A/N: Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! And, if you don't celebrate Thanksgiving, then Happy Thursday :-)

I know, it's been a while, but this chapter was the hardest to write so far! It's written from Jules's POV, and, as he is the typical male in the sense that he doesn't like to talk about/explore his emotions, and this chapter is written during a really emotional time in his life...well, you see the difficulty. I tried to keep everything in balance, so that we see his thoughts and feelings, but not so much that it's out of character. And, just to let you all know, every now and then you will find within this story a reference to God or Christianity. I promise not to be preachy, but do keep in mind that these characters are Christian or have been brought up in Christian households; if these statements somehow offend you, then please keep such sentiments to yourself.

Also, a note on the quote: if there was a way for me to somehow quote music, I would have "quoted" the piano/instrumental interlude from Straylight Run's "Existentialism on Prom Night", if not the whole song. Though I'm unable to do so, I still highly recommend that song.

Mominator: Love the name! You were semi-right in your guesses about this chapter - but your last question was a little garbled; what were you asking exactly?

Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera and Rigoletto do not belong to me, neither do any of the quotes I have used or will use.

Chapter Three:

Ends Don't Justify Means

-Jules Giry-

"There is nothing certain about speculation!"

- John Thornton, BBC's North and South

I marched briskly down the street, barely conscious of where I was or where I was going. I did not want to be conscious of anything: I didn't even want to know that I was conscious. I wanted to fade away, to disappear. Ah, what a relief it would be to lie down and never arise again! But, no…I couldn't very well collapse in the middle of a busy street: no doubt, I would be trampled underfoot.

Would it matter if I was?

I tried to keep my gaze focused straight ahead, making to seem as if my sole intention was to reach my destination with as much speed and as little contact as possible. People pushed against me on the crowded pave way, but I continued onward, firmly shouldering aside those who could, yet would not make room for me. Despite all this, I could still hear snatches of their strange conversations…

"The poor mother–"

"That man! What a scoundrel!"

"Yes, but they were ruined just the same…"

"And what became of the girls?"

"I don't like the look of this speculation business–"

"I fear it may already be too late…"

I wasn't quite sure how it had happened or how much time had passed, but suddenly I had stopped in front of a door – my front door. I pushed it open and stumbled into my house, eager to hide my face from the world and its contempt.

I tried to block out those memories, ones which – though formed mere minutes ago – had the power to send me careening into a whirlwind of misery…but they would come, they would intrude, and I felt too weak and overwhelmed to stop them.

Turning down the street upon which M. Montparnasse resided, I was struck afresh by the unheeding lavishness of the houses that lined the block. They were large and richly ornamented, lifted away from the meanness and dirt of the street and its inhabitants by stairways made of the smoothest pavement. I estimated these houses to cost at least several thousand francs a year, and I felt my nose wrinkle momentarily in puzzled disgust: what need had a bachelor for a home like this?

But I pushed this thought from my mind with force. M. Montparnasse was a business colleague, not a friend with whom I could entertain the audacity to question his personal taste!

As I neared his house, a new spring entered my step. Really, I thought that this visit was entirely unnecessary, for I had complete confidence in my associate and his plan for financial success. He had assured me that he would undertake more than usual care in this venture: every precaution would be taken, every loophole would be foreseen and sidestepped.

With a seasoned and experienced entrepreneur like M. Montparnasse, what worry could I possibly have?

Imagine, then, my consternation when I arrived at his house and saw a carriage – haphazardly filled almost to the brim with boxes, luggage, and other random objects – parked at the foot of the steps. I stared in amazement, first at the strangely shoddy appearance of the hansom, then at the figure which had just issued forth from M. Montparnasse's house. Despite the warm, slightly damp weather that was characteristic of Parisian summers, the man was bundled in several layers of mismatching clothes, his head covered both by a cap and a top hat.

I scrutinized him as he turned to lock the door, muttering under his breath. No one owned the key that could lock that door, save M. Montparnasse himself – and yet, he walked with upright confidence, a characteristic which this man so totally lacked. No, this man hunched over the lock as if it were his most treasured possession, keeping his face obscure and half-hidden by the layers of his ridiculous outfit so that it was difficult to even guess his identity.

