The Mask and Mirror

I crawled out of the world
And you said I shouldn't stay
I crawled out of the world
Can I make it right?
Can I spend the night
Alone?

(Angie Hart – Blue)

Chapter 16

Still dressed in a Turkish robe although it was fast approaching midday, with the familiar scent of brewed coffee mingling with the faint aroma of incense that always lingered in his apartment, Nadir Khan was savouring a morning of uninterrupted peace and solitude. What he had not anticipated was a violent and persistent pounding on his front door (rousing long-buried memories of the Shah's guards showing up unannounced in the middle of the night, demanding his presence at the Mazenderan –). He rose from the table with an effort – he moved much more slowly these days – wondering who on earth could be so desperate to speak with him, as visitors had long been a rarity since his self-imposed exile. The only person he knew that threw social decorum to the winds in such a manner was Erik. However, the lecture he planned to give on consideration for other people's times of rising died on his lips when he opened the door and was faced instead with a strained-faced aristocrat.

"Oh good," said the young man coolly. "You are in."

"Is there something I can help you with?" Nadir inquired politely, completely unable to account for the man's presence.

"I certainly hope so," said Raoul. "I was given your address by a – a friend, who advised me to come here. You don't know me, Monsieur, but I'm –"

"The Vicomte de Chagny, yes. Come in." The Oriental bowed slightly, as Raoul continued to watch him warily, with none of the affable cheerfulness he had bestowed on strangers during his patronage at the Opera Populaire. "I've seen you at the Opera, though I doubt you noticed me." The Persian's heavy gaze suddenly became scrutinising, as he slowly took in the young man's open-collared shirt, loosened cravat and the weary, hardened look in his eyes. "You look somewhat… is everything alright?"

"Long night," said Raoul abruptly. "You'll forgive me if I don't have time for pleasantries. I believe you are acquainted with Antoinette Giry. The Madame believes you can help us. If you can't, tell me now, because we don't have a lot of time."

Nadir said nothing as Raoul spoke, but stared at the younger man who had always possessed an attraction that had nothing to do with his looks. It was the vivid animation and energy unconsciously expressed through every word and gesture that, if lacking, would have made his appearance ornamental and entirely uninteresting. The Vicomte de Chagny had the air of one who lived each moment as though looking forward to the next, passing through life with a high-spirited youthfulness that was as enviable as it was delightful to watch.

Now however, he was pale and drawn, the hint of dark shadows unfolding like bruises under his eyes. Fair hair fell in unruly waves to his collar, the contrast all the more heightened by the rich opulence of the material. He looked like a man steadily fading away with sickness; even his eyes burned with the unnatural lustre of a fever. It would have been easy to resent this man who had crushed all of Erik's hopes, but Nadir could no more hate this wild figure of desperation than he could the kind-hearted nobleman driven by his convictions of love and justice.

What had happened to work such a change in him? And Madame Giry, the ballet mistress at the Opera Populaire? Their acquaintance had been passing, at best. What had she to do with any of this?

Then an awful premonition stirred, very faintly beneath the surface. Nadir took a deep breath, framing his next words carefully.

"Has this – excuse my asking – has this something to do with Mademoiselle Daae?"

Even the Persian was shocked at the hard shudder that passed through Raoul the moment the words passed his lips. The younger man flashed him an agonised look and then, very slowly, nodded.

Nadir swept a glance around the room, eyes falling on the decanter of brandy standing on the mantle (something he regrettably had acquired rather a taste for since his arrival in Paris). Offering his guest a drink seemed the most sensible course of action, judging from his haggard state, so he took a small crystalline glass from the shelf, filling it almost to the brim, and handed it to Raoul, who accepted it gratefully.

The Persian waited with a patience he rarely needed to draw upon, save with Erik, but curiosity impelled him to question the man further, to seek answers he horribly feared he knew already. The Vicomte was staring distantly at the intricate patterns on the Persian carpet, one hand tightly gripping the half-consumed glass of brandy, the other clenched at his side. He looked like a man half in another world.

"Tell me what has happened," Nadir said quietly.

And Raoul told him.

