The Mask and Mirror

Chapter 10

They were at Perros-Guirec. He was pulling Christine along by the hand towards the wind-tossed sea. She wore crimson ribbons in her curls that flashed like gypsy fire in the bleak grey mist. She was half-laughing, half-protesting, clinging to his hand with a small, tight, childish grip. "I don't want to get my new shoes wet," she said, with sweetly earnest trepidation. "Mama Valerius will be furious!" Raoul laughed, jumping headlong into the water and bit back a gasp at the cold sensation that penetrated his skin. He grinned back at her, alight with youthful eagerness, and the young Christine kicked off her shoes impulsively before joining him with a shriek of delighted laughter.

The dream shifted. He was watching Christine – now a grown woman – being pulled along by a stranger; but she wasn't laughing anymore, she was crying. It was dark; the concave stone walls were illumined only by an eerie greenish hue. He could hear the drip and echo of water, and looked down. It was swirling beneath his feet, disturbed by the motions of the figures up ahead. Christine's pleas and exclamations became fainter and fainter, until they were reduced to mere echoes. Wild panic seized him. He darted forward in a desperate attempt to follow, but they were already too far away and had now vanished from his sight –

"Raoul. Raoul."

The Vicomte was abruptly jolted into wakefulness, and found himself staring into a pair of deep brown eyes. "Christine?" he muttered vaguely.

"No – it's Meg. You fell asleep."

Raoul pulled himself into an upright position, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes. The pounding in his head seemed to have subsided for the moment, though his neck was aching from the uncomfortable angle he had fallen asleep in. The previous night's insomnia had clearly taken its toll. He had only closed his eyes for a moment…

"What time is it?" he asked, as Meg's vivid, intent face sharpened into focus.

"A little past two. You've only been asleep an hour."

"What news?" he said at once.

She looked tense, a hand braced on the curve of her waist. "The police have arrived. Maman is talking to them now. Monsieur –"

"Raoul," he said insistently.

"Raoul," she repeated. "Prepare yourself. I fear it isn't good news."

He leapt to his feet at once and made with steady deliberation for the entrance hall. Something was turning in his stomach over and over, nervousness fluttering at the edges of his consciousness. His footsteps seemed startlingly loud in the preternatural quiet that had descended over the house. A thudding, staccato rhythm that echoed the faintly persistent drumbeat in his head. It was a little like a dream, as though he were a detached bystander observing the scene from above; himself walking slow and erect down the dim hallway, and as it grew darker and narrower, he seemed to be moving further away from reality…

Meg followed with her natural sprightly grace and was just in time to see her mother – in an alarmingly bent posture in contrast to her normally upright figure – turning away from the closed door, smoothing her hands down over her stiff skirts.

"Maman," she said anxiously, moving swiftly forward. She caught hold of Madame Giry's hands, looking into her face with deep concern. The older woman's expression was strained and anxious. She mastered herself with an effort that was painful to watch, before turning to Raoul with forced outward composure.

"The police have just left," she said. "There has been a… development."

"You should have let me speak to them," he said reprovingly.

"I didn't wish to disturb you. You needed rest." Her voice was cool and matter-of-fact, yet it was as though a spark had flared inside his dulled mind, throwing his immediate surroundings into sudden, brilliant illumination. He leaned forward, staring hard at the older woman. Beneath the thin veneer of apparent calm, her taut skin was of a startling whiteness; it was as though he could see beyond flesh, right down to every muscle, every bone stretched thin to breaking point. There was a welling hysteria threatening to spill through the forced evenness of her voice and her sharp grey eyes were rent with a wild emotion that burned with horrible intensity, Raoul wanted to look away but he was paralysed –

"You're hiding something," he whispered in slow realisation. "What is it? What's wrong? Tell me!"