Nevertheless, when the man turned again to race, stooped, into the packed interior of the closed coach, I could not restrain myself from calling out: "Monsieur Montparnasse?"

What I saw next frightened me more than anything else I had ever seen in my life in Paris.

Oh, why had I not listened to Annette? That dear, dear woman of my heart; why had I spurned her and her honest advice so cruelly? Stupid, arrogant fool that I was! Why did I not listen?

I trudged to the foot of the staircase and then struggled to make my way up each stair; I believe I crawled on my hands and knees to do so.

Thud!

My head throbbed dully after colliding with the corner of wall that jutted out at the head of the staircase. I placed a hand over the wound and let myself sink a few inches closer to the floor.

Ah, if only such blows would drive away those memories, make me forget –!

I hardly recognized him. Innumerable wrinkles had appeared on his face, which was uncharacteristically pale. His hair – or what could be seen of it, peeking out from underneath his two hats – was now lank and dull, where it had once been rich and full.

But what had shocked me most was the unnatural expression in M. Montparnasse's eyes: they were lit with the feverish light of a terror that was almost feral in its intensity. It was as if, in saying his name, he had expected me to leap and tear out his throat, and he did not know whether to run or try to defend himself to the death.

I removed my hat, hoping that a clearer view of my features would calm him.

He squinted at me; then, in a hoarse whisper that barely carried over the customary sounds of the street: "Jules? Jules Giry? Is that you?"

I nodded. "It is I. But," I approached slowly, still shaken by the fear I had seen in his eyes, "what is all this? Surely you aren't thinking of removing, not so quickly after your latest scheme?"

"Thinking of removing" was a gross understatement on my part, but M. Montparnasse took no notice of my slip.

"It is because of that wretched scheme that I am leaving! Oh, that I chose to become a speculator!" he moaned tragically as he wrung his hands.

I stepped closer, all caution forgotten. Stern dread at his next words knitted my brows together, and I asked, "What has happened? Remember that I am a part of that scheme as well!"

He stared at me amazement. "Have you not heard?"

"Heard what?"

He seized me by the upper arms, his eyes burning strangely. "Someone outed us! Someone reported us all to the police! Now the cops have seized control of our accounts and stopped the final stage of our plan! We are all ruined!"

I felt my face drain of all colour. I faintly remembered M. Montparnasse mentioning the names of three other men who were involved in his plan, but I had never met them. And now – because of this – because of him…

I backed away from him slowly, shaking my head as I escaped his brittle grasp.

Ruined?

"You never told me that what we were doing was illegal!"

All of the breath in his lungs seemed to whoosh out at once. "I-I thought…after the strike of '76 – you know how these government officials are: the moment they hear of some new misbehavior, they try to-to do something about it…but surely you must have known –"

"I? I am not an attorney in that I know every iota of the law! How could you expect a fish merchant such as myself to automatically know everything that is and isn't legal?"

I shook my head again. "And to think that I trusted you after all of your ridiculous assertions that this scheme was foolproof, that there was no possible way we could lose –"

"You didn't seem to care so much about that when I told you how much money you could make!" he retorted sharply. My eyes flew back to his, my countenance instantly livid. "And obviously I wasn't expecting someone to turn Judas and report us all! I thought that the promise of that much gold would garner more than enough protection from that!"

We both glared at each other for several long moments.

I glanced at the carriage that seemed more than ready to fall over with the weight of everything Montparnasse had put inside, and then looked back at him. "And now you're leaving?"

"Well, I can't really do anything else, can I?" His eyes were still smoldering with the remnants of his temper. I clenched my jaw in response.

"And what am I supposed to do?"

"Follow my example –"

"I wouldn't word it like that if I were you," I warned.

Montparnasse quirked one haughty eyebrow, then continued. "Take your girls, take your most treasured possessions, and leave Paris. The police are out for blood, so to speak, and if they hear even the slightest rumor that you are still here…"

I nodded reluctantly.

