Chapter Two
Raoul had come back to Paris two days later than anticipated and, before going home, went straight to Christine's door. He was eager to see her and had brought her the gift of a red scarf as a reminder of their youth. What he had not expected was a "To Let" sign posted on the door.
He peered into the window and saw two men working inside to fix a door that had fallen off its hinge. He felt his anxiety building as he hammered on the door with his fist. One of the workers came to the door, looking ready to chew him out until he realized Raoul was higher class. "Yes, Sir?"
Raoul looked past him into the home. "Where are Madame Giry and her daughter?"
The worker shrugged. "I don't know. My boss told me to come over and fix the place up because his tenants had left. I didn't ask and he didn't tell me."
"But my fiancee was with them! She would have told me!" Raoul stammered.
"Hey, your name wouldn't happen to be Raoul, would it?" The worker asked.
"Yes! Why?"
The worker stepped back into the room and produced an envelope with his name on it. "I suppose someone expected you to show up. Here."
Raoul took the envelope and hastily opened it. He pulled out a letter and Christine's engagement ring tumbled out. The worker picked it up and handed it to Raoul. "Well, I suppose you don't have a fiancee any more." He laughed and went back to work, wishing he'd thought to check the envelope before giving it to Raoul.
Unfolding the letter, he skimmed it and then angrily crumpled it. He didn't believe it for a minute and turned quickly back to his carriage. "Henri, take me to the Opera Populaire...the back of it." As the carriage pulled away, Raoul pulled a small box out from under his seat and removed a revolver, which he loaded and placed inside his jacket.
It was not easy, finding his way back down to the fiend's lair. He came across many sprung traps and exposed pitfalls that he gingerly stepped around. Twice he turned the wrong way but finally he was at the edge of the underground lake that he had swum across once before. He was convinced he'd find Christine in the clutches of that hideous monster and this time he planned to make a final end of the madness. He made it quietly to the other shore and carefully went forward towards the small house. He cautiously pushed the door open and stepped into a complete disaster. The angry mob had taken their fear and aggression out on the belongings of the demon since they had been unable to find the creature himself. Lamps lay shattered on the torn carpets, books were torn in half and flung everywhere, his piano lay in pieces, and, in the center of it all, was the freak himself, sitting on the floor against the wall, thumbing through ripped music.
"Where is she, you bastard?!" Raoul seethed angrily.
The Phantom of the Opera...Erik...looked up at the sound of his enemy's voice. "What a surprise finding you here, Vicomte. I thought you'd be too busy with your new bride to spare me a thought and yet, you're here."
Raoul pulled his revolver out and aimed it at Erik's head. "Where is she?!"
Erik looked singularly unphased by the loaded gun pointed at him. "Oh please, Monsieur. Do pull the trigger. I would welcome an end to this miserable existence."
Raoul swore and took a quick walk around the house. When he returned, Erik was still sitting in the same place. "What do you want? If you're not going to kill me, I'd prefer to be left alone."
Raoul put his gun away. "You mean to tell me you have nothing to do with this?!" He tossed the crumpled letter from Christine at Erik, who opened it up to read:
My Dearest Raoul,
I'm sorry I cannot be what you want me to be: a wife, mother, and Vicomtesse. To do those things, you want me to give up music and that is something I can never do.
I don't expect you to understand how music is in my pulse and singing through my veins. I don't understand it myself. But ever since this was awakened in me, I know I cannot give it up. It would be like asking me to give up my soul.
You're a good man who deserves a woman who wants to be a mother to all the children you want. Though that woman isn't me, I know you'll find her someday.
Yours in Regret,
Christine
For the first time in a very long time, Erik smiled. "You're only learning now the lesson I had to. Christine has her own will buried deep down and you cannot bend it to your whim."
"I have never forced her to bend to anything, unlike you!" Raoul retorted. "I will find her and make her see reason. At least she is free of your influence. The way she spoke about music being awakened in her, I thought you'd gotten back into her head. Now I see I should never have allowed her to stay with that woman."
Erik frowned. "What woman?"
As Raoul made his way to the door to leave, he replied, "Madame Giry. I'm sure she and her daughter have managed to put some foolish nonsense in her head and that's why they're all gone."
Erik feigned disinterest. "I wish you luck in your search, Monsieur Vicomte. Wherever Christine may be, you will have little hope of convincing her to leave her one, true love: music."
Raoul scoffed and left the small house.
When he could hear his footfalls no more, Erik stood up and looked again at the note written in Christine's elegant hand.
"I don't expect you to understand how music is in my pulse and singing through my veins. Ever since this was awakened in me, I know I cannot give it up. It would be like asking me to give up my soul." Erik read her words aloud and then clutched the letter to his chest. For the first time, he allowed the small seed of hope he carried within him to take root. "She does understand! She can be mine," he whispered. The idiot Vicomte had not been what she needed or, ultimately, what she had wanted. She chose music over him and Erik knew that he was the only man who could take the passion that lived in both of their souls and build it into something that only they could understand. That she had left with Madame Giry and her daughter told Erik something the Vicomte didn't know. Erik knew, without a doubt, where they were and soon, he would be there as well, with no Vicomte in his way.