(A/N: This is a translation of the German story Gefangene der Angst by E. M. K. 81, which I am uploading with the author's permission in the hopes that other English-speaking readers will enjoy it as much as I did. Further chapters will appear as and when I finish translating them. For a link to the original, see my profile.)
The winter
In the South winter was mild, thanks to the maritime climate, and almost without snow. A certain routine became established in the chateau; everyone had their appointed duties, while Pierre avoided most people, which was not difficult as he spent the day asleep in the gatehouse and kept watch at night. The sole point of contact between them was in the late afternoon.
Raoul took steps to make sure the chateau had a midwife and a doctor: he even fitted out a private medical practice for the doctor down in the basement and paid the full costs himself. It was a simple consideration — on the one hand he wanted a doctor in the house in case something should go wrong with Christine's confinement, and on the other he found Pierre's argument that he would want to have a doctor nearby if he were wounded in combat to be a very sensible one. If an emergency were in fact to arise and a man had to be sent on horseback to fetch the doctor from the village 10km away, it would be simply too long before help could arrive. A doctor in residence, however, could be there in a matter of minutes.
The doctor was an outstanding practitioner from Paris who moved in straight away with his family, for the simple reason that he had always dreamed of living in the south of France but, since he came from a poor background and had only just paid off the debts he had incurred while studying, couldn't afford it. Now, by a stroke of good fortune, without having private means at his disposal he had the chance to realise — after a fashion — his dream of a wine-growing estate in the South.
Dr Gaston Martin arrived with his wife and two daughters. Christine had had a charming apartment in the guest wing of the chateau prepared for them, and in no time at all had made friends with Madame Martin and the little girls. She thought it was wonderful that her child would grow up with playmates, and had quite some trouble to rein in the enthusiasm of her husband, who wanted to seek out a private tutor before the birth had even taken place.
One afternoon Raoul was practising in the rear part of the gardens with his pistol. He had hung up his target on the wall so that if he were to miss, the bullets would get stuck in the stonework.
Pierre stood next to him and watched for a while. His great dogs had retreated under the steps that led to the terrace, where it was dry. Pierre had constructed a pleasant lair for them there out of carpets that were not fit for use in the house.
"What's all this practice actually for?" Pierre asked after some time.
"If we're attacked, I want to be able to fight back," Raoul answered. Pierre watched with interest as he fired and reloaded the pistol.
"It doesn't make a lot of sense," Pierre pointed out, "to put the person who's supposed to be being protected in the front line."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, a pistol is for close combat and I'd prefer to see you stay in the chateau. You ought to be using a rifle and firing from a distance. May I?" Pierre swung his weapon off his shoulder, moved back from the target, took aim, let the rifle fall again and went back further.
Raoul followed him. "If you want to impress me with your shooting skills, go ahead," he offered cheerfully.
Indeed, Pierre selected a distance at which Raoul would no longer have been confident of hitting the inner ring of the target. Then he lay down flat on the ground, took aim with his left hand, and, growling "Naturally you'll need to do this in reverse — you've still got a good right eye", propped himself on his left elbow and fired.
Together they went to the target, and Raoul was astonished to see that Pierre had hit the mark.
Pierre reloaded his weapon and held it out to Raoul. "Your turn."
They went back to the spot from which Pierre had fired, and Raoul took aim. "Not like that," Pierre said.
"Why, what's wrong?"
"First of all, you're standing up. If you can hit something at this distance, so can the enemy. Lie down."
"Lie down? In this weather — in the mud?"
Pierre's face split into a broad grin as he retorted "When there are bullets flying about your ears, a bit of muck is the least of your worries. I once took cover in a dung heap and out of disgust my pursuer didn't search it — that sort of thing can literally save your life."
Raoul nodded and lay down, imitating Pierre's position of earlier on.
Pierre reached into his breast pocket and drew out his cigarettes. Raoul aimed."You'd find it easier if you breathed," observed Pierre.
"I am breathing."
"But not properly. If you're nervous for any reason, try to breathe steadily — that will calm you down. Try to stay calm and block out everything else. Imagine that you are a tiger lying in ambush and waiting for its prey. There is the prey: and now you get him."
Raoul tried to breathe steadily and to forget that he was lying in damp, muddy grass — which was far from easy. Then he fired.
When they went together to inspect the target, Pierre gave an approving nod. "Looks good for a first try. With enough practice, in a year or two you'd be able to shoot down any intruder from the roof of the chateau."
Raoul shivered, less from the cold than because the idea of having to kill a man horrified him. It didn't seem to have crossed Pierre's mind that shooting people might be a disturbing subject, for he went on to explain which hits would kill a man outright and which would leave him alive but put him out of action. Raoul fought back a sudden wave of nausea.