"You remember my mentioning M. Champeau to you? He was arrested just this morning and is being sent to a debtor's prison: not solely on account of this particular scheme, but others as well."

My eyes widened in panic. I did not like to think that I was so deeply entrenched in speculation as Montparnasse or his close friends, but this was certainly not the first scheme that I had been involved in. If I were arrested…

"If they arrest you, it is likely – no, it is certain that your wife, daughter, and niece will be sent to a workhouse to support themselves and help pay off your debt."

I stared at the ground, trying desperately hard not to imagine my girls being subject to the rigorous tyranny of a workhouse. My Anne, with her strong will and love of beauty, would suffer immensely from the total lack of splendor and art in such a monotonous, ugly place. Christine, with her boundless imagination and compassion for others, could never bear to be shut up in the company of such infinite misery.

And Meg, fiery little Meg…

"But I'm afraid I cannot stay any longer!" Montparnasse cut in curtly. "I must go; I am only surprised that the police did not start with arresting me." He turned and stepped quickly into the carriage: for one bizarre moment, it seemed that the addition of his weight would send it toppling over into the street.

But he climbed into it without incident, rapped his fist smartly against the underside of its cover, and then my last hope for financial rectification disappeared down the busy avenue.

I pulled my knees to my chest, holding my feet in a perched position at the edge of my seat. I had stumbled my way into our diminutive library and sat myself down upon the chintz chair in front of my maplewood desk. Now, I leaned my forehead against my knees and wrapped my arms around my torso, ignoring the tight strain in my clothes this position evinced. My breath came in ragged gasps, as if I were sobbing tearless sobs, and despite the heat, I shuddered uncontrollably.

All was lost. Everything we had worked for: security, happiness, peace, a place in the world – it was all gone, taken away in a matter of moments, never to be regained. I had wagered the house, my whole business, our accounts – virtually everything we owned, so foolishly confident was I that we would receive it all doubled, if not tripled. I had wanted to prove myself in a world where the rich and talented were adored and the poor were scorned. I had wanted to be remembered as a successful man who had risen above the squalor of Paris with only a little smart thinking and an iron will.

And now…it was all gone.

Why, why why why had I not listened to my wife? Why had I been so close-minded, so unwilling to listen to her pleas? I had been too puffed up in my pride; I had mistaken her entreaties for insults against my judgment and skill – or lack thereof – as a businessman. Not only that, but I had hurt her: I had seen it in her eyes before I had left this morning.

And what made it worse, what made me feel so like a spoiled child – and therefore miserable – was that I had originally meant to! When she had repeated again and again her request that I withdraw my funds from the scheme, I was annoyed and had taken offense where none was intended. I had been selfish and arrogant, thinking that simply because I was the businessman, I knew better than her! I thought that, because I was personally acquainted with Montparnasse, I had a better idea of his character than Annette, who had only heard account of his dealings from fellow members of the opera company and others in our relatively small social circle!

But I had been willingly deceived by Montparnasse, blinded by my own gullibility and greed, which had donned the mask of desiring to raise my family above the mean things of the world. I had dared to raise my eyes to the heavens, thus losing my footing on earth, and was now plummeting down to hell.

Annette had been right: I had lost everything. Because of my own utter foolishness, we were now destitute, ruined, and my innocent family would shoulder the blame and grief.

Oh, I could not bear it! To be arrested, chained to degradation whilst I slaved away to hoard penance for my wrong was justice, but for my family to be punished as well –! To force them to work in a hell such as the workhouse, force them everyday to run the gauntlet that was our cold and haughty society, who would jeer and laugh in their faces for something that I had done – no, it could not be endured!

If only there was a way to end it all –

Other men have died for less, you know…

My gaze was inexplicably drawn to the drawer on my right, the one that currently hid the pistol that I kept loaded at all times. In one unknowingly fluid movement, I lowered my feet to the floorboards and painstakingly reached for the carved handle of that drawer.

