A/N: By the way, "Morpheus" is the Greek god of dreams/sleep. His name is where we get the word "morphine." He's mentioned again in this chapter.
Chapter 16: Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881
"Lotte, darling, wake up."
"Mmm…"
Christine groaned in protest, but began to open her eyes in response to the gentle voice calling her from another deep sleep.
"There you go mon cherie, wake up now…"
"E...Erik?"
The young girl sat up expecting to see a certain green-eyed man standing over her, perhaps giving her a refreshing drink of water…
"No, my dear, it is Antoinette."
Christine blinked for a few moments; confusion was written all over her features in an instant.
"Maman? But-but I thought…"
The Madame hushed her and tenderly pushed the girl back down into the bed.
"Easy now, ma fille. You have had a nasty fall…you must not strain yourself."
Young Lotte, never one to push aside a sincere helping hand, couldn't restrain herself from gripping one of Giry's wrists in a sudden movement. Antoinette's brows furrowed with anxiety.
"Lotte?"
"Where is he?" Christine's voice became high pitched. She tried pushing past the Madame, looking with worried brown eyes over the woman's shoulder. "He was here moments ago, Maman. He sang me to sleep…"
"Who? Who are you talking about?" Antoinette asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Erik!" Christine shouted, louder than either of them expected. "He was here Maman! He isn't dead!"
Quickly recovering from the unexpected outburst, Antoinette released Christine, suffering the girl a bit more personal space. Giry stiffened considerably, agitated at the mention of the Phantom once again. That man seemed to infect everything…
"Erik isn't here, Christine. Look around, my dear. You're in my quarters."
Indeed, Daaé had realized she was no longer in the strange room with the Swan bed and the cymbal-playing monkey. And Erik wasn't there anymore.
"Maman, I saw him." Christine, all grogginess pressed to the back of her mind, "He…he helped me. He's not dead. I-I remember there was mist…swirling mist a-and a vast glassy lake-"
"Arrêt!" Antoinette cried out harshly. "That is enough Lotte. Living in the past will not aid you in the future. Erik is not here."
The ballet mistress' features were cold and unforgiving, grey lines etched into every detail of her face. Christine suddenly remembered what Erik had told her.
"Antoinette told me that you were dead."
"That doesn't surprise me."
Lotte's eyes widened. Shock and hurt poured onto her face just as prominent as anger and mistrust had flooded onto Antoinette's.
"You…you lied to me."
A flicker of regret passed over the older woman's face; but it did not last.
"I did what was necessary. Erik is dead. He is dead to us all, Christine." She spoke softly, but the severe edge to her tone still remained. "Sooner or later, you will see that. And that I truly regret."
"You lied to me!" Daaé was shaking with emotion.
"Do not raise your voice at me," Antoinette snapped back, "I did what was best and—"
An insistent rapt on the door cut Giry short.
"Madame! Let me in this instant or I swear I will break the door down!"
Christine let out a shocked cry. "You told him! You told Raoul!"
De Chagny Estate, Paris, France 1869
Raoul de Chagny's resolve had already begun to dissolve as soon as he knocked on the thick, sturdy door. The young Vicomte sighed, trying to strengthen his trembling nerves. He hated feeling this weak, this powerless, this exposed and insecure. The accursed four letter word always accompanied those emotions—fear. And God knew how he hated being afraid of anything.
'But all this will change…he will see I am not a worthless pup….he will appreciate me…'
"Come in!"
Raoul knew he wasn't getting a kinder invitation. Count Philibert de Chagny, by anyone's standard, was not kind. As soon as he entered his father's private study, the brutally cold blue eyes sliced into him.
"Raoul," The Count's voice was acidic, "You had better have an excuse to interrupt me. I do not have time for your sniveling."
"Yes Father," Young de Chagny replied, working to gaze straight into the man's eyes. "This will not waste your time."
"It had better not."
Raoul hesitated, shifting from one foot to another as he stood before his father's scrutinizing eyes-he had not been invited to sit.
'Here goes…'
'Traitor! You promised Lotte! Don't do it…'
'Your father will love you for it….he hates Gustave…'
"Speak boy!"
"I…I have a piece of information that may push Uncle Gustave over the edge, Father. It might finally get him out of our affairs."
"I'm listening."
"As you know, Lotte—"
"Lotte?"
"Christine. It's her pet name."
"Ah, yes," Philibert leaned back into his leather seat. "My sister's last 'gift' to her miserable husband before she died. What about her?"