Time trickled past in deliberate seconds of agonised silence; he could almost feel it slipping away like sand in an hourglass. It was like one of their childhood games; before the sand reached the bottom of the glass he must find out where Christine was, otherwise…

"You are right, Monsieur," Madame Giry said at last, shaking her head from side to side in a movement that disturbingly reminded him of the macabre image of Red Death's mask that held sway over all (now why had he thought such a thing at a time like this?) "This is worse than we realised."

She's dead, Raoul thought, with icy calm. This is just like when the Commissary arrived to tell me about Philippe. There has been some awful accident and she doesn't want to break it to me.

He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. He heard her voice as though from far away, as though it had to travel over a great chasm to reach him.

"The police discovered a witness who saw someone matching Christine's description on the streets sometime before eleven o'clock last night. They were passing by when a brougham approached the young lady. Another witness saw what they assume to be the same vehicle some fifteen minutes later heading towards –" She took a deep breath. "It was heading towards the Paris Opera House." The resounding clarity of her low voice could have sounded out the Final Judgement. "You must know what this means."

Raoul's consciousness seemed to seep away for a moment, before rushing back, eddying like waves on a beach. "No," he said slowly, mentally pushing away what she was implying, what he simply refused to believe –

"What other explanation is there?" Antoinette asked wildly.

"Something – anything," he muttered. "Not this – not now. I won't believe it. What you're suggesting is impossible –"

"Improbable, yes, but impossible? You of all people must know Erik better than that."

"Don't!" said Raoul fiercely, hearing the blind panic in his own voice. "Don't say his name! He's dead. He's dead."

"And where is your proof of that, Monsieur?" demanded Madame Giry.

His voice tried to claw its way through the ash at the back of his throat, but no sound came.

Antoinette had begun pacing up and down, one step, then another... "He has her, Monsieur, I am sure of that as I am sure of anything! Dead! Do you think he can be killed so easily? Do you think he has not learned how to evade bullets? Did you think the police had really found him? Why then was it not publicised? They wanted a scapegoat for what happened. Oh believe me, if Erik had been caught, there would have been more than rumours and speculation! You know what the papers were saying. They dismissed the Opera Ghost as something Monsieurs Andre and Firmin conjured up, trying to shift blame, or as the result of stress and overwork. Nothing so easy. He is back, and now he has taken our dear girl from us once more."

Raoul felt the hard floor beneath his feet and realised he was moving slowly backwards, trying to escape from the chilling certainty in her eyes that glowed like two pinpricks of light in the surrounding gloom. Their image was burned into his mind's eye – he could back away, back away until he stepped off the edge of the world but still he would see it, the cold, unshakeable truth that Christine was… He was breathing hard, as though he had been running for miles. Each breath strained against the cage of ribs, his mind was numb, if only he could think –

When he spoke, it was as though another calm, collected voice had momentarily taken control of him, saying words that needed to be said while his body was still frozen, stupefied with shock. "We will resolve this. I don't know how yet, but we'll get her back. He hasn't had much of a start on us, there is still time."

It was with a hollow sense of detachment that he saw the painfully thin shoulders of the former ballet mistress relax slightly, as though she had derived some small measure of comfort from his empty words. But the lines on her face were still creased in desperation and vulnerability and looking at her; the formidable Madame Giry rendered prematurely old and powerless, he saw how helpless they all were. We are all of us his victims, he thought dully. The man can play us as he wishes. He's a demon. And he's stronger than any of us. The knowledge caused him to double over with an inward pain. That creature - hideous, misshapen, who could disappear at will and had endless instruments of death at his disposal - how could he hope to win against such devilry? He had barely escaped with his life before.

What a fool he had been, how complacent to have imagined their troubles were over, that they were finally safe. How, in the last few hours since he had discovered Christine was gone, had he never suspected this? Even in his darkest imaginings he had never thought of abduction – and by him, of all people. In truth, he had suspected that Christine's disappearance was one of conscious choice; that a week before their wedding and especially in light of their recent argument, that all those old doubts had risen to the surface once more and she had retreated to allow herself time to think, just as she had last February. He had deluded himself into believing the Gendarmerie would discover her in Pere Lachaise cemetery, at the gravesite of her beloved father, or a witness would have reported her boarding a train for Perros-Guirec.

