Chapter 6

It was precisely fifteen years ago that Antoine Ledoux's life was forever changed.

He had been a mere junior officer at the time, fresh from the military and eager to embark on a new career as a police officer; although perhaps eager was too strong a word. Content. As a capable man with a keen, organized mind he had accepted that he was probably fit for little else. And the work gave him satisfaction—when he was able to right an injustice, he felt closer to God.

Despite this contentment there were many aspects of his work that conflicted with his sense of ethical responsibility. Yet, he had somehow always managed to equalize his internal moral balance sheet so that in the end, he felt securely in the green. Even so he often found himself feeling frayed around the edges, as though there was a snag in his soul that was inch by inch unraveling.

His wife kept him patched together. Through her calm, serene grace he had found a blessing he never thought to ever have; not when nightmares of dust and blood, screams and billowing gun powder still haunted his sleep. Some days he found it difficult to focus due to the painful ringing in his ears he had acquired from too many close encounters as a young artilleryman. Sometimes the headaches were blinding, his vision doubled and blurry.

The only cure was darkness and music.

Strange, that music should soothe his pounding head when usually one sought silence to abate the agony. It had been his wife's idea to play their little upright piano while he lay in bed, trying to compartmentalize the pain. He disliked seeing his lovely wife worry for him. Yet when she played, the notes floating up through the floor and through his limbs, he felt as though there were no wars, no suffering in the world at all.

"Man is responsible for many horrible sins," his former Priest had intoned to his congregation when Ledoux was only a boy. "Yet although man has the capacity to destroy, God has also given him the ability to renew the soul. Music renews us all. It heals us. Lifts us. Through music, God gives us wings."

He had never been to an Opera before, but when his wife surprised him one evening with tickets to a new performance of Romeo et Juliette at the recently renovated Palais Garnier his curiosity had been piqued.

He had felt quite awkward and inelegant in his rarely worn dress suit but the moment he had seen his wife in her soft peach evening gown, her dark hair crowned with silk flowers, he couldn't have cared less.

The night had been revelatory. Though they did not have the most sought after seats Ledoux had doubted the performance could have been more divine if they had been seated upon the stage itself. It had been miraculous. The new and much talked about chandelier was most impressive; like an ancient Titan's crown, immense and shining gold with thousands of crystal droplets and candle flame, suspended like stars above a sea of scarlet seats.

"Oh, Antoine!" his wife had exclaimed, her head tilted upward to admire its majesty. "It is just as they described; like a tear from heaven!"

Indeed, he could see how stars might seem like tears. The smile that softened his usually serious expression was for his wife alone.

They sat, Ledoux reflexively scanning the crowd of people around them while listening to his wife speak softly about the article she had read in the local newspaper. Apparently the Garnier had very recently changed management, and was now under the direction of a little-known and much speculated-about business man. "Carrière, I believe is his name," she had explained, her eyes alight. "They say he is an innovative genius. Even the critics have been raving that under his direction, the new Opera is unlike anything Paris has ever seen. The details have been kept quite secret; oh, isn't it exciting, Antoine?" Ledoux listened quietly, inwardly reflecting for not for the first time that no matter where they were everything paled when compared to her bright spirit.

In spite of her gloved hand clasped in his, he had still felt slightly on edge, senses alert as he did whenever he was in a large crowd of people. But the moment the immense, velvet curtains had lifted and the stage had been illuminated he had been captivated completely.

Though he had little experience of such things Ledoux imagined that very few plays, or Operas for that matter could compare to this. It felt real. Every detail from the beautifully crafted sets, ethereal lighting, to the costumes all flowed seamlessly together to create a perfect illusion of natural authenticity. He could clearly imagine the fragrant breezes rising off a crystalline river that wound through the timeworn city of Verona, with its ancient Roman ruins and opulent cathedrals. The weather-worn stone of Juliette's balcony embraced by grasping emerald vines. The moon, a shining pool of pure silvery light suspended above the stage, the only witness to the lovers oaths of eternity. The orchestra swelled and ebbed, carrying the voices of the performers mingled in a duet of passionate tempest to crash over him in a wave of pure sensation.

For the first time since childhood, Ledoux was unaware of the people around him. His mind had been wiped clean of all unseen, potential threats. He sat beside his wife, eyes wide, and was utterly entranced.

At some point during the performance, he had felt his wife squeeze his hand. She said nothing, bless her, yet he knew she had seen. His eyes had been wet by the finale. It was from that moment on that a scarred, war-weary policeman had fallen in love for the second time in his life.