"She has a friend, a close friend that Gustave does not approve of. An orphan Madame Giry found in a travelling circus. A young boy."
"I see young Christine is already following in her mother's footsteps." Philibert snorted, "A wench… already seducing the useless."
"It's not like that, Father." Raoul felt something rise to his little cousin's defense. The accusation was ridiculous, uncalled for even. "They are children. Only friends."
"Don't raise your voice at me boy." The older man snapped, "I will not permit my son to defend the Daaés in my own home."
"Of course not, sir. Apologies." The Vicomte took a deep breath.
"And what might this boy have that can possible aid me? I suppose we could kill Gustave and blame it on a delinquent child of the gutter, but I hardly call that a workable plan, Raoul."
The young boy suppressed an involuntary shiver. His father had no idea how close his jest was to Erik's true nature.
"I agree, but it was not what I was thinking of. Gustave will be quite upset if he finds out his daughter has been socializing with the boy behind his back. The knowledge of it held and no doubt encouraged, by Christine's caretakers—the Girys—will not go well with him. What if we let it slip that Christine has, in fact, deliberately disobeyed him? Even Gustave has a false sense of twisted honor, Father. To him, the boy could damage his reputation. Granted, Daaé's entire idea to protect Christine's reputation is completely ludicrous since we know he's no gentleman. Nonetheless, it may be enough to send him away from Paris—hence, away from us. He's expressed sentiments about leaving the capital anyway so it's very probably this idea might work."
The Vicomte held his breath after he laid out his proposition. The Count had closed his eyes, pondering his son's words. His fingers were pressed together in pensive thought.
'Please father…see that this could work! See that I am capable and worthy to be your heir!'
The silence was heavy; but it did not last forever. A cruel, proud smirk broke across Philibert's face. His eyes opened—harsh tints laced his pupils.
"Do it. And do not disappoint me."
With a gesture, Raoul was dismissed to do his father's bidding. Lotte's secret was no longer.
The Opera Ghost sat; waiting watchfully for the performance. He was black and invisible to the naked eye. His midnight-shaded cloak covered any sliver of light that might emanate from his being. If any had caught sight of him at that moment—and those who chanced their line of sight in his direction, thought him but a trick of the shadows—they would have seen a tall, muscular figure carved in stone of ebony, gems of dazzling jade staring from behind a haunting white mask. Terrifying, unfeeling, uncaring, hating of all those milling about beneath him, hating the lives they lived, the breath that filled their lungs. He envied their freedom, their carefree manner. He could have killed them all—should have killed them all—yet, a gleam of light pierced though his soul. The piercing light was not gentle; it pushed the blackness of his innermost parts painfully away. Yet, no matter how agonizing the dividing of him and his sins had been, it was not wholly unwelcome.
The bearer of that gleam—that is what had kept him from fighting. Christine Daaé.
Earlier…
"Would you sing for me then?"
'I can do this….it's for Christine…for Christine…Christine…' And he opened his mouth and sang.
Nighttime sharpens heightens each sensation
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon their defenses…
Erik had raised an eyebrow, questioning silently whether he should continue. Christine smiled gently, nodding her encouragement.
Slowly, gently, night unfurls it splendor….
Grasp it, sense it tremulous and tender…
Turn your face away from the garish light of day
Turn your face away from cold unfeeling light—
And listen to the music of the night…
Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams!
Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before!
Close your eyes let your spirit start to soar!
As he masterfully struck the notes of his melody, young Lotte leaned back into the divan, her brown eyes slowly beginning to shadow under her eyelids.
And you'll live as you've never lived before…
Softly, deftly, music shall surround you…
Feel it, hear it, secretly possess you…
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind,
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight—
The darkness of the music of the night…
Erik had stopped there, letting the beautiful notes echo and fade into the air. The words of his composition, originally, had not ended for another stanza or two…but it did not matter. As he watched, Christine's eyes flutter close and her breathing become more and more even, he knew it did not matter how much he sang, but with how much of himself he sang into his piece.
Indeed, he had sung with all his heart and he knew that was all that counted.
The Phantom of the Opera sighed. How he wished to spend eternity doing just that. Just singing with all himself, no underlying hate driving his emotions, but just doing what he wanted—no, what he was made for—and to do it with people who truly cared about him.
And he cared about in return.