Slowly, ever so slowly, it creaked and pulled open at my touch.

I reached underneath the layers of papers – all meaningless now – and closed my fingers around the cold, cylindrical object that I knew I would find. I pulled it out, then leaned my elbows against my knees as I held the pistol in my two hands. Feeling numb, I could only gaze at it, hypnotized.

How could such a small thing be so powerful? Not simply in terms of the damage it could inflict upon the human body, but it also had the power to take away everything that I had suffered and would suffer. It could remove me, take me away so that I would not burden those whom I love. It would not deceive me, it would not punish me. It could all be over.

They could not miss me: a disappointment, such as myself…

Gently, I turned it so that I could peer down into the black space that was its barrel.

Ah, yes. I could trust this firearm to sink me safely into the dark arms of Death. I could sleep for eternity in the grave, all of my trials and tribulations finished. All it took was a good aim and a pull of the trigger, and everything would simply disappear…

Everything?

"I love you, papa!"

I raised my head, shocked at the sound of Meg's cheerful voice, which echoed in my ears. My eyes searched wildly around the small room for a sign of her, but by then I had already realized: it was all inside my head. It was the memory of my daughter's farewell from this morning which had arbitrarily replayed in my mind, so vivid in the recollection that it had almost seemed real.

There was no one in the room save myself. I closed my eyes, exhausted, and temporarily gave myself up to the memories of this morning – had so little time passed? I felt as if a lifetime had passed away since those sun-filled moments…

Behind my eyelids, I could see my daughter. Her gold-spun tresses framed her rosy face, her clear blue eyes smiled with guileless joy and love, her petite hand held up in a gesture of farewell.

"I love you, papa!"

Then, Christine's face swam to the surface of my recollections. I could still easily remember how her rich brown eyes – surrounded by a startling wealth of black lashes – had also held pure love in their depths. Her pink lips had been curved in a serene smile, like so; her white arms were held up as she tried to combat her disobedient curls – nearly the same shade as her eyes – into submission, and pull them back into a bun.

"I love you as well, uncle!"

I saved the best memory of this morning for last. Annette, as she held her place at our small dining table like a lofty queen at court, her blessed hazel eyes speaking volumes. That last kiss we had shared: her red lips moving with mine, more of an honest declaration of love than any number of words she could have employed.

Love.

It was all around me, and I had been blind to it. I had taken it for granted, and it had nearly cost me.

Love.

I opened my eyes, and the magic of those warm memories dimmed. When I glanced down, the sight of the dark gun barrel – so horrifying in its emptiness – jarred me so that I nearly dropped it.

"No."

My ragged whisper startled me, for at first I had not realized that I had spoken aloud. But the sound of my own voice – choosing to refuse – strengthened my resolve, and my upper lip curled slightly in self-disgust.

"No," I repeated: louder and stronger this time. I laid the pistol along the edge of my desk, deliberately positioning it so that the barrel pointed away. My hands trembled as I placed them over my eyes, the heels of my palms creating a slight pressure against my eyeballs.

That was not the answer. It mattered not how inadequate I felt, or how much despair weighed down my soul; I could not do this. I could not take myself out of this world. Not now…

Not when my family needed me most.

I tried to concentrate on breathing deeply, calming my thoughts and forcing me to think rationally. If I did this – if I followed the path that others in my same predicament had taken – what would happen to those whom I love? Would I even deserve to claim that I love them, if I followed through on this supreme act of selfishness?

No, I could not.

This situation was bad as it was; to take myself away, even before my family was made aware of the misfortune that had fallen upon us, would be even worse. In a world ruled so absolutely by the rough and commanding members of my sex, there was no possible – that is, honorable – way that a widow with two girls to support and raise could survive. They would suffer far more pain and degradation that way than anything my blunders could muster.

And, too, I believed in a just God. If I left this world for His and thus abandoned my family here, I did not think that He would be even inclined to be merciful upon my soul.

I had been proud, I had been selfish – but if I had submitted to the temptation I had glimpsed within that black, empty space, I would have hurt my family millions of times over. I had to hold on to their love, draw strength from their presence, for what else was there?