Anything but this.

His mind was cast back to the young girl with wild dark curls who had been his childhood companion. They had run along the sands to meet the rising tides, had curled up together listening to Papa Daae's melodies on the violin, had crept onto the beach at twilight to watch the Korrigans dance. And later, as the soulful-eyed young woman, he thought of the sweetness of her hand in his hold, the softness of her lips parting under his, the feel of her slender body in his arms, and the ache he felt was a physical pain in his heart. He could not lose her again. The very idea was unthinkable. They belonged together; theirs was a love story that had overcome all adversity and would do so again.

He couldn't allow himself to imagine the alternative.

"Where are the police now?"

Both Raoul and Madame Giry jumped at Meg's quiet voice, as though they had forgotten her presence. Of the three of them, she alone had taken the news in resolute silence. Her fists were clenched and her voice was very calm, but there was a fierce, burning expression on her face reminiscent of her mother's.

Madame Giry cleared her throat, and stood up a little straighter. "They are continuing to search the area, and also try and gather more from the witnesses they spoke to earlier."

"Should we not tell them we suspect the Opera Gho – I mean, Erik?"

"No use," said Raoul wearily. "I met Inspector Moreau, I can tell what sort of man he is. He would dismiss us outright. The Opera House is already under their perimeter of investigation. It would achieve nothing but waste their time when it could be put to better use." A terrible, aching weight was beginning to settle in his chest. So he did not have to see the expressions of twin horror on the faces of mother and daughter, he wandered distractedly towards the window and gazed out, looking hard, looking for – looking for what?

Escape. To run and run, to never stop running until he broke free from the voices chasing each other round and round in his head… You must know what this means… Do you think he can be killed so easily? That face, masked and leering, still haunted his nightmares. Not infrequent were the nights when had he had awoken gasping in a tangle of sweating sheets, imagining himself back in the cellars of the Opera, thrashing underwater or straining against the ropes that were cutting into the cords of his throat in a strangling hold. Or worse, his mind's eye emblazoned with images of that dark figure forcing Philippe's head under the water, drowning him, choking him and laughing all the while –

Christine was not the only one tormented by ghosts.

The visions receded and it was his own reflection that faced him in the glass once more, his face pale, blue eyes too dark, too wide. Fair hair fell over his brow in wild disorder. The splinters on the rough-hewn wood of the windowsill bit into his palms, but still he tightened his grip, as though the tangible surface beneath his hands was the sole thing that chained him to the realm of sanity. Beyond that threshold, he couldn't step. Not yet.

There was something building inside him like a brewing storm; something wild and ungovernable, that if allowed to break loose would rain bleak destruction on everything around him, tear the world to pieces. But around it was an icy outer shell that left the unnamed emotion within, intact and untouchable. He stared outwards, his vision narrowing down to what lay beyond the square frame.

Although still the middle of the afternoon, the sky had darkened to dull slate, heavy clouds a further blackness tainting the horizon. The window frame was frosted with ice, while the snow outside had melted and become dirt-ridden from the carriage wheels passing over the roads. Only on the balconies opposite was it still white and gleaming, the same snow as yesterday, of a thousand years ago, when Gustave Daae had first begun to cough and they had never heard the name of Erik.

"Why now?" he wondered aloud, "Of all the times he could have appeared, he chooses now, as we're about to marry. Taunting us with the prospect of happiness before snatching it away. I did feel at times… a lingering doubt beneath the surface, growing inside of me. That it seemed too perfect to last. Did she feel it too, I wonder? Maybe that's why we were talking about him. Somehow, we both knew, unconsciously. Perhaps we conjured him last night, she and I."