His voice was very calm, very reasoned, and Nadir listened, aware of surprise and then, as Raoul continued his story, not surprise. This was exactly what he had feared. It all seemed hopelessly inevitable, as though he had foreseen this ever since Erik had turned up at his apartment and told him he had renounced Christine forever.

Did he tell me, though? Nadir wondered suddenly. Did he actually say, in so many words, that he had given her up?

Heavy black brows furrowed, his mind going back over and over their brief conversation, trying to remember exactly what Erik had said.

Perhaps he did not tell me specifically. But he certainly led me to believe it.

The Persian tried to summon some form of emotion as the Vicomte's voice continued, as it seemed, from a very great distance, but he could see only Erik's masked face transcending the mists of the past, evoking memories thought long forgotten. Erik making some acerbic comment that he had chided himself for laughing at, Erik performing a trick that even the Shah's court – a place of magic and madness – had gaped at, Erik's dark eyes filled with bloodlust as he watched one of his torturous devices claim another unwilling victim, Erik's unmasked face strained and animalistic when his notoriety became his death-sentence, Erik's gaze filled with emotion when Nadir saved his life… He's a part of me, the Persian thought helplessly. Not necessarily a part I like or want, but I am bound to him. He's shaped the person I've become.

Could he ever hate a part of himself?

Sudden misery engulfed him at the thought of Erik's betrayal of his trust, but the feeling couldn't fully reach him; it was like sea washing against glass that protected his heart, case-hardened after a lifetime of loss. He closed his eyes, remembering holding onto Erik's arm, looking into his eyes. You did a very noble thing, letting her go.

His normally rich, deep voice was corroded by bitterness. "I should have known when I saw him… The way he looked when I mentioned Christine Daae… I should have realised. I should have known."

"You saw him?" Raoul said suddenly, stirred from his state of apathy. "When?"

"A few days ago. He came to see me, because he wanted –" He broke off suddenly, shaking his head at his own blind naivety. "He wanted to borrow my carriage."

The Vicomte's voice was very quiet. "You gave him your carriage?"

Nadir turned away, looking around the small sitting room where he had, over the years, entertained his self-professed charge and sometime companion in solitude. Erik's visits had been rare – often unannounced – but not entirely unwelcome. The two men had a shared history that transcended continents, and although Nadir had spent more of their acquaintance discharging unwanted advice than laughing at Erik's caustic and bitter wit, he had believed that their bond was more than that of a mere promise extracted under duress. Over the years, he had remained close and watched Erik not out of a fear that he would fall into his old ways of killing for pleasure, but out of true and sincere friendship. He blinked away the tears that suddenly rose in his dark eyes. I trusted you, Erik. Even when no one else would. I would have stood at your side and defied the world had you asked it of me, but instead –

What a fool I've been –

"I really believed he had given her up," he said in a hollow voice. "Or wanted to believe it."

"You wanted to believe," echoed Raoul, with all the unconscious cruelty of youth. "Did it not occur to you that's exactly why he came to you? Because he knew that when enough time had passed and an appearance of contrition, that you would absolve him with no questions asked? He planned this from the very beginning – perhaps from the very moment he fled the Opera House. You were simply the tool that provided the means for his diabolical scheme – and Christine his victim."

Nadir swallowed hard, understanding the harsh inference of the words. The Vicomte was too courteous to ever say it, but it was evident he believed Erik had merely taken advantage of an old fool's sensibility for his own ends. Do you really think he cares about you? That he's ever cared for anyone other than himself?

No. I know him. I have to believe he can be redeemed. I have to.

He clenched his fists, feeling the rings – the sole remainder of his once substantial riches – driving into his flesh. "He needs absolution. But not from me."

Raoul's blue eyes darkened to the colour of turbulent storm clouds. "He deserves damnation."

And you think you should be the one to give it to him?" demanded the Persian, with a flash of rare anger.

"Yes," came the reply, without hesitation. "Yes, I think I've earned that right."

"Erik has hurt others before now."

"He killed my brother," said Raoul. "Did you know that?"

