Chapter 17: Opera Populaire, Paris, France 1881

Hysterical ballerinas bounded to and fro at the further end of the hallway, screaming and crying incomprehensibly.

"…ghost!"

"Buquet…"

"Dead!"

"The Phantom of the Opera…"

A young girl, her reddish-brown hair flowing madly behind her, rushed past Christine. Christine immediately recognized the maiden. Reaching out quickly, Lotte grabbed the girl determined to get an explanation for the madness.

"What's happened?"

Young Elizabeth Lancaster's voice was thick with fear as she clutched Christine desperately.

"Oh mademoiselle! The Opera Ghost! He's killed Joseph Buquet!"

"The ghost? He's but a myth-"

"Non!" Elizabeth shook her head frantically, "Non mademoiselle we saw him! Everyone… the ballerinas, they were on the stage and-and…"

Tears spilled down the girl's face in streams; her throat tight as she shook her head again as if she was trying to dislodge the horrible sight of Buquet's body hanging…

Christine held the girl firmly by the shoulders, a creeping fear she could not interpret beginning to steal into her.

"Elizabeth, please," She asked, trying to keep the child clam amidst the turmoil of the cast, "Tell me what happened."

The girl shook her head fiercely, "Non, I can't—"

"Please!" Christine let a hint of desperation color her voice. She didn't know why, but she knew whatever the girl had seen she had to know also. "What happened to this 'Buquet'? Who killed him?"

Elizabeth shuddered. "H-he…Joseph was strangled by the g-ghost."

The young damsel hiccupped as a new wave of sobs hit her slight frame.

"I looked up, mademoiselle… I saw him…Buquet… hanging by the neck…a man was… standing over him…the rope…in his hands…his horrible face covered…by a mask…a white mask…"

Christine's heart stopped, a violent horror crawling up the back of her legs up to her neck.

'No…mon dieu, please, no…'

'Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.'

The Phantom of the Opera was deaf; all he could hear was his pounding heart as the last remnants of adrenaline coursed through him. The Phantom of the Opera was blind; all he could see was the man's last gasps as his legs thrashed aimlessly at the end of his Punjab lasso. And the Phantom was mute; his teeth clenched in wrath.

And it all felt wonderful.

A sick, sinister surge of dark pleasure swept over him as he spun his black cloak about him, blending into his refuge of the shadows. No regret followed him as he stole through the backstage, completely unnoticed by the screaming opera house around and below him.

'Let them scream… let them feel fear as I have felt…'

"O Vierge! Avoir la pitié!" An unknown woman's plea reached his ears; it made him smirk cruelly. An agonizing pulling of his lips until his white teeth glared with terrifying brutality.

"Yes," he sneered, his voice low and disturbing, "Beg for mercy…beg like the dogs you all are. You have received no less than you deserve."

Indeed, Buquet's death had been inevitable. Whether by the random hands of a drunkard or Erik's purposeful ones, the man had Death's visit close at hand. Like every man, he had to pay his debts. Erik had just collected the payment.

"Like yellow parchment is his skin… A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew…you must be always on your guard or he will catch you with his magical lasso!"

The Phantom laughed. His eyes blazed with uncontrolled fire, and his body stood tense and erect. He laughed until his ribs were sore and tears streamed down his face.

Revenge was so sweet.

Oh, so sweet.

The sight was decidedly gruesome. A large, bulky man lay crumpled on Opera Populaire's stage, a rope coiled around him, his thick face still red from struggle, and his eyes wide and lifeless.

Pandemonium had struck the unsuspecting patrons as a blacksmith's hammer had struck an anvil; suddenly and with unmeasured force. The crowd had run out has if the very hounds of Hades were at their heels. Screams and shouts of shock were still heard around all parts of the theatre as Christine stared at the body.

Ignoring all hints of pain, Christine had hobbled toward the stage after her brief conversation with Elizabeth. The girl's words spoken through sobs had made her come to see for herself.

She wished she hadn't.

"Lotte!"

Christine was suddenly being pulled away in the direction of backstage. She looked up at the force who was leading her.

"Raoul…"

"It's not safe here! Come, follow me."

Too stunned to protest, she allowed her cousin to take her by the arm and lead her through a throng of frenzied persons towards a winding wooden staircase. The young man flew up the stairs with odd aristocratic grace, Christine trailing numbly behind him.

The higher they climbed the less the din of the opera house assailed their ears. But the air grew chiller, and the shadows darker as the cries faded to disturbing shrills in the air.

Raoul pushed open a door at the end of the hall, and winter air told Christine they had escaped to the roof. The cold caused her to shiver back to her senses. She wrapped her arms around herself.

"Why have you brought us here?" she asked.

