A/N: Thank you for the reviews and follows! Welcome aboard to the new readers! :)

French translations for this chapter (please note that I know little French):

Non- no

Répéter! Maintenant!- Rehearse! Now!

Merci beaucoup- Thank you very much

Also, an update: I've been thinking of changing the title of this story back to "Defying the Dark" so be aware of this! If I change it, I'll send out a PM to all my reviewers/followers/favers.

Chapter Eight

Raoul happened upon Madame Giry at a quarter past nine. He knew this to be a fact because he'd inspected his pocket watch—an inherited item that had been in his family for generations—given it a swift and affirmative nod as the tiny, fragile limbs twitched across the dully-gleaming face and then shut it with a tiny snap. He felt the watch's hinges click into their grooves like veracious hands mingling with flesh to only clasp after much toil and strife. He'd been given the pocketwatch, which bore his family's crest atop the face of the gold upper lid. It had survived much: three families, groping, lazy fingers, a sojourn down a frigid river, and a Revolution. It was sufficient to say that the little ticking timepiece was deserving of a title of bravery.

He faced the ballet mistress then, who had retreated from her instructions with an irritated sigh, and offered her an affable smile. She didn't return his grin. Seeing this, Raoul wound his doffed cap between his hands worriedly, casting the ballet girls behind the imposing woman a curious glance. He must do something to avoid Madame Giry's icy glower; if not, he'd surely become frozen himself.

The ballet rats broke position. A rush of giggles wafted from the horde to float about the stage, causing many a stagehand to inch closer. The girls observed Raoul with looks of unrestrain flirtation, their bodies trembling with glee.

Madame Giry turned sharply, rapping her cane. "Non!" she scolded them. "Répéter! Maintenant!" With a flip of her braid, she twisted her neck to assess the Vicomte with probing gray eyes. "What is it, monsieur? I'm a busy woman, as you can see, and with the recent injury of one of my most gifted ballerinas, my troupe and I are having to work even harder than usual to remain at our lofty standards. Time is of the essence. So, if you please, spare me the irritation and make our conversation a brief one," Madame Giry spat.

"My deepest apologizes," he said, tilting his head in a submissive bow. "But there is a matter of grave importance that we must discuss."

"Is this regarding Mademoiselle Daae?" Madame Giry queried, one thin brow arching toward her severe hairline. She leaned against her cane like it was a third leg.

Dazed and flummoxed, Raoul's lips parted. "How did you know…?"

Madame Giry assessed him with a close-lipped smirk, a grin that offered no congeniality. Deep shadows sliced across her face, lending her a sinister mask. "The only times you have come to speak with me, monsieur, you came at me like an unforgiving beast, bombarding me with questions about Christine Daae. It was just an assumption." She turned from him, this time affording him her back of black taffeta as she ordered her charges into a series of positions. As she stalked across the apron of the stage, Raoul scurried behind her as she said, disguising her words in an accent of thickly-dripping French, "The managers also came to me with similiar questions. I can only presume you're following in their lead?"

"On the contrary, it was I who ordered them to conduct interviews with all who are employed in this theater." He drew his silk bowler across his fair locks with a quick snap, abandoning any gentility he had once prided himself in possessing. The hat rested firmly upon his head, reminding him of the status he possessed over those that teemed at the Opera House. His voice surged above the din of squealing shoes and low murmurs of the company. "Madame, a girl has gone missing. Do you hold any regard for this?"

There was a deep pause. "Are you implying that I have something to do with Christine's disappearance?" Madame Giry looked affronted, and he suddenly wished to reclaim the words that were already ringing through the vacuous room. With a stiff and irate lift of her arm, she drew her cane up so that it hovered from the ground, extending from her body in a straight and gleaming line of black. She pointed the stick to each of the ballerinas, saying, "Do you see these girls, monsieur? How fragile they are? How exposed? I may appear to be callous, but I can assure you that I treat my girls with the utmost responsibility and respect. I would never wish them harm." She reared on him, her eyelids sinking across her stoney pupils. "That being said, I allow them their essential human rights of freedom. If my girls behave, and are not occupied with rehearsals, they are unimpeded. They may do what they wish. What happened to Christine was unfortunate, yes, but I have no yield over her; she makes decisions for herself. I do not control my girls' every movements—just the ones upon the stage." Madame Giry halted for a moment, her lips compressing into invisibility as she growled, "Perhaps you should harass a suspect more likely to commit the crime." Her narrowed eyes floated across the room until they ascended the length of the flies. He craned his head. From the deep screen of shadow, Raoul caught the glimpse of a thick hand, a thicker bottle of brandy.

"Who is that?" Raoul breathed.

"Joseph Buquet," Madame Giry replied, her voice equal in pitch with his. With that, she swept away from him, her skirts melding into the shadow that dogged her feet with every step.

When the Vicomte came late in the evening, Buquet was peering through a hole in the wall.

The noble grasped Buquet by the shoulder, reeling the leecher round with more force than he ever knew he possessed.