Nadir flinched, as though physically struck. Another murder? Or an unwitting accident? In the aftermath of the fire, he had read all the papers he could lay his hands on, though it was almost impossible to tell fact from fiction from all the chronicles of that fateful night. Philippe de Chagny had been a further mystery. Accidental drowning was the official story the newspapers had published, but he knew too well of Erik's infernal traps…

He realised then that it was not merely Christine that had stoked the fires of vengeance in Raoul. It would seem these men were fated to become enemies, and he shuddered, fearing the Vicomte did not possess the steel that would be required to withstand Erik's terrible wrath. He looked at this man, not long out of boyhood, and thought suddenly of his own son who would have been about the same age, had he lived. "I'm sorry to hear that. I lost someone too – once." His voice cracked with pain. It was the first time he had spoken of Reza to anyone in many, many years.

The Vicomte's eyes softened slightly with compassion, though the thread of ice did not leave his voice. "Tell me. Was it because of Erik?"

The Persian closed his eyes. The memory of Reza convulsing in agony, Erik's voice the only thing that could bring him comfort and release… crafting a beautiful dream world for the boy, far beyond the reach of pain… and his own complicity in sending his son into death. "Yes. But not in the way you think."

"And yet you still defend him."

Nadir took a deep, shuddering breath. Would the burden of guilt ever leave him? "There were circumstances… things beyond my control. You wouldn't understand."

"No," said Raoul. "I don't understand why you continue to forgive him, time and time again when he's proven he doesn't deserve it. Oh yes, Monsieur – I forgave him too – for Christine's sake. Didn't put a sword through his heart even when I would have been justified in doing so." His voice turned soft, contemplative. "Of course… I hadn't known what would happen to Philippe then. Perhaps that would have changed things."

"I know how you must be –"

"Do you know why Madame Giry had your address? Erik gave it to her. He told her that if ever he or Christine were in danger, to go to you, and that you can be trusted. Now Christine is in danger – and we need your help."

"I made it my duty to protect him," said Nadir ruminatively. "Even if it was from himself."

"You know," Raoul said. "In your heart – you know he's in the wrong."

"I know it," said Nadir gravely. "But it doesn't make it any easier."

The Vicomte looked at him, and a faint glimmer of hope flashed across his face like a beacon. "So you'll help us?" he said eagerly.

There was a heart-breaking innocence and resolve in those firm features. To the Persian's world-weary eyes, he was still so painfully young, so untainted in his view of the world. To crush those illusions would be sheer cruelty. What man alive could refuse such an entreaty? Nadir was silent a moment, and then nodded. "Whatever needs to be done."

"And you'll tell me where he's taken her? Because I think you know."

"Before I tell you," the Persian said suddenly, looking sharply into Raoul's eyes. "I need to know something. How deeply do you love the Mademoiselle?"

Raoul stared hopelessly at the older man, his face bleak with all the agony of love forsaken. His voice was hoarse with desperation. "I believe I've loved Christine every moment of her life. All those years ago I remember telling her that we were going to be married; we planned our wedding together as children. That dream never left me, even when I thought our paths would never cross again, even when I knew what was expected of me for the honour of our family, there was never anyone else. No one came close. I grew older, wealthier, yet I never stopped thinking, never stopped hoping... and the moment I saw her again onstage at the Opera, I had a feeling of – of fate that couldn't be fought. I understood then with utmost certainty – we were always meant to find one another. How could there be anyone else, for either of us? Such a love happens only once in a lifetime." He clenched his fists, voice now darkened with anger. "So if you think this is some ill-considered scheme, or fleeting impulse, or a romantic attempt at heroism, you're wrong. My God, you don't know how wrong."

"Algeria," said Nadir. "He's going to Algeria. There was a boat he was planning on taking, I imagine from Marseilles. At least that's what he told me…" His voice trailed off.

"And do you trust him?"

"More than you do, evidently. Erik had no reason to lie to me. Not about that, even if he did about… other things."

Raoul's handsome face was set like stone. Then he looked up, and in his eyes was a flicker of silent appeal – wanting him to have been lying, to reassure him that it wasn't true. When he realised it wasn't going to come, he gave a barely audible sigh.

"Algeria," he repeated softly. "I never thought it would be so far."

"I meant what I said. That I will help you by any means within my disposal. If you're still willing to try and find her –"

Raoul's eyes blazed like ice crystals. "Of course I'm willing."