Raoul had turned his back to her when they had stepped out into the dark night. Now, Christine saw that his shoulders were tense. He appeared truly troubled; Lotte was confused.

"Raoul?" She asked with caution, unsure what territory she was treading with her unpredictable relative.

"I—I am sorry, Lotte."

The apology was spoken with such sincere reverence and regret, Christine gasped.

"What?" She moved to stand in front of him, her eyes wide with confusion. The Vicomte turned away, not meeting her gaze, but Christine had caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were wide with shock and realization.

"I…I didn't mean for this to happen, cousin." He still did not make eye contact, choosing instead to look over the twinkling lights of the city. "It was not my intention to bring this upon you. My arrogance blinded me…"

The young heir shook his head sadly, seemingly caught in his own musings. Christine's features grew dark with resentment.

"All this I know. As I have told you before, I will never forget nor forgive what you caused to transpire." She snorted, in a manner quite unbecoming to young woman. "Yet, you still choose to mock me. I know not what your twisted mind has conceived now, but I will not fall prey to its devices again. Leave me in peace, Raoul."

She tried to brush past him, meaning to make her exit immediately. Raoul's sudden grip on her arm stopped her in her tracks.

"You misunderstand me, Christine. I did not come here to insult you over the matter of our offenses. Rather, the subject over which the offenses started."

Young Daaé whirled on him quickly, venom filling her brown eyes and voice.

"I told you to leave him out of this!"

"Tonight's incident was not mere happenstance." Raoul was strangely desperate in his tone, ignoring Lotte's vehement retorts without so much as flinching. "The Opera Ghost killed the stagehand."

"So my cousin, the Vicomte de Chagny, has resorted to believing ghost stories? Really, you have spent too many nights with the ballet girls."

"I am not a superstitious man, Christine. You know that. But stories of a demented and hideously deformed man living under these foundations are hardly myth. We both know what secret the opera house holds."

Raoul held Christine's angry gaze, noticing how it flickered with just hints of doubt. Surprisingly, he felt truthfully sorry for her. He retained no sympathy for Erik whatever, but little Lotte…she was a slightly different matter. A part of him, very deep down, under layers of buried emotion, hated to tell her what he knew to be fact.

"Christine," de Chagny dared to place his hands on her shoulders, letting her know his seriousness. "Erik is the Phantom of the Opera. He killed Joseph Buquet."

Raoul de Chagny, the pompous aristocratic brat, had never surprised the Phantom of the Opera. Ever. Not even when he had betrayed Lotte's secret; he had known that was coming even if Christine hadn't. But now he was startled.

"Erik is the Phantom of the Opera. He killed Joseph Buquet."

Catching a glimpse of a familiar curly-headed maiden being dragged through the throng, Erik had immediately snapped to attention. He had followed them, tiptoeing on the support beams above. He slipped through a small window onto the roof and hid behind a statue of a rearing horse. Eavesdropping stealthily, he had expected the two estranged relatives to soon argue incessantly, and they had; until Raoul mentioned him and his alias.

That was a bit unexpected; disconcerting even. The masked man had not thought Raoul had pieced two and two together. Erik couldn't help but let a low growl escape his throat; he underestimated how much Raoul had heard around the Populaire.

"You're lying!" Christine's pleasant voice was strained, hitting him at the core.

'No, not like this….she wasn't supposed find out like this…'

"I'm lying?" Raoul replied incredulously. "Listen to yourself! Is so hard to believe that Erik would murder a defenseless man in cold blood? He did it as a child, Lotte and he's been doing it here for almost a decade."

"And you chose now to tell me? Why not before when you found me by the docks in Marseille years after I left Paris? Why not then? Why not this morning when you were insistent on destroying my loyalty to a childhood friend?"

"Does it matter?" Their voices had reached high and loud pitches, betraying the intense subplot of what had always underlain Raoul's and Christine's relationship. "By the Virgin, woman, stop questioning and think! Does this not all seem to have happened before?"

Sounds of heavy breathing followed, Daaé not immediately responding. Keeping his cloaked figure pressed to the stone of the statue, Erik ventured to peer around its corner.

Christine stood, hair askew, shivering a bit against the chill wind, dressed only in a long chemise covered by a worn wool robe. Raoul stood opposite her, still dressed formally in his opera attire. Wisps of frozen breath escaped from their mouths and nostrils.

"What do you mean?" Lotte asked.

"The gypsy, Christine."

Erik clenched his fists, ready to strike out at the man. What did Raoul know of what that animal had done him? What gave him the right to mention, let alone try to defend his prejudice, by bringing up an event he knew nothing about?

Christine beat him to the question. "How did you-"

"The Girys." Raoul replied hastily, "The Madame more specifically. She told me once how she found him in that caravan."