Noticing that the Vicomte had become very pale, Pierre decided to change the topic. "Might I ask a frank question, Monsieur?" he enquired cautiously, lighting his cigarette.
Raoul attempted to brush some of the mud off his clothes, and nodded.
"How far are you prepared to go? How far would you go to protect your family?"
Raoul was taken aback not a little by the question. "I'd give my life!" he answered passionately.
Pierre shook his head. "That's not enough. Dying is easy — anyone can do that. No, you need to be ready to give up all your own wishes and needs: to be ready to do things you abhor to the depths of your soul, and to be able to live with yourself after you have done them."
This reply caught Raoul by surprise. "What do you mean by that?"
"Are you ready to commit murder, if needs be? To lie, to betray, to steal — to do everything that's most repugnant to you?"
"If there is no other way... then yes. Listen, Monsieur Bertrand: I don't know why it's so necessary for you to know this, but I've already given up all my dreams so far as my own future is concerned — or do you imagine I enjoy playing at being the steward here? There's nothing here but a whole lot of countryside, and I'd pictured for myself a very different life. But I can't change things, and now I have to make the best of it. And if it comes to the point where I have to do something that goes against the grain to the deepest degree — then I'll do it. Are you satisfied?"
Pierre held out his cigarette-case in answer and offered him a cigarette. When Raoul took it, he told him: "Then I'll teach you how to fight."
The doctor calculated that the date of Christine's confinement would be the end of February or perhaps the beginning of March, to which Raoul responded with delight. "What difference does the date of the baby's birth make?" asked Christine in amazement, and Raoul admitted that he had been worried that the child was not his.
"Really — how dare you!" cried the young woman in outrage.
"It wasn't you I ever doubted," the Vicomte said defensively. "But you said that Erik had drugged you when he took you prisoner — you have no idea what he might have done to you. Anyway, it doesn't matter: if the baby is due in February, it happened in June — so it's absolutely certain that this is the child of both of us. Our baby! I'm looking forward to it so much."
Then it was Christmas. It was the custom for those servants who wanted to visit their families to be given the opportunity to do so, and for those who remained in the chateau to hold a Christmas celebration there. But now that two members of the de Chagny family were in residence, no-one was sure what to do about the situation. In the end Raoul decided that he would celebrate Christmas with Christine; however the staff would be able to use the great entrance hall as usual for their own festivities.
Raoul had chosen the room with the big fireplace for himself and Christine so that they could share supper together by candlelight. It was the first time in months that the two of them completely forgot about Erik and could concentrate entirely on each other. Christine had sent for a new device that could record music as a Christmas present for Raoul: a phonograph with some waltzes.
"We'll be able to record our baby's first word," she said, radiant, as Raoul stood rather hesitantly in front of the machine.
"Or you could sing an aria into it," suggested Raoul. "Then our great-grandchildren could hear your wonderful voice." Both laughed to think that one day they would sit by the fire as grandparents and tell stories to their grandchildren. Raoul had commissioned a necklace for Christine fit for a queen.
Down in the hall matters were far less romantic. Some of the household had become rather drunk, and things were getting loud. The Vicomte and Vicomtesse had prepared small presents for all those who were spending Christmas in the chateau, and distributed these before planning to go back upstairs. "Where is Pierre Bertrand?" asked Christine.
The cook answered: "Outside, with his dogs. He doesn't want to celebrate with us. He had something to eat and a glass of punch just now, but he wouldn't stay."
So Raoul went outdoors. Christine wanted to come with him, but Raoul felt that it was too dangerous for her to go out after dark. He had barely opened the door of the chateau when one of the dogs stood in front of him, barking.
"Down, boy — it's only me," said Raoul, since he knew that the dogs were familiar with him. All the same, the hound planted itself straight in front of him and would not let him out of the house.
"Charybdis! Sit!" cried Pierre, and hastened to join Raoul. "I beg your pardon, sir, I didn't know you would want to go out at this hour."
"I only wanted to see you, as you're not at the party," Raoul said in a friendly tone. "Won't you come in?"
Pierre cast a glance over his dogs, then said with a shrug: "If you wish."
The Vicomte brought Pierre up to the room where the Vicomtesse sat by the fireplace, waiting. "Monsieur Bertrand, we'd like to wish you a happy Christmas!" she said merrily, and thrust a small parcel into the astonished man's hand.
Pierre stared at the parcel as if he didn't know what to do with it. "Thank you," he said, bewildered. "I'm very grateful, but... I don't understand..."
Christine laughed. "It's Christmas and we're giving you a Christmas present — what is there not to understand about that?"
Pierre smiled, expressed his thanks once again and asked in some embarrassment whether he could open it.