The Vicomte took in everything: the sweating bottle in Buquet's fist, the ruddy complexion of his cheeks, the shoddy hole gaping through the plaster like some dark, vicious eye. From the tiny circular break in the wall, Raoul could glimpse the shadows of the girls he'd seen just that morning. If he had the desire (or the gall) to press himself against the barrier and steal a glance inside, he was certain that he'd be awarded a more generous view of what fluttered and giggled beyond. The thought caused a dark bile to churn in his stomach, surmounting wildly against his disgust for the squirming, protesting man beneath his fingers.

Raoul wrenched from Buquet, spreading his palms across the length of his trousers to rid himself of the slick residue he'd contracted, and wished desperately for his pair of fine kid gloves. He eyed the other man. "Is stealing glances through the wall to peek in at ladies' dressing rooms a habit of yours, monsieur?"

"Not a habit—a hobby," Buquet slurred, leaning back against the wall so that his girth covered the glaring cavity. He brought the bottle to his lips to take a prolonged swig. His throat bobbed and shook with the shock of the drink that coursed hot, potent fingers down to his generous belly.

Thoroughly revolted, Raoul retreated a step so that he, too, was flattened against an opposing wall. He cleared his throat, raised his chin. "Tell me, friend, what else do you do when the hours grow late and the stage is still?"

"I stray far from my post at night," Buquet said with a watery chuckle. His laughter succumbed to coughs, which fled to wheezes. He drew the back of his stumpy fingers against his lips; a glittering, slick blackness coated the damp skin of his hand.

"...Why is that?"

Buquet's eyes widened considerably as his voice dipped to a hiss. "The Ghost, monsieur."

"Surely you don't mean the Opera Ghost?" Raoul snorted in derision. "Is that figment not a myth to scare the workers and new ballerinas into submission?"

Joseph Buquet laced his fleshy arms across his chest with a fluid shrug. "I could tell you what I know...for a fee."

Raoul fished deep within his coat, withdrawing his purse, which he emptied onto his palm. He thrust his hand into a column of moonlight that streamed from a faraway casement window and waited for the lewd man's assessment.

"Merely twenty francs, monsieur? Being a patron of the Opera Populaire, I would assume you would have more..."

"I don't usually partake nocturnal strolls with my entire bank's savings in my pocket," Raoul pressed. He looked upon the man as he spoke with implication, "But I do, however, have a certain hobby of being quite the gossipmonger...especially when it comes to speaking of employees with little regard for their duties."

Hurriedly, Buquet swiped the offering from the Vicomte, stuffing it deep within the back of his suspenders. "Merci beaucoup."

"Now," said Raoul. "What do you know of this Ghost?"

"I know that he walks around at night," Buquet grumbled. "I've seen him before."

"When?"

Buquet scrunched his face in recollection. "It was perhaps five or six years ago, monsieur, but I can't say for certain. Time have grown hazy."

Yes, quite hazy with the help of the bottle. Raoul shifted his weight to one foot as annoyance wavered and spiked wildly across his brain. "What precisely did you see?"

"A mask. Pure white mask. It was like seeing a spirit! A phantom!" Buquet whispered. "Mark my words, it was the Phantom of the Opera."

"And you have no other evidence regarding this...phantom?" Raoul asked, his brow quirking out of his own volition. An amused smirk nagged at the edge of his lips.

"Are you calling me a liar?" Buquet demanded, his flushed face practically glowing a pronounced shade of red in the gloom.

"Of course not," Raoul assured, splaying his hands. After the man had subsumed into bilious quiet, Raoul ventured upon a thin limb with a terse, quiet query. "Do you know anything of Christine Daae?"

Buquet tensed. "Not enough."

"How do you mean?" Raoul swallowed, dragging his tenuous voice back into his body.

"I haven't seen enough of her, if you know what I mean," Buquet replied, his voice fetid with candidness. "That hole in the wall only lets me view so much…"

Raoul shook his head sharply, willing the man to stop. "I think I can gather…" He drew himself up, adjusting the prim stance of his hat upon his head. "What was the last you saw of Mademoiselle Daae?"

"It was after her debut," Buquet replied, taking another gulp of his drink till the contents were all but dregs behind the opaque glass. "Saw her going into her dressing room. That's the last time I spied her. I swear."

Raoul gave a stiff nod. Though what the licentious man had said roused disturbance, he didn't think he was lying—he seemed to be rather boastful (and public) of his conquests. And Christine was certainly not one of his conquests.

The young vicomte drew himself into a bow, turning on his heel to walk the length back from whence he'd come. But then, remembering the manners he'd so easily and earlier shed before Madame Giry, he felt a pang of ignominy (and retribution) and paused, tossing his gratitude over his shoulder. "Thank you kindly for your time."

The other man's eyes—so yellow and shriveling—glinted and burned brighter, till all the Vicomte could see were the twin, lustful ambers in the distance. Raoul shuddered to perceive in them a harbinger of black wickedness he was certain he'd done something to help create. The stagehand's lips clicked, slick and wet, as his mouth worked to part. "No, monsieur…" A smile tore through Buquet's flesh, deep and cavernous as he whispered, "Thank you."

A/N: I'm actually liking this sassy Raoul that I'm writing. It gives him more depth (considering he's pretty bland as it is) What do you think?

As always, reviews are appreciated! :)