And his love of opera had only grown.

If he was forced to choose however, he knew that the stormy, passionate Romeo et Juliette was without doubt his favourite. It was something which amused his wife greatly.

"My love!" she would exclaim fondly, whenever he surreptitiously suggested that they take in a little culture, which always meant an opera. "Surely you have grown tired of that story by now? Besides, you have a most endearing habit of humming along which, though it melts my heart, does not recommend you to our fellow patrons."

Ledoux had cleared his throat innocently. At least he had ceased with tears. Nearly. Allowing himself a little smile, Ledoux merely gave a shrug of his shoulders noncommittally, neither confirming nor denying this irredeemable faux pas. Then, on his way home from the station the next day, after his post-shift café, he would inevitably purchase a bouquet of roses and two tickets for the evening performance. His wife would kiss him, while twirling one of the velvety flowers across his whiskery cheek. Then, she would see the tickets tucked into his breast pocket and playfully tap his nose.

"I knew you could not resist," she would grin, teasingly. Ledoux indulged her, and answered with a kiss of his own, placed tenderly on her temple, just above her ear. Her perfume reminded him of lilacs, and their first strolls together beneath canopies of full, purple blooms...

"Inspector?"

The memory blurred, melting away like a chalk painting in the rain. His wife's smile, her perfume faded back into the deep well of recollections that so often called to him. The hour was late, his bones ached, and he was still seated at Gérard Carrière's office desk, searching for evidence. Piecing the whole picture together.

A stagehand. A trespasser. An underground lake, and an old, abandoned fort. A masked man, flying onto the stage like an avenging highwayman during a performance, to sweep the heroine off her feet and disappear; Romeo, imploring Juliette to flee with him into the night.

Marie, sitting resplendent beneath the dim lights of the stage in her peach gown.

Images clicked through his mind like spokes in a wheel. Gérard's hands had shaken almost imperceptibly when he lit his cigarette. His eyes, too tired. His smile, too wide.

He knew nothing of any trespasser, despite the rampant murmurings of his staff that the Garnier was haunted. Strange sounds. Items disappearing. Sometimes, the most beautiful, haunting music.

Over-active imaginations and gossip.

It was all smoke-screens and misdirection; Carrière was lying, and he was an experienced liar. That much Ledoux had been certain of from the moment they met.

But how deep did his lies descend?

The familiar ache in his temples returned, and pausing briefly to rub his fingers against his temple, Ledoux looked up at his waiting sergeant. So young. So much time...Ledoux reflected, wondering if he had ever looked that young himself.

War made you a tired, old man before your time.

He felt ancient. Exhausted, yet unable to rest. Like one of Hephaestus's metal men, empty inside but for the rusty gears pushing him relentlessly forward. His life now had been whittled away to the narrow line dividing right from wrong, justice from sin. He was a tool, and if his battered mind could do some good while he was forced to remain on earth then he was resigned to do his best.

It is what he had promised his wife, Marie, after all.

"Have you found it?" he asked the sergeant in the same detached, calm voice and emotionless expression his men frequently compared to that of a marble statue.

"We believe so, sir. It was right where the drunk—"

"M. Bouquet," Ledoux cut across the younger man quietly, but firmly.

"Yes, sir. It was where he said it was. We will have to break through the wall, for it looks as though it has been recently bricked up."

The young sergeant gazed at his superior expectantly, obviously keen to get his orders and get started. Ledoux felt something important flicker in the back of his brain. His headache was growing more intense by the minute, but he folded up his distress and tucked it into a corner of his mind. He had learned through years of experience that he could focus through the pain. Without his wife's music, without her smile and her tender kisses he'd had no choice.

"Bring in Carrière," he told his subordinate. "I want him to be with us when we break it down. If we're to go wandering down into hell, it seems only prudent we have a guide."

His sergeant looked baffled for a moment. "Hell, sir?"

"Oh yes," Ledoux sighed, thinking back to that night fifteen years ago when he had sat with his beautiful wife, beneath a heavenly crown of crystal tears, and watched two lovers give themselves to each other eternally through blissful melody. Was it so far-fetched to believe that the paradise created on the stage hid something deeper, something ominous beneath the surface?

His logical mind, which had served him well for so many years of tracking down those sins others would do anything to keep hidden, had run the calculations, weighed the options and reviewed the evidence.

All pointed to one certainty.

Carrière was protecting someone. Someone who was careful enough to have been able to live as a ghost for many years. Then, that someone made one fatal mistake.

Surely, you are tired of that story by now, my love?