"Of course!" Christine told him. She found Pierre's total clumsiness in the face of his employers' friendship and generosity to be touching.
Pierre dexterously opened the parcel, and drew out a silver cigarette case engraved with a coach and pair. He stood there as if turned to stone with the cigarette case in his hand. "Thanks, but... I can't take it," he stammered.
"But why not?" asked Christine. "Don't you like it?"
"Yes, yes I do — I love it. It's just... it's much too valuable," Pierre said hastily. "I don't think I ought to take it."
"But we're giving it to you," Raoul said warmly.
Pierre turned the cigarette case over and over in his hands, then pocketed it and thanked them again. "I have nothing at all for you..." he stammered, embarrassed. Then as if by accident he shook his sleeve and a tiny derringer fell into his hand.
"Allow me to give you this," he said, holding the pistol out to Raoul. "It's not worth much, but it has a certain value to me. I've carried it on me for decades; I got it so that I could shoot myself rather than being taken alive. The bullet was only ever meant for me."
The Vicomte felt a lump in his throat. "And you really want to give it away?"
Pierre nodded vigorously. "Yes, the two of you should have it now — as a lucky talisman."
Until the end of January things were surprisingly peaceful. Then a courier brought a letter from the Comte de Chagny that read as follows:
"My dear brother,
"I am beginning to doubt whether my assumption that you and your wife were seeing things was not at fault. Since about two weeks prior to your departure from Paris nothing has happened at the Opera that would indicate the presence of the Phantom. Box 5 has been let out, there are no threats against the directors, there have been no particularly abnormal accidents or anything of the sort. I have been told by La Sorelli that it is not unusual for nothing to be heard of the Phantom for a few weeks, but peace has reigned since September.
"Take care, for I am beginning to be concerned for your safety. Send the bearer back with an answer to let me know that all is well with you.
"Your brother, Philippe."
Raoul grew pale as he read the letter.
"Oh my God, Erik was following us all along!" He tugged on the bell to ring for a servant. "Call Pierre Bertrand at once!"
Pierre Bertrand appeared a few minutes later, bleary-eyed with crumpled clothes. The three big dogs were by his side. "Morning." He yawned. "What's happened?"
"Read this — and you tell me!"
Pierre took the letter, read it and gave it back to the Vicomte. "Sounds as if we must be on our guard," he observed.
"What are we to do? We've got to find something! My wife is having a baby in a month's time — we can't leave here now!" cried Raoul on the verge of panic.
"No rash knee-jerk reactions: say nothing of this to your wife, please, if you don't want to upset her unnecessarily," Pierre said calmly. "How does the Phantom usually proceed? If he hunts like the tiger, then he stalks his prey and strikes lightning-fast; if he hunts like the wolf then he hounds his prey until it breaks down exhausted; if he hunts like the spider, then he builds a trap somewhere or other."
Raoul tried to still his trembling hands, but could not quite manage it. "How should I know?" he groaned.
Pierre remained calm. "Very well. In two out of the three possibilities it would be a bad idea to begin a journey now, since you would either be hounded down or fall into the trap. And in the third case an attacker would still first have to get past me and my dogs — I may not be invincible, but the noise would wake the whole chateau and be heard perhaps as far as the village. If we stay here, the opportunity to choose the battlefield and prepare accordingly belongs to us, not to someone coming from outside. I believe you're safest here."
Raoul got up and went to the sideboard to pour himself some cognac. Pierre laid a hand on his arm. "Don't do that."
"Don't you touch me!" cried Raoul, in whom agitation had become rage.
Pierre neither backed off nor let go of Raoul. "Don't do it. If you drink cognac every time you get nervous, then soon you'll be drinking every day. I've nothing against relaxing and enjoying a good glass of wine, but right now you need to keep a clear head."
Raoul tore himself loose and gave Pierre a forceful shove that made him take a step back. "And what about your confounded cigarettes?"
Pierre laughed. "Touché! But at least they fuddle the mind less. Want one?"
He held out the silver cigarette case. Shortly afterwards, both of them were sitting and smoking in the room that Raoul had adopted as his study. The dogs lay on the carpet and dozed.
"But what are we actually to do?" asked the Vicomte, once he calmed down.
"The same as we've done up to now — make the chateau safe. Since we're on the subject... locks can be forced open, bolts can't, or only with difficulty. Bolts on the inner side of all the outside doors, the basement windows must have new bars, and the shutters on the ground-floor windows and the first two storeys must also be capable of being bolted from the inside."
"That goes without saying. See to it."
It was not long before Christine noticed that Raoul was much more tense than usual.
"It's just on account of the birth... I'm so afraid that something will happen to you and the child," Raoul told her, and his wife kissed him gently.
"I'm not the first woman to have a baby, you know. Everything will be all right; I can feel it."