Madame Giry looked up at him quickly, ice-grey eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

"Erik," he said flatly. "It's what we were arguing about."

She lowered her gaze. "I am sorry to hear that."

Raoul took a deep breath, the chill air settling over his lungs like a shroud. "But not surprised."

"No," she repeated. "Not surprised."

Silence descended, and Raoul closed his eyes. He found himself waiting – waiting as though for some Divine Inspiration to descend and settle his problems for him. He knew that Erik was too wild, too unpredictable for him to form a coherent scheme against him. Last time, in spite of all his carefully-laid plans, all his stratagems to catch the villain, it had ultimately come to nothing. The moment the chandelier had fallen, all bets were off, and he had thrown himself headlong into danger and the unknown. Instinct had taken over. It wasn't courage, or nobility, or any other fine emotion others might attribute it to, but pure, unthinking impulse. He acted from the heart. Blindly, foolishly determined to play the hero, even against insurmountable odds.

But now –!

Unnatural apathy; some invisible force that prevented him from reaching those emotions that must be burning in his blood, crying out for release. He could hear his own breathing; feel the painful thudding of his heart. How strange it was that his body continued to work, when all feeling had stopped.

He jumped when Madame Giry spoke.

"There may be – I don't know – but there's a possibility – I should have thought of it before…"

Like the prick of a knife, the words seemed to pierce beneath his skin, galvanising him into movement. "What?"

Her voice was her own again. Cool, sharp and factual. "I need to see if I can find it. Erik gave it to me once, a long time ago. I will be a few moments, Monsieur."

She swept from the room, her unconscious stern dignity restored with prospect of a glimmer of hope. Her skirts slithered across the wooden flooring, before the room subsided into habitual quiet. The clock striking a quarter past the hour sounded out startlingly loud. Raoul continued to stare out the window, his expression set and grim. A quiet movement from the corner of his eye caused him to turn and his eyes fell on soft flaxen silk – Meg Giry's hair; the brightest thing in the darkened room. Her face took a little longer to come into focus.

"If we are sure," she said, "that it is Erik –"

"Oh it is," he said. "I know that, beyond a doubt. It's just another thing he's taken from me."

He thought then of Philippe, and with that thought came the hard and sickening stab of guilt that cut even deeper than the pain of loss. For months now, he had agonised over his brother's demise, torturing himself with the knowledge that he should have done something. Philippe should never have gone down into those labyrinthine tunnels. This had never been his fight. Long gone were the days when Raoul had expected his brother to fight his battles for him. Yet the Comte de Chagny was the one lying dead. It would have been so easy to blame Erik, but Raoul couldn't escape the weight of responsibility. God, if he had only acted differently, done something, said something that could have kept his brother away. He had re-envisioned the night over and over in his head, changing the smallest detail, wondering if it could have made a difference.

He was still torn up with secret remorse that ate and festered, although he and Philippe had never been as close as they might have been, not only due to the disparity in age, but also the fact that Raoul had found some of his brother's diversions… disreputable, to say the least. He had not shared Philippe's predilection for gambling with dice and cards, drinking into the late hours or spending long nights in the amorous, empty embraces of licentious courtesans. Those higher, noble principles that Raoul had always aspired to were completely lost on his brother who had been a creature of earthly pleasures. There was not a trace of spiritualism to be found in the Comte de Chagny, whose intellect had always been of the witty and urbane kind – remarks that were droll and clever, but with no true greatness of mind. But he had understood the value of reputation. And the moment he saw anything that threatened the respectability of the family name, all the innate pride and command of his nature rose to the fore and he took swift and decisive action. He had observed Christine Daae closely at the Opera Populaire and saw nothing in her that would justify her becoming the wife of his brother. He and Raoul had engaged in many quarrels over the subject of the young chorus girl. To Philippe, who always saw the practicalities, the matter was clear; if Raoul had taken a fancy to the little chit, then why not set her up as a mistress; he could still lavish the wealth and gifts he wanted on her, while not degrading the Chagny name by associating it with an opera wench.