"And sergeant?"

The younger officer stopped, turning toward his superior. "Yes, Inspector?"

"Request the presence of Mlle. Daaè; Christine Daaè. I should like to question her as soon as possible."

The sergeant paused, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. Then he nodded curtly and left the room, leaving Ledoux for the moment in the dim light of the office, and silence.

It was his worst nightmare come to life; Erik, his son, was gone.

Cradling his pounding forehead in a shaky hand, Gérard felt as though the iron knot in his chest was slowly, gradually constricting his lungs, as though he were a clockwork piece that was winding down, down…

Don't look at me with those eyes, Gérard. You have nothing to feel guilty about. You gave me all you could—all I was capable of. You were right; she cannot stay down here. Take her. Take her and go...

Gérard swallowed mechanically against the rising wave of grief that stole into his heart. It was so intense, it briefly washed away the image of his son covered in shadow, his tall, broad figure bent with agony but still determined. Those shadows had seemed to swallow him whole. One moment he had been there, by Gérard's side, Christine unconscious in his arms—the next, he was gone.

He drew in a breath that did nothing to ease the ache in his chest; no, if anything every breath he took was another nail. He had failed. He had failed so utterly, he wondered how it was his heart kept on beating its steady, unaffected pace. He had tried to get back in—to seek Erik out once the Viscomte had taken Christine to his city dwelling, not far from the Opera. The entrance had been sealed. Gérard couldn't get back in, and he wondered if Erik would ever come back out again.

Take her. Go.

Never had the sound of his son's voice, so broken, as though every syllable was causing him physical pain, been more heartbreaking. He had been unmasked, his face streaked with tears, his eyes glassy and dazed as though he were seeing nothing but ghosts through a haze of foggy memory. As though he were finally a true ghost himself.

Gérard had been in a fit of agonized worry ever since. With effort, he raised his head to gaze at the still, sleeping form of Christine. Ever since he had discovered that the entrance to Erik's underground home had somehow been sealed completely, he had not left her side.

Oh Christine, my dear. Why didn't you listen to me?

But he knew why. She had tried. She had tried to accept Erik's true face. His heart ached, for he could only speculate at what had gone wrong. There were so many things stacked against them, it was wonder their relationship had developed this far. He wanted to be angry with her. With them both. He wanted to drudge up some dark sentiment, if only to distract him from the pain he felt on both their behalves. But he couldn't—how could he blame them for falling in love?

Gérard regarded Christine studiously, as though trying to see inside her mind and scoop out what had transpired. The obvious answer was that the girl's feminine sensibilities were overwhelmed by Erik's deformities.

Codswallop, in his opinion.

He had known multiple women throughout his life, his own mother included, who could take the sight of gore and illness with more compassion and composure than some surgeons.

And his Belladova, bless her soul, had shown a fortitude of steel when faced with Erik's difficult birth, and even more horrible illnesses as a baby. Though he saw it as his duty as both a father and a concerned party to warn Christine away, he suspected now it had more to do with his own inability to see past his son's distorted features.

After all, they were a constant reminder of what he had done. The fatal mistake that had cost him nearly everything.

Belladova, what should I do? Please, my love. Help me.

But he was not gifted with the memory of his one true love's smile, or her laugh. All he could see was a young, kind-hearted girl tucked into a giant, opulent bed that seemed to dwarf her by comparison.

It didn't make sense.

The way Christine had listened to him speak of Erik—she listened without judgement, or horror, or pity. Her face was full of something indescribable, something that Gérard wished with all his heart he hadn't wasted with his Belladova all those years ago.

Love. Compassion. Acceptance.

Was he truly that jaded and embittered that he couldn't recognize her feelings? Or was he simply too cowardly to admit he was terrified of seeing his son move on, be happy, and discover just how much of a failure his father was? Was it easier for the world to spin on if Erik stayed cloistered in the dark, a man buried beneath the ground in an unmarked grave before his life had even begun?

A sick, nauseated feeling roiled in Gérard's stomach, and his head gave an aggrieved throb. He knew in his heart that Erik's face did not matter to Christine. No, he suspected that something else must have triggered the breakdown in their bond; and they did share a particular, if not peculiar bond, of that much he was certain.

It scares me. I burn with a fire that is sin itself.

The memory of Erik's words sent a chill through his achy, creaking limbs.

