Let me see you!
Slowly, She did turn.
But he was suddenly afraid.
She turned in the kind of haughty silence that one would feel at the sight of a ghost. And for a moment, he thought it was one. He wasn't so sure that he'd followed Christine into the carriage or if she'd switched places with someone else. Maybe he did not look hard enough. He held his dull breath while waiting for a yellow skull to greet him.
Imagine his relief when he saw Christine!
She smiled at him with her ecstatic eyes and yielded trembling arms to him.
But when he began to reach for her, she withdrew. The boat recoiled with her and waded gently as she unhooked the lantern and crept towards the edge.
"Put out the light, and then put out the light."
His beloved called to him as she waved the flame from left to right.
"But once I put out thy light, I cannot give it vital growth again."
Raoul was crying in the dark.