Raoul hadn't spoken to him for a week after that incident. They had met again on the night of Don Juan when Philippe had urged him not to do anything foolish. According to him it merely sounded as though Christine had been having a dalliance with this so-called 'Opera Ghost', and in fear of throwing away the prospect of a fortune which marriage to Raoul would give her, she had dreamt up a far-fetched story of a violent madman. They had parted on mutually dissatisfied and indignant terms, but Raoul knew his brother was by no means prepared to let the matter drop. But then, neither was he. For the first time in their harmonious relationship, Raoul's mild nature had refused to submit to the Comte's authority. Beneath the pleasant demeanour and generous spirit lay a will of iron that circumstances had finally called forth. What then, would be the result of two equally stubborn, vehement temperaments clashing when neither would give way? Raoul had silently resolved that if it came to a choice, he would sacrifice everything – wealth, family, reputation – for the sake of Christine.

And now here he was sitting idle when she needed him most. Was he really going to stand by and allow her to be taken from him by the demon that had done everything in his power to destroy their lives? He had failed her the last time Erik had come between them – it would not happen again. Perhaps a secret, buried part of him had wished for this all along. Not being the one to have delivered the killing blow to Erik had been a constant source of disquiet within him. Now, he had the chance to exact vengeance on the Opera Ghost, Phantom, whatever the villain wished to call himself. Justice would finally be served. He would do what he should have done that night in the cemetery, and finish it all. This time, he would show no mercy. This ends, now. Only this time, he does not walk away. Oh, I have learnt my lesson, Monsieur. I will not give you the chance to fight another day.

He vaguely wondered if he truly had it in him, to kill a man –

But he is not a man –

Raoul stood up, suddenly feeling alive for the first time since he had heard Christine was missing. The cold tendrils of fear had receded and something else – something hot and simmering – was gradually filling his body in its stead. This was what he had needed. This was what he had been reaching for these last few hours and never found. To finally feel.

"Where are you going?"

Meg's voice cut through his spiralling thoughts like a lifeline in storm-tossed seas.

Raoul's voice was hard as the edge of a sharpened blade. It was easier when he didn't have to look into those hazel eyes that were only a few shades lighter than –

"To find Christine."

Meg's pretty face wasn't so pretty when staring at him with a blank incomprehensibility that would have been humorous under other circumstances. "But – you can't – Maman – the police –"

"Can do their job. I'm going to do mine."

"You can't just go tearing off. The police are expecting you to be here. You have a responsibility –"

The growing storm of rage that had been steadily brewing inside him burst at last. Before he realised it, he was shouting. "Responsibility? My life is nothing but responsibility! I am tired of being the one responsible for everything – for being the one to keep a level head. I have spent the last nine months paying bills, and running an estate, making plans and arrangements – this isn't something I chose, it was forced upon me, because if I don't do it, who else will? And not to mention trying to keep Christine happy – do you even realise how exhausting that has been?" He was glaring at her through a haze of blind anger that could only relieve itself in the compulsion to shout and shout and never stop – "I'm so sick of running everything, of being the one to pretend things are fine; the one everyone looks to for reassurance that everything will be alright – because nothing is alright! The worst thing that could possibly happen, the one day I ever feared would come, is finally here. After everything I've done, it still wasn't enough. I've failed. I lost Christine." His voice cracked and broke. Meg was staring at him, one hand raised to her mouth. A flush of indignant colour had risen in her cheeks.

Raoul fell silent, and swallowed hard, willing the pounding of his heart to slow. "Meg –" he began to say, seized by a sudden guilt, the satisfaction he had felt only moments ago had vanished almost at once. Further words failed him. He sank hopelessly into a chair, feeling ill and spent.