"If only it were that simple." Erik sighed to himself, inaudible to anyone but the wood planks that flanked him as he hid in the scaffolding above stage.
Madame Antoinette Giry had been one of those chosen few. Presently, he wasn't so sure. Granted, she had left Lotte alone with him to recover, but he knew it was mostly because there were no better options presented her. After all, as soon as the opportunity had become available, she had snuck down to the lair, politely commanding him to bring the sleeping damsel back to the surface. Naturally, Erik had obeyed knowing that protesting for any reason was useless and stupidly selfish. He had carried Christine gently to the Madame's quarters, leaving immediately afterwards.
Antoinette had loved him as a mother loved a son and he suspected that her motherly emotions were not completely vanquished, but buried under years of hurt and disappointment. Yes, he admitted to hurting her, betraying her even. Lotte's harsh and abrupt departure had left him wounds that were raw and incurable. His pain had fed his hatred. His hatred had led to things, actions that would condemn any other man to prison; thieving, forgery, lying, kidnapping…murder—to name but a few of his sins.
Yet, a small part of him dared to hope; to hope that all could change; that he could change.
"Get. Out."
Daaé's lower jaw sent warnings of pain through her face, but her teeth continued to grind harshly, and her words barely hissed through audibly.
The Vicomte Raoul de Chagny— heir and only living son to the Count Philibert de Chagny, son to the late Countess de Chagny née de Moerogis de La Martyniere, only nephew to his father's long dead sister, Aminta Cerise Daaé née de Chagny, and cousin to her only child, Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé—stood tall and confident in the room, breathing heavily from his run from the upper floors to Antoinette's private rooms. His green-blue eyes were locked upon Lotte, who was sitting up tensely on the bed.
"Get OUT!" She shouted at him again. Her fingers were like claws clutching the sheets of the bed.
Raoul's own jawline became hard as stone and his eyes flashed with ire, but when he spoke it was even and controlled, if somewhat cold.
"Madame, Meg. Will you please leave us for a moment?"
"I don't think—" Meg started.
"It was not a suggestion, mademoiselle." De Chagny cut her off, "Young Daaé and I need to speak. Alone."
Marguerite turned to her mother, who had remained by the door ever since she had let Raoul enter. Antoinette glanced at Christine. The girl did not meet her gaze, but continued to glare at the male presence standing in the room. Giry sighed. She had hoped it would not come to this so soon; just as she had wished other things had never had happened. But what was done was just that—done.
"Meg, outside."
"Mother—"
"Now, Meg." Marguerite looked doubtfully between the two cousins, obviously torn betwixt obeying her mother and standing by her young friend.
"Marguerite. Now." The blond woman hesitated then shook her head sadly. She walked towards Christine and planted a soft, encouraging kiss on the girl's sweating forehead.
"I'm sorry." Meg whispered. With that, mother and daughter left.
Raoul did not speak for a good few minutes, studying his cousin intently. She sat unmoving, her right ankle bandaged heavily and wearing a clean, modest chemise. The only sound was that of Christine's labored inhalations and exhalations.
"What happened to your foot?"
His cousin did not respond verbally, but by the way her eyes narrowed it was response enough. In a longsuffering manner, he sighed moving to sit at the edge of the bed Lotte occupied. She hissed angrily scooting away as far away from him as possible.
"Acting like this will get you nowhere, Lotte. It fact it might get you on a stage back to Marseille. I'm sure your father doesn't approve of this trip. "
"Do not touch me."
"I don't wish to," Raoul replied, soundly oddly light and amiable in his tone, "I wish to talk to you."
Christine glowered at him with unconcealed wrath in her usually docile irises. Silence was de Chagny's only reply for another space of time. But Raoul's patience was wearing thin. Silence in a conversation was not something he usually experienced from the opposite sex. And he didn't like it.
"Stop sulking." He snapped.
"Stop speaking."
"Your immaturity has reached new heights, Daaé. I'm impressed."
"Your hypocrisy and narcissism has reached new depths. I'm sure even Satan himself has not explored abysses so low." Christine bit back, not missing a beat, "Frankly, I'm not surprised."
"Enough! Shall I reach the heart of the issue for you?" Raoul leaned forward suddenly, his face close to Christine's. "You hold every foul emotion in your being at my fault yet you believe that piece of circus slime innocent when you know very well he isn't. Why?"
"Leave Erik out of this!"