Nadir stepped forward and caught hold of the younger man's arm. "I will say this only once. You don't have to be noble. You are young, wealthy, bright; your life is just beginning. The pain that you feel now – I know it seems unbearable – but it will pass. All the joys of life are before you: a career should you wish it, marriage, children… love that is built upon peace and prosperity, that strengthens over time, as its foundations are solid and true. Think carefully before you throw such prospects away. If you choose to follow this path, do you realise what it will mean? Should you decide to leave, you have a house, an estate to be taken care of, servants, retainers – and yes, I know more about living in wealth than you might suppose – this isn't something to be taken up lightly. To abandon your responsibilities, your life –"

"What do I care about a life if she isn't in it?" cried Raoul.

Silence fell between the two of them. The Persian relaxed his involuntarily tight grip on Raoul's arm and pressed an aged hand against his forehead, trying to ease out the lines of tension. His gaze travelled around the small apartment, a pitiful reminder of the prosperity he had lost. There were advantages, he thought, for not having anything to leave behind. It had seemed a woeful enough place to live out his remaining years, but still, there had been some comfort in the idea of stability – something which Persia, for its extravagances, had never guaranteed.

"So you're certain?"

"I'm certain."

"There is just one other thing…" The Vicomte turned around and looked back him. "If you try to hurt Erik, I will stop you."

"I know," said Raoul.

The darkness seemed to bleed into the room from between the half-closed curtains, stealing across the low-beamed ceiling and casting its shadow over the floating motes of dust that made the air so parched and bone dry. She could smell polished wood, the dying embers of the fire and the sharpness of a winter's night. Its chill crept into her bones. Coldness, like memory, stilled her.

He was standing by the window: a tall, distinctive figure, even when overcome with weariness. As her eyes adjusted to the sombre gloom, his features materialised until she saw him with sharper clarity, tracing his altered profile under lowered gold lashes. She moved towards him with slow, hesitant steps, a strange contrast to her usual light-footed swiftness. Dryness sealed her mouth; she wanted to speak and alert him to her presence, but his detachment was unnerving. His smooth aristocrat's hands were resting on the frosted window frame as he closed his eyes, head bowed in silent contemplation.

Common sense dictated he would rather have been left in solitude, but Meg broke the silence abruptly, asking with all her customary bluntness, "Are you alright?"

Raoul turned and looked at her. Meg flushed a little with heat, despite the cold of the parlour. "Sorry. Of course you're not."

"No," said Raoul with a sigh, seeming to come to himself with an effort. He looked like a man who had been travelling for miles. "You're concerned. How are you holding up through all this?"

The proud Meg felt herself falter slightly at his eyes on her, with their calm, steady look. She felt an uncharacteristic flash of self-doubt, wondering suddenly if he merely thought her a frivolous, wayward child, silly and superficial, with none of Christine's inner depth or dignity. But then she paused. Not once since all this had begun, had anyone asked her about her own feelings. "Honestly? I don't know. It still doesn't seem quite real."

"I know," he said distantly. "I do. I lay awake the entire night and the night before that. And it feels like the dream of a fever or some delirium. I'm still waiting to wake up, but a part of me knows I'm not going to. This is it, isn't it? This is the reality. This – walking nightmare. I talk, I eat, I do, but none of it is me. Only something working through me, in order to do what must be done."

She walked up and joined him at the window. He had turned away from her again, looking outward, as though by gazing hard enough, he might somehow find Christine out in the darkness. His gloved fingers traced a distracted pattern on the glass.

"Raoul," she said, "You're being –"

He smiled wryly. "Self-indulgent. I know. You told me."

"I was actually going to say incredibly brave."

"Brave?" The bitter laugh caused his body to shudder slightly. "Do you think I feel brave?"

"You don't seem afraid."

"Oh, I am," he said. "Terribly. If you only knew –"

"Of Erik?"

"Of him, myself – I don't know. I'll do whatever it takes to find Christine, and yet I have this terrible feeling that I will have to kill Erik, before the end. And if it comes to that – if it's the only way to save her from him… how could Christine live with loving a murderer? How could I expect her to? Will I have to save her only to lose her again?"

"It may not come to that," Meg pointed out reasonably. It was the here and now that concerned her; vague uncertainties had never troubled her staunchly practical mind.