He suspected that whatever occurred next, Erik had given the poor girl some of the potent sleeping draft he always stored. He knew Erik had come to rely on such measures, especially when his composing would keep him from sleep for days. The girl was in the kind of deep unconsciousness that only comes with having no resistance to such remedies. She lay on her side, facing him while he sat and kept guard over her. The Viscomte had graciously given them the use of his guest quarters, and Gérard could tell the young man wished he could do more. Was waiting to be filled in, so he could offer assistance.

Gérard wished he knew where to begin.

His arms were warm and his mouth was heaven.

Christine.

His voice wove around her like spell, a potent enchantment that made the world brighter, her passions deeper, every sensation a universe of swirling storms and scattered stars.

No more loneliness. No more doubt. Buoyant, her very soul felt like it was blooming once again after a long, frozen winter. Her papa's words floated back to her, and for the first time she allowed herself to truly believe.

Papa's angel. You will go on. You will become someone else's angel, I know this. There is someone in this world who will love you beyond all the gold in heaven. Promise your Papa. Promise me you will never doubt it...

Her father's words echoed in her heart, and she found herself reaching out, calling back.

I found him, Papa. I found him...

And then Erik's familiar, soulful gaze filled her vision but it didn't feel like she was seeing with her own eyes. Something deeper, some part of her could see without them.

Do you trust me, Christine?

Yes! Her reply was instinctual, and with all the love she possessed she reached out to him again, drawing him close. She kissed him. His cheeks, his eyes, his mouth, his nose. His face was whole, and shining with love. She felt his long fingers stroke against her jaw, her cheek. He drew her chin toward him, and claimed her lips with a rising hunger that left her breathless. Her hands slipped about his neck, her fingers delving into his soft, coppery hair.

His heartbeat was hers, but it was suddenly slower, as though struggling against invisible vines, choking its beat. A memory stirred inside her mind, and she knew that something was very, very wrong.

What have I done?

She received an answer; he spoke against her mouth, the pain in his voice a burning, charring rasp.

You betrayed me, my love.

Her heart froze. The world began to unravel, and when she saw his face hovering just above her own, it was blackened. Twisted. Decaying. And suddenly she was no longer in his arms, but watching him as though from behind a mirror; as though a barrier suddenly separated them.

He lay by the underground lakeside, his body covered in a bright sheen of sweat. He wore a mask, its features contorted into a piteous expression, black painted tears trailing down its smooth white cheeks. His chest rose and fell heavily, his breathing labored as spasms of great heaving coughs shook his once strong frame.

Christine.

His anguish was hers. His pain, his hopelessness.

Please, just let me die.

"It is alright child, calm yourself!"

A voice, familiar and close suddenly broke through the nightmare. She hadn't realized she'd been calling Erik's name, but she could hear herself now, crying out with desperation and panic. Her body felt heavy and clumsy, and her head spun dizzyingly.

"Easy, my dear," came that same soothing voice. So strong. So kind. Deep and even. The sort of voice that in its gentleness, could calm any manner of wild creature.

A voice so similar to his son's.

"Gérard?" the name sounded like a croak, grating against her dry throat. A concerned pair of bluish-grey eyes were watching her intently. They were so aching familiar, and brought a rush of despair so strong she couldn't contain the sob that escaped her. Blindly, she reached out toward the last tangible link she had to Erik; leaning forward, she buried her head into Gérard's chest.

Grasping his shirtfront, she tried to control the rising tears, but when she felt Gérard's hand stroke the back of her head, his arms around her, his voice so tender, she couldn't help it. She let herself cry.

"There there, my dear," Gérard comforted. He soothed her as best he could, gently stroking her hair and feeling his already aching heart break all the more to hear her quiet yet deep, devastated sobs.

"This is all my doing!" she managed hoarsely, her words muffled by his shirtfront. Gérard continued to stroke her hair, patting her back gently.

"No, my dear. This is not your fault, its mine. I should never have let you stay. I knew things were getting out of control. He tried, my dear. He tried so hard, yet I'm afraid he'll never be able to give you what you want. Not matter how much you care for each other, Erik is too...different," he swallowed heavily, his eyes stinging with tiredness and sorrow. He was surprised when he heard Christine's sobs abate. Staring at her in concern he felt her pull away from his embrace, face red and eyes flashing with emotion.

"You're right," she said firmly, all traces of fragility gone from her features. Gérard regarded her incredulously. "Erik is different. He's unlike anyone I've ever met, and I wouldn't change one thing about him; not his gentleness, not his kindness. He would rather suffer in silence than be a burden to anyone. He has an insatiable desire to know about everything. He loves things that grow. He desperately wishes to be everything a fine, chivalrous gentleman should, but his nature is so impetuous, so passionate! His curiosity and tenacity grant him talent in anything he sets his mind to. His music is his soul! He's everything. Everything I..." she broke off, chest heaving, her face flushed.