"That means nothing!" The girl snapped, on the defensive again. "You can't possibly think you know about Erik's past and then blame him for what happened tonight!"

"I know enough!" her cousin bit back, "I know the man was strangled. All of the victims of this opera house in the last ten years have been choked to death."

"You have no proof Erik's behind all this!"

"Buquet did! Don't ask me how but he did. And he was marked man because of it. He knew the Phantom was a masked man. Erik is a masked man. "

"This is all speculation and ghost stories." Christine said, still fighting for her best friend's honor. "You can't possibly expect me to believe these lies."

Raoul threw up his hands in defeat, his argument, no matter how sound, was falling on ears which failed to comprehend what he was saying.

Erik couldn't help but feel a bit relieved. Daaé wasn't willing to convict him, even though—as loathe as he was to admit—Raoul was right. He leaned back a bit into the cold stone, sighing silently. He had not lost her yet…

"If you won't believe me, believe Antoinette." Raoul's voice came across the crisp air as desperate. Erik knew he was playing his last card to convince the girl. And the card was of value.

"Raoul, enough! Listen to me-"

"No, you listen!" Raoul shouted, grasping Christine so firmly he was shaking her. "Why do you think Antoinette told you Erik was dead?"

"She lied." The words were spoken with hurt. Christine looked away from the Vicomte's fierce gaze her eyes sorrowful.

"No, she didn't." Raoul spoke softly, gently, knowing what he was about to explain would hurt his little cousin. "Christine, listen to reason. To those who once might have mattered to him, he is dead. He is a murderer. A thief, extortionist. Erik is a criminal."

"Non," Christine looked back up at Raoul, her stamina in the debate wearing down, but not gone. "He helped me Raoul. Last night…I was injured, and he helped me. Saved me. I would have died if he hadn't—"

Suddenly, de Chagny interrupted. "The trap you fell into, it was in the Grand Foyer, no?"

Christine tensed, visible fear beginning to crawl over her. Erik flinched when he noticed the swirls of hesitation pulling at the edges of her dark irises.

"Yes, but—"

"Erik built that trap, Lotte. Just as he has built all the others spread all over this opera house. You know how extensive the underground is in these old foundations. We both know no one knew them better than Erik."

Christine's eyes grew wide, and her jaw fell slack.

"Christine, all the variables are too coincidental. Erik is the Phantom."

Erik's heart dropped, unable to watch how the girl's confidence slowly began to wither before his eyes. She shook her head, mouth agape as all of the facts struck her.

'Now you've lost everything…forever…'

"I…I don't believe you."

"Lotte—"

"No, no!" Christine wretched away from de Chagny, "I d-don't believe you…"

Raoul bowed his head, shamefully. "I'm sorry, little cousin. I…I never thought it'd come to this."

"Arrêt …arrêt! Arrêter avec les mensonges. ..I sait ce n'être pas vrai…it's not true…I don't…I don't believe you…"

Sobs began to weaken young Daaé, wracking through her young frame as emotions stronger than she could bear sent her once again into panic. She fell to her knees, not feeling the snow creep into her clothing and skin. All she could feel was the aching pain in her chest that intensified as all clues fell into place.

She had known something had changed in him. Back in the lair, she had seen the change in his eyes. There was anger, there was menace, and there was hate. Her Erik had changed into something she had hoped he would never become. A man, driven by hate as hate had been shown to him; solely because of an unpreventable birth defect.

Christine felt a large hand on her shoulder.

"Allez…leave me…"

"I can't leave you up here alone-"

"Raoul let me be….please."

The young man hesitated. He swept a wary gaze around the rooftop not sure why he felt as if he was being watched. He glanced back down at Christine; he knew there was nothing he could do to comfort her. This was a loyalty, a friendship he did not understand nor condone. But he felt he had to respect her wishes nonetheless.

"As you wish, Lotte."

Raoul placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. Christine didn't bother to look up. When the crunching of his shoes had stopped and the door had clicked closed, the damsel couldn't help but let out a strangled cry.

How long she remained like that, prostrate in the snow, her head in her hands, her hair decorated by snowflakes with tears streaking paths down her cheeks—she never knew.

Christine didn't hear the painfully slow rhythm of booted feet coming towards her. She didn't see the heavily cloaked man, a snow-white half mask the only feature of his person not consumed by shadow. She didn't hear his muffled groan of despair when he approached her sobbing form. Nor did she notice when he knelt in front of her.

But she felt his gloved hand brush her cheek.

"S'il vous plaît arrêter." The rough tenor voice whispered in perfect French.

"Je suis en chagrine monsieur. Me permettre d'être."

In her anguish, Christine did not recognize the male's voice. The man's hand stilled on her face. Lotte didn't care enough to brush it away.

