(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.)

Convalescence

In the days that followed, Pierre's status among the inhabitants of the chateau altered enormously. The Vicomte and Vicomtesse had resolved to treat Pierre as a beloved uncle, but all at once to the rest of the household he was no longer the crazy old man who was best avoided, but a hero admired for his courage.

He shared breakfast with the Vicomte, Vicomtesse, and Dr Martin and his wife. Much to the doctor's disapproval, he was already making use of his right hand.

"This is a croissant," he growled, "it's not exactly heavy. And I'm taking care of myself, anyway."

At that moment the cook came to the table to ask what she should cook for lunch especially so that dear Monsieur Bertrand might recover his strength. "Since when have I been 'dear Monsieur Bertrand', and not the crazy cur you wanted to knock over the head with a frying pan?" enquired Pierre, amused.

"But Monsieur Bertrand, that was just a joke. Surely a dashing officer like you can understand a little bit of fun?"

"Who said I was an officer?" said Pierre, still with the amused note in his voice.

"My dear Monsieur Bertrand, it's obvious: you're far too intelligent and have such a natural authority. You couldn't be a simple soldier."

"Natural authority?" retorted Pierre. "Wasn't it 'confounded arrogance' a couple of days back?"

Christine dispatched the cook off to the kitchen with orders for a nourishing menu with plenty of meat. She had barely left the room before Christine turned to the others in their little group. "It looks to me as if our good Babette has fallen in love with Monsieur Bertrand!"

Madame Martin smiled knowingly, and Pierre stared down at the table in embarrassment and acted as if he hadn't heard.

"I too have the impression that you were more than just an ordinary soldier," put in Raoul. Pierre said nothing.

"But that's nothing to be ashamed of," said Madame Martin. Pierre remained silent. "Do tell us something about your adventures?"

"I wouldn't want to spoil your appetite, Madame." As she continued to press him, Pierre cast a glance at Dr Martin, shaking his head slightly.

The doctor nodded, and told his wife "Darling, that can be of no interest to us."

"But I—"

"No, you don't," insisted Dr Martin, and gave a nod to Pierre, who responded with a smile. Some kind of silent communication passed between the doctor and Bertrand, as if the two shared a secret.

"Oh, men!" complained Madame Martin to the Vicomtesse. "Always thinking they have to treat us women as if we were children."

"That's not my experience," said Christine, with a loving look in Raoul's direction.

That morning Pierre was sitting according to the doctor's orders in a comfortable chair on the terrace, watching his dogs play in the garden. "May I sit with you?" asked Raoul, and drew up a stool.

"I don't understand why you're making such a secret out of it — it's an honour to be an officer," he began.

Pierre brushed him off. "I don't want to talk about it. Let it be answer enough for you, sir, that I have been responsible for so much death and suffering that even today I have nightmares from time to time. I am ashamed of what I have done and of the strategies I planned."

"So you were actually planning strategies?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I wish I had been a little less ambitious in that line. And before you ask — I don't want to speak of it."

"There's something else we need to talk about," said the Vicomte, changing the subject. "Now that you're wounded, we need to consider the safety of the chateau."

Pierre nodded, and made a visible effort to remain professional. "I think I can take up my night watch duties again by next week at the latest. Until then, the dogs are in the garden. Even if I can't fight, at least I can raise the alarm. On the other hand, I ask myself whether you are still in danger at all."

"What makes you think that?" asked Raoul.

"Because absolutely nothing has happened. Perhaps Erik has given up," Pierre suggested. "At the very least something ought to indicate his presence."

"I don't think so. My wife is absolutely sure that Erik would never give up, and that he is after our blood."

"But perhaps he has found something else more satisfying than your death?" interjected Pierre.

"What gives you that idea?"

Pierre sighed. Then he answered slowly, his face averted, "I never told you what I did when my girl married another man. To start off with I wanted to throttle the wretch, but then I came to know him. He... he's a good man. A better man than I ever was or could be.

"And for my part, I think it's entirely possible that by now Erik is occupied with something completely different."

~o~

Raoul considered for a while. Then he decided to talk it over with Christine.

Christine was convinced it was out of the question that Erik would give up or concern himself with anything else. "You don't know him. You haven't heard his terrible threats and vows of vengeance — the thunder of his voice, his flaming eyes! He swore that if I left him, he would prepare for me a fate so dreadful that I would beg for death. If I destroyed him, then he would do the same with me."

"But your life is a good one?" prompted Raoul gently.

"Oh yes, I'm happy," Christine answered firmly. "We're together, we have a wonderful daughter, and it's so quiet and peaceful here — I love it."

"You don't miss Paris?" Raoul was worried.

"No, not one bit. Neither Paris nor society nor the Opera. I never liked social obligations, and for me to be an opera singer was my father's wish — and later Erik's — but never mine. I love music and singing, but I've never got over my stage fright... I truly like to sing, but not in front of critics and the public. Oh Raoul, this life we live here is closer to my dreams than anything else could be!"

She embraced her husband lovingly.

