"Was that an alarm?" Christine stops her trek across the sitting room, her blue eyes wide with fear as she grasps his sleeve.
"So it would seem," he says. "I meant to disconnect the system, no need for it anymore. One of those happy accidents of fate. Keep walking." Turning off the last wall lamp in the sitting room, with only the lantern to guide them, they continue through the kitchen to the door leading to the Rue Scribe gate.
Stopping at the alarm cabinet, Erik checks to see what wire has been triggered. "The dock on the lake."
"Raoul?"
"He seems quite determined in his quest to prove I am alive," Erik says. Removing the snips from the small tool kit clipped to his belt, he cuts a number of wires in the panel, both silencing the alarm and rendering the system useless.
"Now, in the future, you will not know if someone is approaching," Christine says.
"I shall not be returning." Closing the cabinet, he mutters, "I am impressed he remembered the way down."
"Do you think he broke in to the opera house?"
"Not such a difficult task – the workmen have not been very careful locking up. I would not be surprised if a door was left wide open," he says with a grim smile. "Come, we should return to the dressing room as quickly as possible in the event he manages to find his way back up through the levels when he finds neither of us here. He will be looking for you there."
"What if he gets lost…injured? What if he is injured now – no one will know where he is."
"I really do not care," Erik says, turning to face her. "His idea of chivalry toward you is wearing rather thin on me. You chose to come back here…to me…or the idea of me, or so you said. If he dies, he dies, why should you be concerned?"
"I never wanted him dead – just simply to leave me…us alone," she insists, her lips pursed into a moue.
"What would you have me do?" Erik's response is curt and abrupt.
"I…I do not know."
"I released both of you…so you could be with him. I thought that was what you wanted...needed. I faked my death so I would no longer be hunted. The mob he sicced on me destroyed my home…the only home I ever had where I felt safe…and would have killed me. Yes, I brought it on myself because I fell in love with you, but does one deserve to die because they love? I am tired of this."
"I am sorry, I did not mean…"
"Damn it, what do you want? If I stop now to give him whatever help it is you think he needs, I might as well walk to the Mairie and turn myself in – to be tried and likely hanged...or put on display."
"No. I do not wish for that. I would never wish for that to happen to you."
"Why did you come back?" he sighs.
Tilting her head, her eyes soft…pleading…she slips her hand down his arm to his hand, squeezing this long fingers. "I love you. I missed you so after I left you and when I heard of your death, I thought I would die myself."
"Then we must leave him to his own devices," Erik says, his own eyes hard and determined. Picking up his travel case, the violin tucked under his arm, he begins to walk through the door. "Make your choice. Here is the lantern. You know the way back to the gate when you decide to leave. However, I must seek other refuge since my safety here is no longer guaranteed. I only ask you promise you will not try to find me again."
"Erik, wait," she cries, lifting her bag, stumbling after him. "I chose you then, I choose you now. I only want to be with you."
Pressing a finger to his lips, he cocks his head to hear better. "Shhh." Lifting his chin, he directs her through the door, closing it behind them, turning the key in the lock to prevent anyone from following them.
"Stay close," he whispers.
"Someone got in?"
"Yes…or is at least attempting to get in," he says. "Finding the entry is one thing, opening it, quite another…at least the boy did not kill himself."
Pressing her hand against his back, she says, "I am sorry."
"Stop saying that."
"What can I say?"
"Nothing," he says. "Just say nothing more…for now…please. Save your breath for the walk."
"Where is the door?" Raoul runs his hands over the macadam covered bricks, seeking the break in the wall he found so easily just a few days ago. "So he was expecting me then."
The words from that meeting still haunt him…
Sir, this is indeed an unparalleled delight.
I had rather hoped that you would come.
And now my wish comes true.
You have truly made my night!
If he wanted to kill him, why did he not just do it? Him alone or with Christine? Christine. It was the kiss, of course. Touching his own cheek, he recoils at the memory of what was hidden beneath the mask. Not once but twice did she kiss that foul face. With passion. Even raising her delicate hand to caress the mottled flesh.
Before he even knew what was happening, the noose was gone and they were leaving…ordered to leave. The sound of the mob approaching frightened him almost as much as the idea of being hanged in the room black as pitch. The only light coming from dozens of candelabra. Might as well be locked up with a pack of mad dogs, they were not likely to escape their vengeance and would die with the ghost if they did not move quickly.
"I must return his ring."
"He is going to die. I do not want to die with him."
"I must. I owe him. He was my Angel of Music."
"Very well, but hurry."
Her Angel of Music. How many times must he hear that expression. Angel in Hell more likely, as the creature himself cried out.