"I know," she said quietly. "I understand. It's horrible – this whole situation is horrible. But we need to stay here. There's nothing else we can do."

He gave a hollow laugh. "Nothing!" he echoed, with a terrible sort of mockery. "I own an estate, more money than I know what to do with – my God, I could buy those constables if I wanted. Yet what does it matter? What does any of it matter if I can't be of any use." He subsided into silence and rested his brow heavily on a clenched hand, leather-booted foot tapping the floorboards in a distracted rhythm.

Meg cast him a sidelong look beneath her lashes. For all men's bold talk and bluster about strength, it always seemed to fall upon the women to take control in such moments of crisis. She tried to speak as reasonably as she could muster under the circumstances. "Perhaps it would best if you stayed here, maybe spoke to Maman…"

"Don't –!" Raoul said sharply. He drew a deep shuddering breath, and continued in a forcibly quieter tone. "Don't treat me like some victim or child in this. I'm not the one in trouble here." He rose to his feet, his entire body trembling with sudden energy. "I can't be here. I shouldn't be here. I need to be doing something." He ran his hands down the lapels of his greatcoat, his expression hardening. He took a couple of steps towards the door. Meg's sharp eyes narrowed. In an instant, she had moved in front of him, blocking his access.

"Perhaps it would be wiser to leave it to the police."

Raoul turned to face her grimly. "I am not going to stand by and let this happen." He slid a hand into his belt, fingers curving around the comforting cold barrel of metal that lay hidden within. After that night in the cellars, he had vowed never to walk a day on this Earth without being able to defend himself. He would not be caught unawares, not again. "I had to spend months watching Christine be utterly terrorised by some unseen fiend, stood by while she was kidnapped; my own brother drowned as I was forced to watch her throw her life away while there was a noose around my neck, so I am not going to be beaten down by some – some masked conjurer!"

He brought a fist down violently against the doorframe, not even registering the dull throb of pain that pulsed through his knuckles. He glared at her, struggling to suppress the anger shuddering through his body. But far better to feel the anger than the pain that lay beneath.

"I won't lose her as well," he said hoarsely. "I won't. He's come between us long enough. I'm done playing by his rules. He's come between us for the last time. I'm going out there to bring my fiancée back, whether anyone here approves or not."

Meg folded her arms across her chest. That she was half his height seemed to have escaped her notice, but had she been aware of the fact, it wouldn't have daunted her. "What happened to waiting and letting the police do their job?"

He laughed humourlessly. "Well, unsurprisingly, having my fiancée in the hands of a known murderer is liable to change one's opinion somewhat. And let's just say that Inspector Moreau is not exactly a man who inspires confidence. So, if you don't mind…" Silence. Meg remained unmoving, determined to wait him out, suddenly aware of the blood flooding hotly through her veins.

"And if you don't move," Raoul continued quietly. "I'll force you."

She swallowed hard. Gone was the charming, amiable nobleman who had called round their house with a pleasant smile and light-hearted conversation. This man who stared at her with blue eyes blazing like the fires of Heaven and handsome features set with formidable resolve, was a complete stranger. His ease of bearing was fiercely concentrated, he was charged with determination, and something else… Never had he seemed so unknown to her.

And never had he seemed more thrilling.

Her heartbeat quickened. Being a long-time favourite at the Opera Populaire, Meg was so accustomed to having her way in everything; being spoiled, placated and appealed to, that being so flatly disregarded was an entirely new sensation. Thus far, her experiences with men – brawny stagehands, handsome young tenors and noble patrons – had always been interactions where she held the upper hand. She had been a queen granting favours and her word had been law. Now, for the first time in her life, she had encountered a will stronger than her own. Deep down and unbeknownst to herself, a latent desire flared within her – the secret desire of all people that had never been refused anything – the desire to be mastered.

When he took another step forward, she moved aside without question.

Raoul went out into the street with a grim expression on his face and a pistol in his hand.