No, this – this was not the answer.

But then…what was? If I were sent to a debtor's prison, I would be nearly as dead to my family as if I had taken my life. The considerable debt that I was in could not possibly be repaid within a lifetime – well, not in what was surely left of my lifetime. And – Annette, Meg, Christine, forced to work in a workhouse…no – no, no I could not bear to think of them in such a dank, rotten place, not when everything was my fault…

Montparnasse had spoken of leaving, of running away. Well, it was easy for him! Playing the usual cunning entrepreneur, he had amassed several houses over the years: all under different names and in various places around the continent, in case an emergency such as this should arise.

We were not as well off. This house, this business that would no longer be mine, was all we had. We had no other houses, no other family. I shuddered again as the magnitude of our isolation in Paris struck me anew. Annette's parents had died long ago, and Gisèle had been her only sibling before she too had passed on with her husband. My mother was still alive, but she and I were estranged beyond restoration, and Esbjörne's parents, Christine's grandparents…we could spend years searching Sweden before we found them, if they were still alive.

And yet, we could not stay here. I could not let it happen!

As if my thoughts had taken wings and called them home, I suddenly heard the unmistakable sounds of my girls entering the house. The door creaked open, and I could hear Annette's purposeful tread, Christine's graceful gait, and Meg's light steps as they walked in.

"Is anyone home?" Annette called into the house, a strange edge to her voice.

I very nearly answered, when a sudden thought froze me as surely as if ice-cold water had suddenly cascaded down my back.

How would they react, once they knew?

Would they be angry? Would they fall into despair? Would they still love and support me? Would –

Oh, heavens…

Would Annette demand a divorce?

I began to shake and tremble again; my teeth chattered uncontrollably. The sounds of Annette walking from room to room downstairs barely registered inside my mind as I forced myself to consider that awful situation.

Of course I would grant it to her, if she desired it: I would never keep her against her will! If – after she discovered how I had single-handedly ruined us all – she believed that she could live and raise the girls much better without me, I would not stand in her way.

But…Anne…

I have never been of a poetic – or descriptive – turn, and thus it is sometimes hard to say exactly how I feel, but I knew this much: I could not live without my wife. She is – she is like a light in my life: without her, my soul would be plunged into darkness, and life would cease to have meaning for me.

I needed her – but I could not bear to see her unhappy either.

"Jules?" Annette called as she began to mount the stairs.

Oh, come! Come and find me, and let this horrid anticipation be over!

I heard her pause by the door to the library, which I had left ajar.

"Jules?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," I replied. To my dismay, it came out as a broken whisper.

She hesitated but a moment, and then slowly pushed the door open.

"Oh, my…what happened?"

I lowered my hands, opened my eyes, and then looked up at her.

Anne stood in the doorway, her back straight and rigid. Her face was unusually pale, making her hazel eyes, slightly parted red lips, and black hair – held up in its usual braided bun – all the more pronounced. Her eyes held an uncertain fear in their depths, and – though I have no way of being certain – I'm sure that my eyes mirrored her same expression.

I had never seen – and most likely would never again see – anything so beautiful.

She spoke again. "Jules? What has happened?"

What could I say?

She crossed the small space between the door and the desk behind which I was seated. I took notice of the way her eyes flickered between mine and where I had left the pistol – curse me for a fool! – upon the smooth, maplewood surface, but I could not find the words to reassure her.

Anne kneeled down in front of me. Slowly, yet gracefully, she took the pistol into her hands and put it on the floor just out of my reach, he eyes never leaving my face. She then placed her hands on my knees: this on account of the fact that I had turned the chair to my right when I had first pulled it out, and had not felt the strength to move it since.

"Please, Jules; tell me what happened."

I looked into her eyes, silently pleading: Please, don't leave me…

"Oh, Anne," I sobbed, and then held her in my arms as I wept into the curve of her neck.

A/N: And now, my lovely readers, what do you think is going to happen next?