"I don't know," he said. "It's just a feeling."

"And –" she hesitated. "Would you? Kill Erik, I mean? Even if it made her hate you?"

"Yes," said Raoul, steadily. "I'd do anything for Christine. Even if she never forgave me for it. Just as she would have married Erik to save my life."

Meg flushed suddenly, feeling as though she was intruding on something intensely private and intimate, something that she had no right to be hearing. And there was no doubt he was in earnest. His face was hard and defiant; blue eyes no longer cold, but lit with an inner fire of passion and fury and resolve. She could see his lightly muscled shoulders were tense with the effort of holding himself together. Sandy hair fell across his brow in uncoiffed disarray. He had cast his jacket aside and his shirt hung loosely over his high-waisted belt. His wild and dishevelled appearance merely served to reinforce his words; that he would walk through fire to save the girl he loved. Seeing him so inflamed made her aware that she felt –possibly for the first time in her life – somehow cold and alone. No man – despite the exaggerated declarations of flirtatious suitors at the Opera – would ever do such a thing for her. And that realisation was hurtful to her, more hurtful than she expected or wanted.

"The Gendarmes called while you were gone," she said dully. "That's what I came to tell you."

For a moment, it was clear Raoul had completely forgotten there were detectives currently combing Paris. He had never truly believed this was a matter that could be resolved by the police. "What did they say?"

"Well, as there was no sign of a struggle, no evidence that Christine had been taken against her will –" Raoul let out a disbelieving laugh – "And they also pointed out that she had been in the papers due to a recent scandal, and seemed to think that because she had been a singer and actress –"

"That she had ensnared the gullible Vicomte until a better offer came along, and stole out of Paris with her newfound trinkets and jewels," finished Raoul grimly.

"That was the general implication, yes," said Meg.

He shook his head, weary with resignation. "They wouldn't have been much help to us, anyway. Not when it became evident that Christine was no longer in Paris –" he broke off, hesitating, clearly wondering how much she knew.

"I know where he's taken her," said Meg quietly. "Maman told me."

"Good," he said, vaguely. "Good."

"And –" Meg glanced at him with a sudden, guilty flash of awful uncertainty. "You're still going after her?"

"Yes," said Raoul.

"I knew you would," she said, and then, to her shame and horror, burst into tears.

Raoul's eyes widened, his expression aghast. This was clearly the last thing he had expected. "Meg –"

She shook her head violently, furious at herself for acting so – so – weak, when she shouldn't have even been thinking of herself at all at such a time. How ridiculous, to fall prey to feminine sensibility at such an inopportune moment – as though she were one of those silly, hysterical chorus girls with no strength of will or ability to bear emotional strife.

Raoul made a half impulsive movement – as though he had thought to put his arms around her and then thought better of it. Instead, he merely looked at her with deep sympathy, his blue eyes softening. Somehow, it was easier that he didn't try and offer useless words of comfort, but it dimly occurred to her that he must have seen Christine crying before, and wondered how different his response would have been if it were Christine there instead.

Meg jumped as his hand took hold of hers, feeling very warm and reassuring, and through her blurred vision, she glanced down and saw he had pressed a handkerchief into her grasp.

"Thank you," she said, in a muffled voice, and pressed it against her eyes. It helped a little, although there was nothing to be done for the choking, constricting spasms that shook though her body. It felt as though everything she had been suppressing had burst from her at last, stresses she didn't even realise she had been carrying. The bewilderment at first, and then concern for Raoul… She hadn't stopped to let herself think of Christine, Christine whom she cared for like a sister, and –

Is it my fault? Is it my fault?

"I'm sorry," she choked. "I didn't mean to fall apart like this –"

"No," he said with surprising gentleness. "No. Don't be sorry."

She half-turned, and he went to move away slightly, perhaps to give her some space, but her hands caught in the material of his shirt, fisting in the slightly creased fabric, and she rested her head on his chest and cried. It was a raw, uncontrollable, violent outburst, somehow horrible in its lack of restraint. It was the way Christine had cried after her father died. Meg remembered listening to those heartrending sobs the few nights before they had come to the Opera Dorms, how shaken and uncomfortable it used to make her feel that anyone could endure such terrible emotion.

