She chose a blue dress for the gala, to bring out her eyes. Raoul always likes it when something brings out her eyes. It makes him smile that soft smile so that the edges of his own eyes crinkle, and her heart flutters. And as she expected, Raoul smiled appreciatively when he saw her, and folded her in his arms.
Sometimes, she thinks, she would prefer to never ever leave Raoul's arms.
It was Anja that rushed them out of the embrace. Anja has never been much for galas, but she had an unusual urgency about her tonight that Christine couldn't help but wonder at. Her soft pink dress made her look very pretty and very sweet and altogether so much younger than 19.
They lost her in the crowd shortly after arriving, in the midst of hellos and hand-shaking and have you mets, but Christine was not as worried as perhaps she might have been. It has always been Anja's great skill to slip away in a crowd.
Only a little while later, she caught Christine's eye as she danced in the arms of the Capitaine de Courcy. The Capitaine is a handsome man, all things considered. Red hair and blue eyes, and a soft smile. They say he is the illegitimate son of an English lord, but so many rumours swirl about everything that it would be impossible to tell.
His face is still pale from his wounds. They say he is lucky to have survived. If the bullet had entered his chest only a few inches to the left, he would not be dancing tonight, or ever. As it is he is clearly still recovering, and after a turn around the floor he sits and Anja goes to get him a drink.
Anja has become quite the caretaker since the war started.
Christine loses sight of them again after that, because Monsieur Rouché asks for her hand, and it would be remiss of her to refuse the Director. With his square grey beard he has the appearance of a man older than his years, when in fact he is a year younger than she is.
This war has aged them all.
She dances two dances with Rouché and then Raoul cuts in, and the Director cedes to her husband without question. He takes up with Sorelli, and as Raoul takes Christine's hand out of the side of her eye she sees her friend wink over Rouché's shoulder at her.
"Have I told you how lovely you look tonight, darling?" Raoul's voice is gentle in her ear, and she leans her head against his shoulder.
"Several times, my love, but a few more would not hurt."
"Well then I shall declare it with every breath." His voice his light, and he steps back, spins her and catches her again. "You are beautiful." A soft kiss to her forehead. "Divine." A kiss to her cheek. "And no other woman here could hold a candle to you." He grins, his eyes dancing, and Christine leans up and presses her lips lightly to his, lingering just long enough to still be decent.
"You flatter me, Monsieur." She bats her eyes teasingly at him, and catches sight of a faint flush at his throat.
"Nonsense!"
They dance together a long time, content in each other's arms and though there are other men that she is compelled to dance with for the sake of politeness, she always returns to Raoul.
It is late in the night when they take their leave, and the crowd is dwindling. Capitaine de Courcy has already said his goodbyes, and shook Raoul's hand as he returned Anja. He kissed her hand, and kissed Christine's hand with great politeness, and out of the side of her eye Christine could see Anja flush, and a slight smile twitching at Raoul's lips.
They had a little more champagne, enough so that Christine was slightly lightheaded, and then they said their own goodbyes and walked out with Raoul's arm linked through her own and Anja following just behind.
The automobile has been brought around and is waiting for them. Raoul helps Christine into the passenger seat, and when Anja has settled into the back he arranges himself in the driver's seat. They do not often take the auto out now with fuel rationing, but tonight the extra effort of it is no harm, and Raoul is a competent driver, careful and sure.
Though the journey is only short, Christine dozes, her mind full of the gala. Konstin would have enjoyed it. Would have denied that he would enjoy it but would have enjoyed it nonetheless. He would have looked so distinguished in his uniform, tall and proud and elegant. And the young ladies would have been delighted to see him, but he would have spent most of the night talking to Philippe, too frail now for dancing, and to Rouché and Capitaine de Courcy. And Antoine, of course, if Antoine had been there.
They asked for Konstin, Rouché and the Capitaine, and the mothers and wives of others away at the Front. Madame Remarque and Madame Delacroix and Madame Ledoux and more. All asking after him, and all she could do was smile and say he is well, and leave out how with each telegram that comes her heart clenches, how sometimes she sees the rain and sees him dead in it, his face pale and eyes blank and staring.
Sorelli did not ask, but Sorelli knows. Sorelli has the same nightmares too, and instead they talked about Guillaume and how wonderful it is that he has three weeks' furlough.
The stopping of the auto wakes Christine from her thoughts, and in the next moment the door bangs behind Anja. She'll rush in, and Émile will be waiting up to hear all about the gala from her, and lament that he was not allowed to go. He is so young, really, but next time, maybe. Next time.