~o~

Shortly afterwards the nursemaid came in and announced excitedly that Marie was talking. Raoul and Christine ran at once to the baby's room, where Pierre was standing by the cot and smiling happily. Marie sat upright and said "Mamamamamamamamama".

"She said Mama!" cried Christine, rejoicing. "Can you say Papa? Papa, say Papa!"

"Bababababababa," babbled Marie.

"And she can say Papa." Raoul was delighted.

Marie laughed and grabbed for Pierre. "Lalalalalalalamamamamamapamapama," she announced, and gurgled happily. Pierre played with her again, allowing her to capture his hand, which earned a happy comment of "lalalalalala" from Marie.

"Either 'Lala' means playing, or she's using it to mean me," Pierre said, without looking away for so much as a moment. "You can be proud — Marie is indeed a clever child."

A few days later, Christine turned to Pierre during their evening meal. "Did you tell our good cook at some point that you were fond of chicken?"

Pierre looked up, surprised. "How did you know?"

Christine laughed. "Because for weeks past we've had nothing but chicken!"

"Why," added Madame Martin, "are you the only one not to have noticed that Babette has got her eye on you?"

Pierre looked away in embarrassment and muttered something incomprehensible.

"So talk to her," was Christine's friendly suggestion.

"What's the good of that? I've got no interest in her," retorted Pierre, "so it wouldn't be fair to get her hopes up."

"But she really is a pleasant, jolly woman and a good cook," put in Madame Martin, and Christine continued: "She's almost always good-humoured — it's just that you've been ignoring her. Do go and have a talk to her, and maybe..."

"Wait a minute," interrupted Pierre, blinking in confusion. "Are you trying to pair me off?"

Raoul sighed. "Simply talk to the woman..."

And Dr Martin added, with a meaningful glance at his wife, "Then at least I shan't have to hear endlessly about the poor lovesick cook."

Pierre stared at his plate as if any desire to eat had suddenly vanished.

He excused himself and marched straight in the direction of the kitchen. Christine and Madame Martin jumped up and crept after him, both of them as excited as a pair of schoolgirls. They were dying to know how it would turn out. Even if Christine would not admit it, she and Madame Martin found this thrilling and had already discussed helping poor Babette.

Pierre's actions were far from polite. He flung open the kitchen door and went straight up to the cook, who was busy mixing a cake.

"You wanted to speak to me, Madame?" he said roughly.

"Why, Monsieur Bertrand, how kind of you to come and visit me," replied Babette, and smiled at him.

Christine and Madame Martin positioned themselves behind the kitchen door, eavesdropping. They could see Pierre only from behind and Babette not at all, but that didn't matter.

"People are talking about you," observed Pierre. "Do I gather that you supposedly have designs upon my person?"

"Could you make that a bit less formal? Or do I need to put in my application in triplicate?"

Pierre was clearly too bewildered to answer. He stood there as stiff as a broomstick and his shoulders tensed visibly.

Finally he said "Madame, please don't misunderstand me... I really have no desire to hurt your feelings or to offend you, but... You should know that I..." He broke off, searching for the words. "I'm not a marrying man."

Babette stared at him, taken aback, and laughed.

"But my dear Monsieur Bertrand, who spoke of marriage? I've got five children, all with different fathers, three wonderful grandchildren — and I've never been married. I'm not getting married and letting some man tell me how to run my life! I'd rather admit regularly at confession that I've had another affair. So you don't have to have the slightest worry that I'll try to tie you down; if we turn out not to suit, you won't hear any reproaches from me. I don't hold a grudge. Life's too short."

At that instant Madame Martin couldn't help giggling. Pierre heard and turned round.

"Madame de Chagny — Madame Martin," he said in a tone of reproach, "I believe you are playing an unkind trick at my expense." And he shut the door.

"What a pity," Madame Martin said with a giggle. "Now we can't hear what happens next." The two women were enjoying enormously being as foolish as schoolgirls: it is the small pleasures in life that allow you to forget your cares.

"That really was a bit silly," observed Raoul as the two ladies returned to the table, and Dr Martin also shook his head disapprovingly.

"Oh, let us be," said Christine, excusing herself. "How often do I have anything to laugh about here?"

"Perhaps," remarked Dr Martin with a smile, "our good Babette will manage to cheer up Monsieur Bertrand a little."

~o~

It was not long before the whole staff at the chateau was talking about nothing but the oddly-assorted couple. Were they having an affair or not? Pierre was tall and thin, Babette short and round. Pierre's manner was cold, often irritable, cynical and wounding; Babette was generally good-tempered, a strong-minded woman who could stand up for herself against men. Pierre cared little for food; Babette knew how to value good cooking, as anyone could see by looking at her.

But all the same, they got on quite well together. Was it a case of opposites attracting, or not? However it was, as time went by Pierre grew more relaxed and more patient.

Thus passed the autumn.

One evening Christine was looking down from her bedroom window. It was a foggy November night and the full moon was shining through a veil of mist — a true gloomy and eerie atmosphere.

As usual she could see grey shapes in the garden, but they caused her no concern since it meant only that Pierre was again on guard. Suddenly the shape on the horse looked up at her with two glowing eyes. Christine cried out in horror and recoiled. Pierre had only one eye, and that was a normal brown one with a colour like dark honey. But the shape on the horse had two eyes that shone green.