Gérard, stunned by her impassioned speech said nothing for a moment. When he spoke at last it was with grave seriousness.

"I cannot express how grateful I am to you that you care for my son. That you see these qualities in him. But you must understand, Erik is unstable. He is not like other men, and it is my job to protect him!"

Christine's eyes shone, but she did not cry. Shaking her head, she placed both her hands on Gérard's chest, gripping his shirtfront gently.

"No, it isn't. You can't protect us. Don't you see? That is the tragedy at the heart of this—you think you can protect Erik, so you lie to him about who you really are. Erik wanted to protect me, so he hid his true self. And in the end, everything fell apart. If only everyone could speak the truth! This was my fault. Erik trusted me, and I failed him because I should have—I should have told him about my father...I should have known—!" she paused for a moment, taking a shaky breath. Gérard listened; it felt like the only thing he could offer her at the moment.

"My father was sick for a very long time. I looked after him as best I could, but we couldn't afford enough medication, or treatment. In the end, he was in agony. It was all I could do to keep him from harming himself. And then, he grew so weak. I watched him fade away, and when he died—" her voice broke, her chest drawing in uneven breaths. She was valiantly trying to control herself, and Gérard simply sat in silence as her grip tightened on his lapels.

"When he died, I was there. We...we had no one," she said shakily, reeling from the lance of pain that tore through her as she spoke the words she'd never shared with anyone.

"His breathing gradually became worse. He was struggling to speak. He begged me to help him. I couldn't. He died in my arms and I'll never forget his face."

Gérard closed his eyes.

Like a mechanical piece falling suddenly falling into place, everything about the past twenty-four hours seemed to illuminate with a resonant click. And he felt such sorrow for them both.

"I'm so sorry," he managed. Christine patted his chest softly, as though comforting him. Then, she let him go, her hands dropping back to her lap.

"It was my cowardice that hurt Erik so. I knew he had deformities. It didn't matter. I wanted to see him, so badly I didn't realize my own past would cause us both such suffering. I need to go back. I need to explain to him. I had the most horrible nightmare, Gérard. I dreamt he was sick."

Christine didn't relay the entirety of her vision. It was too horrible to recount. Erik, by the lakeside near his home, feverish and begging for death. Her throat closed tightly at the thought, her eyes burning with unshed tears. No more tears.

Gérard watched her carefully. She was pale, almost ashen. Her eyes were red and swollen. She was unconsciously picking the edge of her sleeve, her hands shaking slightly in her lap. She looked so small, as though grief had withered her away to reveal a terrified little girl who had taken on too much responsibility, too much brutal reality far too early in life.

He had seen that same vulnerability in Erik countless times.

"He needs me," she said, very softly but with a simple finality that resounded like a roar.

I love her, Gérard.

"The tunnels are sealed," he said. "Erik sealed them. There is no way back in..."

Christine's face seemed to light from within, and a strength he had never witnessed in her before radiated from her like a beacon.

"I can find him," she said.

Gérard doubted, but only for a moment. Then one simple line of text floated up through his acute exhaustion, like a petal caught in a warm summer breeze, twirling along to land in the safe haven of his Belladova's rich auburn locks.

"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore, is winged cupid painted blind," he recited softly.

Christine nodded, and reached for his hand. Gérard took it, and the instant he enclosed her small fingers in his own he knew his battle was lost.

"Come then, fair Juliet," he said gently, a shadow and a hint of his old wry humor tinging his sad smile. "Let us figure out a way to save our brave Romeo, shall we?"

AN: Next up, Christine and Erik reunite, the Inspector discovers something he wasn't expecting, and the Viscomte proves himself...we are only a couple of chapters away from the build up that leads our characters to the roof of the opera house!

Thank you all so much for reading, and for taking the time to review! I appreciate it beyond words, and your patience with my erratic posting. Again, I apologize if there are mistakes that slipped past my spelling/grammar filter! Exam finals are looming, and currently sucking most of my brain power...*twitch!*

Thank you again for being so kind, supportive and encouraging! I hope you continue to enjoy :)

As a side-note: The quote Gérard recites at the end of the chapter is from "A Midsummer Night's Dream", by William Shakespeare. It was one of my favourite Shakespearean plays when I was little...fairies and donkeys, comedic romantic misunderstandings and lots of sparkles? *Happy dance!* :)