Raoul reaches over, and draws Christine gently to him. She leans her head on his shoulder and sighs, and he kisses her hair. "To bed, my love, I think," he whispers, and she smiles.
"Yes. To bed."
It is the shifting of the bed that stirs Christine awake. She was dreaming something, something very sweet. Konstin, standing tall wrapped in his purple dressing gown in front of the fire playing the violin, the room garlanded in red and green for Christmas, Antoine looking at him with that softness in his eyes while Guillaume plays chess against Raoul and Sorelli helps Anja with her balance. Philippe explains ship plans to Émile, and Marguerite sketches the scene, and Christine sits back sipping champagne, content in having her family all here together, a thrill in her heart as Raoul smiles at her across the chessboard.
The tendrils of the dream are already slipping away as she opens her eyes, and the misty light filling the room is a pang in her heart. It is so long since they had a Christmas like that, the family all gathered together. Almost four years, before this war came. Before Konstin and Antoine went to the Front and Guillaume to the sea. Guillaume made it home that first Christmas, while Antoine and Konstin held out against the Germans, knowing it was treason to fraternise with them for Christmas Day, and neither would ever admit to having had even a moment's silence in the fighting.
But Christine has heard, from more than one tongue, about the guns falling silent as Konstin played his violin, and she's wondered, more than once in the years since, if Erik would have stood up and played the same. Sometimes, she can almost imagine him…
"I'll be back in a moment," Raoul murmurs, kissing her forehead gently as he does the belt of his dressing gown, and she smiles at him, still half-asleep as he slips from the room.
She dozes in his absence, slips back into an older dream, an older memory. There was a Christmas, once, a long time ago, where Konstin, who could not have been more than two, slept in Nadir's lap with Antoine and Guillaume. And Nadir looked up at her, his arms full of the little boys and that sad faraway look in his eyes, and smiled so much as to ask, what would Erik think if he could see us now?
She is woken from the memory by the creak of the door opening, and her eyes flicker open. Blinking a few times to clear her vision, she finds Raoul standing there, as pale as a sheet, an open envelope in his hand.
And in that moment, she knows.
Konstin. No! Not Konstin—not—
"Please tell me he's alive," she whispers, her voice hoarse, before Raoul has a chance to speak. He has to be alive, he has to. The very thought of the alternative—No! She will not let her mind go there.
The world tilts and suddenly it's more than thirty-six years ago, and she's running headlong through the passage under the opera, Darius at her side and every fibre of her screaming that Erik will be all right he has to be all right.
She gasps, and tears burn her eyes and Raoul's arms wrap tight around her waist pulling her to him, his warm body, his soft words in her ear, her heart pounding so hard it's all she can hear, drowning him out.
Her heart pounds the beat of Konstin Konstin Konstin over and over again. Konstin Konstin he has to be all right, he has to. He has to be alive. He can't—he can't—
And all those times she has seen it come back to her in a flash, flickering before her eyes. Konstin lying still in the rain, his face blankly staring upwards. Konstin gasping for breath after gas. Konstin with blood spurting from his chest from a bullet. A horror reel images.
Her arms remember the weight of him, heavy against her and his head lolling limp on her shoulder but that wasn't Konstin that was Erik so long ago, Erik not Konstin. Not Konstin.
She gasps a breath, her heart pounding in her ears, and she is back in Raoul's arms, his hand rubbing soft circles into her back and lips light against her forehead. He holds her until she gets her breath, until the trembling passes, and then holds her a little longer.
But she needs to know, she needs to, and summoning all her strength she whispers, "Tell me."
Raoul nods and leans back, just enough that she can see the worry clear in his eyes.
"He's missing," he murmurs, tears in his eyes to mirror her own, "all they know is that he's missing."
She snatches the envelope from his hand before he has a chance to stop her and pulls out the folded sheet of paper within, opening it to find a telegram. Her eyes scan it, barely taking in the words
We regret…Commandant Erik Konstantin Daaé…missing in action…engagement at…
Missing. Missing. Not dead. Not wounded. Not taken prisoner. Simply missing, as if he disappeared. Missing can mean so much. Missing can be dead and not confirmed. Missing can be left lying alone in No Man's Land. Missing can be a prisoner and not known.
Missing can be blown up by a bomb and nothing left to find.
Her heart catches in her chest, and the world dims, and when it swims back into view Raoul's face is hovering over her, blanched white, but all she can feel is emptiness. Nothing but numb emptiness.
A/N: Fun fact, one actual historical person appears in this chapter. Props if you know who. There are two references to two existing books, and one reference to another PotO adaptation!
Up next week: Antoine and Konstin, of wounds and rambling.