She could not remember the last time she had cried. Meg Giry was one who seemed to bask in perpetual sunshine. She had always danced to meet life without worries or cares, and had privately thought Christine's bouts of melancholy a little maudlin. Such things never touched her. In her bright and sparkling young life, she had never suffered from grief or loss – other than a father whom she was too young to remember – and goodness, why couldn't she get a hold of herself and stop being such a little fool –

"I'm fine –" she insisted angrily. "Honestly, I'm fine –"

Strong arms came around her a little awkwardly, and Raoul held himself very still, waiting for the tide of emotion to spend itself.

"Alright," she finally admitted, lifting her flushed, damp face up to his. "Alright – I'm afraid. Not for me, but for her. I've always protected her, you see. When the other girls were being vicious cats or Joseph Buquet would make some leering comment, I was always there to defend her. I was always the strong one. If Erik had taken me – why, I'd have spat in his face, I'd have clawed him, scratched him, shouted at him – my God, he would have had a fight on his hands! But Christine isn't like that. Not that she's weak, I don't mean that, but she has too much of a conscience. She pities him. And I know he'll take advantage of her kindness; it makes my blood boil to think of it –"

"Shush," he soothed her, stroking her tumbled blonde hair in a movement that seemed strangely uncomfortable for one so self-assured. "It's all right. I know."

"Why is this happening?" she demanded, with sudden fierceness. "Of all the girls in the world, why did it have to be Christine?"

She felt Raoul shudder against her. "I don't know."

Slightly calmer now, she dared to ask something that she had been wondering for a while. "Do you think he really loves her?"

"Oh, he does," said Raoul grimly. "In his own foul, perverse way, he does love her. Otherwise, why go to such lengths to have her? And it isn't just some pretty chorus girl he's after. For his own mad reasons, it's Christine he wants. And the way he looked at her when they were performing Don Juan… it's not love as you or I could ever feel, it's something quite horrible, but in his own mind, it's quite real. I'm sure of that."

"You're right," she said. "It is horrible. Imagine being loved by no one."

A shadow passed across his grave face. "I can," he said. "And I do – sometimes."

Meg pulled away from him sharply and wrapped her arms around her demurely corseted frame. The heaving spasms in her chest had subsided slightly. "I don't think you need to worry," she said, with a flash of uncommon bitterness.

He looked away, his eyes suddenly bleak and cold. "Perhaps."

She recalled then what he had confided in her the day before, out in the cold street with the snow swirling around them… Even when we are together, she's never really with me. Sometimes she gets this distant look in her eyes… and I know it's because of him.

"Marguerite! Is the Vicomte with you?"

Raoul started slightly, both at the interruption, and at hearing Meg's full name.

"That's Maman," she said, dabbing at her eyes with the expert swiftness only an actress could manage, and surveyed the effect dispassionately in the window. "I suppose she'll want to talk to your Persian friend."

Raoul looked at her thoughtfully. "Marguerite. It's a pretty name."

Meg smiled slightly at her reflection, satisfied there were no traces of tears. "I hate it. It was my Grandmere's name. Apparently, Papa wanted to call me Juliette, but Maman wouldn't hear of it. She wanted something very traditional and sedate. Needless to say, it didn't rub off on me at all."

Raoul laughed – actually laughed. And for a brief moment, he was the carefree, golden Adonis that had set the Opera Dorms gossiping for weeks.

"You should do that more often," she said. This house has felt like a morgue for the last two days.

"Thank you," he said. "For making me feel better – again."

"Perhaps I should start charging a fee." She kept her tone light and playful. Her little moment of weakness had passed and something of the old sparkle had returned to her hazel eyes.

Raoul met her arch look with a deep and earnest gaze she found difficult to meet. "Christine is fortunate to have a friend like you."

"She'd laugh to hear you say that. Now go on – you're keeping her waiting."

Meg's smile faded as he left the room. Slowly, she walked towards the window, her diminutive figure swallowed up by the encroaching darkness. The lights of Paris were blurred and distorted through the sleet-washed glass. The handkerchief, embroidered with Raoul's initials, suddenly crumpled fiercely between her fingers. She stared out the window, watching the cold rain falling and falling, and did not move for a very long time.

END OF PART I