Raoul was at her side at once, asking what was wrong.

"There... on the horse... two eyes," stammered Christine, aghast.

Raoul looked out of the window and saw that the shape on the horse had shifted. In the moonlight the head of a wolf was clearly visible — a gigantic wolf was sitting on the horse and riding to and fro in the garden.

He rubbed his eyes. "It... it's a wolf. But werewolves are only a myth..."

"And the Phantom of the Opera is only a ghost-story," returned Christine, trembling. "But we know just how much truth lies behind that."

At that moment a knock fell on the door.

"Is everything all right?" called Pierre. When there came no reply, he thrust open the door.

Raoul and Christine were in their dressing-gowns and staring out of the window, aghast. "What's wrong?" he repeated, and now Christine reacted.

"You.. you're here? But... but... then who or what is that?"

Pierre glanced out of the window, then laughed. "That's Cerberus. I put him up on Othello just now so that he could take my place while I took a short break. I've been practising the trick for a long time, but this is the first time it's worked."

Raoul, who was still very pale, let out a breath. "At first sight it looked as if you had turned into a wolf."

"Yes, that was the idea," confirmed Pierre, amused. "It might terrify an attacker, and if not, then at least no-one would be prepared for a dog who can ride."

"In the future, let us know what you're up to," snapped Raoul. "You scared us half to death."

"By all means. Tomorrow morning I'll show you the whole thing by daylight."

~o~

The next morning the Vicomte and his wife stood on the terrace to see what Pierre had trained his animals to do.

Pierre took a straw dummy and set it up in the garden. Then he rode casually past the dummy, and the moment it was in range the horse lashed out backwards and knocked off the target's straw head with its hind hooves. The dogs sat by with wagging tails and waited to be allowed to join in the game.

First Pierre had to put the dummy back together again; then he took Cerberus in his arms and seated him on the horse. Both animals were quite calm, as if they had long been used to it.

Othello approached the target again, and Cerberus stood up on the horse's back and sprang onto the straw man from above, seizing it by the neck. "Good, very good," said Pierre, praising the animals and giving them titbits from the bag on his shoulder.

Then he set up the straw dummy once more. The three dogs sat wriggling impatiently, waiting for the signal to start.

"Attack!" commanded Pierre, and the dogs flung themselves on the target. Scylla bit it in the left leg, Charybdis in the right arm and Cerberus went directly for the throat. Then all three tore at the dummy with much growling.

The onlookers watched this macabre performance with horror. Pierre took the steps up to the terrace and looked at them both.

"You've taught your animals to kill people?" said Christine, appalled.

Pierre nodded. "Of course. A defensive weapon is more effective if it is set in motion automatically, without needing to be operated by a human. I can break off the attack at any time, since the dogs always grip in the same order: first Scylla on the leg, then Charybdis on the arm, and then finally, if I haven't in the meantime ordered a halt, Cerberus on the neck. In this way, it's guaranteed that the dogs will overwhelm any attacker who has already put me out of action. And naturally Othello can also eliminate a man, although I trained him mainly as a warhorse. He will attack only with me on his back."

"And how do you make sure the dogs don't attack the wrong man?" asked Raoul. The whole business gave him the creeps.

"Very easily — at night, no-one other than myself and the animals is outside. That's what they're used to. And even at night they would let someone go out, but no-one enter. During the day they let anyone come in, because they're accustomed to that. And besides, they won't attack anyone whom they like. You are completely safe: even if I were to give the dogs the order to attack, they would do nothing to you. Not to you, and not to Marie either. Babette, who is always feeding them scraps from the kitchen, is safe too. Mercifully I haven't needed to try this out in an emergency, though, since so far no attack has taken place."

The dogs had successfully dismantled the straw dummy, and came back to their master with wagging tails in order to be stroked. They ran up to Raoul and Christine as well, wanting to play. Christine had been quicker to compose herself, and now stroked the dogs cautiously; they lay down and wriggled on their backs in front of her to get her to scratch their bellies.

"I'm not happy with the idea of having such dangerous animals near Marie," she told Pierre.

"I would never leave them alone with her. That stands to reason. But I've already introduced them to Marie, and you'd be amazed how much patience the three of them have with her."

"You've done WHAT?" said Raoul, shocked.

"I let Marie play with them. She climbs around on them and yanks their ears, tails and sometimes even their tongues. The dogs adore her," responded Pierre as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"That's irresponsible of you!" said Christine angrily. "You have no right to put Marie in danger!"

"She's not in danger — the danger for her would be if my dogs weren't familiar with her!"

"You're impossible — you know that?" said Raoul, with a sigh. "Will you at least promise me never to leave Marie alone with the dogs?"

"That goes without saying," replied Pierre. "I would never, ever put Marie in danger. I would do my utmost at any time in order to take care of her."

Raoul glanced involuntarily at Pierre's wounded shoulder which he was rubbing absent-mindedly, although by now he had almost completely regained normal use of the arm.

"That I can believe," murmured the Vicomte.