Raoul laughed humorlessly. "That, dearest cousin, is not possible. Erik is the heart of the problem, hm? In fact, I daresay he is, and always was, the root of it all."
"Erik's past shortcomings as a child had nothing to do with your lack of loyalty and betrayal."
"It is not betrayal when you are protecting an innocent from a plague-ridden sewer rat—"
Christine suppressed an exclamation of rage as she slapped Raoul across the cheek. "Spare me your lies and deceit. Nothing that comes out of your mouth will ever make me forgive you for what you caused to happen. I will never, ever, stop hating you until breath leaves my body. Even then may my bone's dust choke you."
De Chagny sat, immobile, staring at Christine in an unbroken gaze. Lotte, defiant, stood her ground. Several moments later, Madame Giry's door slammed shut as a blond-headed man flew out of the room.
They say that this youth has set my lady's heart aflame!
His lordship sure would die of shock!
His lordship is a laughing stock!
Should he suspect her, God protect her…
'Il Muto…The singularly most annoying opera I have ever heard…'
Indeed, Carlotta's inevitable flamboyant performance was Erik's only consolation. At least then, she would still make a fool of herself even if the none-the-wiser patrons did not understand the art of vocal rendition. However, he wondered how long that consolation would help him ignore the ringing in his ears.
With the well-being of his hearing on his mind, Erik had quickly devised a concoction to aid him in getting Carlotta off the stage as soon as possible. With the cast members' focus on the rising curtain, he had switched the Italian woman's vocal spray with his own bottle of useless liquid; of course, not entirely useless. It was a water-based irritant, harmless to everything except Giudicelli's vocal chords.
Serafimo—your disguise is perfect!
'Assuming that anymore harm could be done to that woman's curse of a voice… of all the screeching demons in France why this woman?'
Erik had quickly disposed of the woman's original foul-smelling bottle spray, hoping to leave the busy backstage unnoticed. The Phantom had other business to conduct than simply sabotage Carlotta.
Box Five was not empty.
The occupant was none other than his dear friend the Vicomte. Unluckily for de Chagny, he was alone in the box, leaving Erik the freedom to converse with the man. The foul countenance with which Raoul entered the theatre had immediately alerted Erik to the fact he had spoken with Christine. And that fact alone, aside from the issue of his box, was worth investigation.
A rapid gasp, however, suddenly brought the masked man out of his musings. He quickly wrapped his cloak tighter about him and backed into the shadows. After a brief pause, Erik dared to crane his neck up to where he had heard the sound. He growled under his breath.
Buquet. The accursed stagehand had spotted him.
Christine Daaé was getting out.
She didn't care if Antoinette had warned her to stay put; the woman had lied about Erik. She didn't care if Meg had said everything would be alright; she knew as well as anyone it wasn't. And she most certainly didn't care if Raoul had threatened to send her back to the coast; he had ceased to be of any importance the day he betrayed her and Erik.
That fact alone made little Lotte bear down and rise out of bed. Christine was getting out. She didn't care where; anywhere but being cooped up in Antoinette's room.
The only thing that mattered at this point was alleviating the pain in her foot enough to walk through the opera house. Perhaps, she could even find Erik…
Using the back of a chair for support, Lotte hobbled to Giry's desk, searching for the old bottle of laudanum the older woman always had on hand. After searching briefly, Christine procured the glass bottle, swallowing a mere ounce or so; enough to dull the pain, but not send her into the waiting arms of Morpheus.
However, walking on a broken ankle without anything to bear the brunt of moving was hardly wise. Once more using the chair, Christine scooted over to the large armoire, fumbling about in the dark closet until she found Antoinette's spare cane. Indeed, the woman was prepared for anything.
Christine tested the cane as she limped towards the door. It wasn't perfect, but it would do for her purposes. She then looked down at herself. Madame Giry had, whilst she slept, changed her into another chemise. Christine frowned.
'Chemises are becoming more and more of a headache aren't they? Long enough to cover every inch of skin yet still considered undergarments…'
She tried not to think about what had happened with Erik. Obviously, the situation had been purely innocent and coincidental, but it had been most embarrassing to the point of mortification.
No matter. She was still leaving the room. Going back to snatch a suitable robe from the armoire, Christine felt satisfied. Opening the door, stepped out into the halls.
She was greeted by the sound of screaming.
"The Phantom of the Opera! He killed him! He killed Buquet!"
A/N: Translations: ma fille= my girl, mon cherie=my dear, Arrêt = stop!