"Pourquoi êtes-vous dans l'angoisse?" The unknown man asked. His voice was thick.

"Parce que je l'ai perdu très cher à me. Je l'ai perdu j'aime."

The hiss of the wind blowing was the only sound for a moment. The man's question was hardly heard over it.

"Qui?"

At the simple question, a harsh, raw sob pressed its way through her lips.

"I…I dare not say his name, monsieur, or I will lose him completely."

The man's hand slipped under her chin, forcing her to look up.

Erik's blazing green eyes were solemn and subdued. Christine could still see suggestions of focused rage on the edges of his eyes; but they were dulling under the darkness of the cool night.

Christine wasn't surprised to see him so soon after the trauma of the evening. For as long as she had known him, he had always seemed to appear at the most opportune moment. Whether it was for the best of the situation or not.

Tired and cold, Christine's instinctive emotion to seek comfort in her close friend manifested itself. She leaned forward, resulting in her head resting in the man's chest. Foreseeably, he tensed as he had before, but did not pull away.

The Phantom managed to look down at the mass of curls flowing out of his chest. He momentarily considered tugging at one of the strands to distract himself; but Lotte's voice cut him short.

"Tell me you didn't do it."

Erik didn't have to ask what she was referring to. It did not, however, make it any easier to broach the topic. So he didn't and remained silent. Others might have called answering Christine's serious inquiry with silence as cowardly. He called it the art of sparing himself uncomfortable chatter. Perhaps, it was cowardly, but it protected him nevertheless.

"No, Erik," Christine lifted her head to face him, her expression of pain almost making Erik avert his stare. "Tell me you didn't kill that innocent man."

"Buquet wasn't innocent." Erik spat out before he could check his words.

Christine swallowed hard, not speaking for a good while. As the minutes ticked by, Erik continued to feel worse. The price for his temper and resulting actions were costly. The way Christine had trusted him so freely back in the lair and now…the way she was looking at him was enough to undo him.

"I am not the Erik you used to know." He confessed quietly, "That boy is gone. A monster has taken his place."

"Don't say that!" Christine grasped the front of his vest.

"Stop lying to yourself!" Erik pried her fingers off him, abruptly standing. "I know what I am. A deformed, hideous creature. A loathsome gargoyle. I burn in hell daily, Christine! Yearning for that which I will never have. A beast dreaming of a fanciful and secret sense of beauty. It is hopeless."

"It is not hopeless! Nothing is ever hopeless, Erik." She slowly stood as well, the snowflakes flurrying in circles as she did so. "I do not believe it. Let me be naïve and blind so I can hope for the both of us, Erik. And I will hope that one day you will see yourself through my eyes."

Her eyes grew serious, her voice steady and measured. She would get through to him.

"You are my friend Erik. I've always known what you were capable of, but I know that not all of it is cursed. I don't care what they call you, Phantom, Opera Ghost...it matters not. You will always, always be Erik to me. My best friend. Mon meilleur ami."

Erik turned his back, facing the dark night with apprehension. What Christine was saying was dangerous. She was willing to overlook his faults, his sins, to offer her friendship. Friendship she wouldn't give up; because she believed in him. It was reckless to do so, Erik could on a whim, could cause a rift between them that could never be bridged no matter what sense of loyalty one had. He knew, though every part of him wanted to deny it, he didn't want that. He wanted Christine in his life. A bright gleam in his nightmares. A beacon of hope on his troubled sea. But it wouldn't be easy…

"Trust me."

Erik sighed, his logic weakening under what his emotions were telling him.

'Trust her…she's giving you a second chance to be a man…to live like a human being….she is giving you a reason to live…'

Erik shook his head. It was too risky. He turned towards her.

"Christine—"

"Me fier, mon ami. Me fier."

"You are asking too much of me, Christine. Antoinette will warn you…"

"I am asking you to try. For my sake, Erik. For the sake of friendship."

Those wide, innocent eyes stared up at him…and he could deny them nothing. He nodded.

"Alright. I will try, Christine, I will try."

A/N: Translations: Non=No, O Vierge! Avoir la pitié!= O Virgin! Have mercy! , Arrêt …arrêt! Arrêter avec les mensonges. ..I sait ce n'être pas vrai…= Stop..stop! stop the lies… I know it's not true, Aller=go, S'il vous plaît arrêter.= Please stop, Je suis en chagrine monsieur. Me permettre d'être= I am in pain monsieur. Let me be., Pourquoi êtes-vous dans l'angoisse ?=Why are you in auguish?, Parce que je l'ai perdu très cher à me. Je l'ai perdu j'aime=Because I have lost someone dear to me. I have lost someone I love, Qui?=Who?, Mon meilleur ami =My best friend, Me fier, mon ami. Me fier=Trust me, my friend. Trust me.