"Where is that opening," he shouts into the void. "I know it is here." Taking a deep breath, he holds his lantern closer to the wall, slowly rising and lowering the light as he takes small steps, using both his eyes and fingertips to examine the flat barrier.
Finally, a ridge, almost invisible. Pressing lightly against what appears to be a lever, the door comes ajar with a soft click and Raoul finds himself looking into the music room. The lantern sheds only minimal light, but from what he can see, the floor is covered with planks of wood and metal tubes. The only solid piece being the large mahogany chair.
"How did he escape this?"
Stepping cautiously, he crosses the room to enter what he now understands is the house built inside the walls of the Garnier Christine told him about.
"Yes!" Using his hand pressing against one wall of the hallway, he feels as much as sees his way. The door comes as a surprise. Slightly ajar, he kicks it open, holding up his lantern to have a better look. The stench threatens to overwhelm him. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he holds it over his nose.
A chill runs up his spine. Who does something like this? A once elegantly appointed room rendered to garbage. While not as grand as the room assigned her at the manor house, the space could be imagined as one Christine would find appealing. Instinctively, he realizes this was her room…where she stayed when visiting him.
The armoire catches his eye. Not a connoisseur of furniture, he could still recognize the quality of the workmanship – similar to some of the pieces at the Chagny country estate. The cabinet draws him. Not certain of what he thinks he will find, the absence of any clothing surprises him. Then he looks down at the floor and sees piles of garments strewn about. Once again he finds himself grateful they escaped before the mob descended on this hellish place.
Turning back to close the doors, a glint of metal catches his eye. The Hussar jacket is tucked deep into a corner. "So I am not crazy. It was them." Folding the uniform over his arm, he leaves the room. Following the hallway past another open door, the room dark as pitch. "Black as the soul of the devil who lived here." Swinging the lantern he recognizes the shape of what once was a coffin. "My God, who is this man?" Much like Christine's room, an armoire stands against the far wall. "Nothing here for me to see."
A few more steps and he feels a greater sense of space. The lantern confirms a sitting room, most of the furnishings turned over or broken into pieces. Despite a vague feeling the room was recently occupied, the energy has dissipated. If they were here, as he suspects, they are gone now.
"At least my suspicions are confirmed," he says, patting the Hussar jacket. "Now they will believe me."
As he begins making his way back, the lantern dims, then nothing. The darkness is complete. A sense of panic rises in his belly. With shaking hands, he pulls a box of matches from the pocket of his waistcoat. With his finger tip he counts seven remaining sticks. Choosing one, he strikes the tip, touching it to the wick in the lantern. A short flare, then nothing.
"What?" Shaking the lantern lightly, there is no shifting weight in the base. "No oil." Sinking to the floor, he struggles to quiet his rapidly increasing heart beat and swallow the bile rising in his throat. "Stay calm. Everything is as it was. Just get back to the music room, there are candles there."
Lighting another match, he tries to acclimate his position in the room. "Damn." Dropping the burnt wooden stick, he sucks his thumb and forefinger to sooth the burn.
Still, the short moment of light reveals the entrance to the hallway. "Close your eyes, then the darkness is your decision. "
Slowly rising to his feet, he makes tentative steps in the direction of the way out. "Slowly." The journey is short-lived once he trips over the upended chaise. His eyes snap open and the darkness, the all-present darkness is even more frightening than before.
"Think." There must be lamps or candles or some sort of lighting here – the man, monster though he may be, could not live in the dark. Did not Christine tell him they often played chess or read together? A reflection off of some glass is revealed with the next match. Inching toward the reflection, scraping his feet along the floor rather than attempting to walk, he bumps into a parson's table. The small flame at the end of the stick reveals a heavy crystal fruit bowl, somehow surviving the destruction surrounding him.
Four left. Use one more to get some bearings, then move by touch…the odor coming from Christine's room would act as another guide. Three matches, then back to the cavern with an occasional torch lit for the workmen. All he need do is suppress the feeling of being suffocated.
Why would someone want to live in a tomb. Breathing deeply, he hopes it will not be his.
The lantern doused and left inside the doorway, Erik opens the gate, leading Christine back out to the Rue Scribe. After locking the gate, he takes up the same brisk pace of their journey from the house onto the street.
"Can we stop for a moment?" Christine asks, reaching for his arm. "I need to catch my breath."
Turning to face her, his amber eyes immediately soften as she looks up at him. Even in the dim light of the street lamps her blue eyes sparkle, her round cheeks flush with the exertion of their walk from the house only makes her more beautiful. The journey itself absorbed most of his fury – he could not stay angry with her. "I am sorry, I was not thinking. You should have told me to slow down."
"You told me not to speak."
"Well, that was a mistake – I was upset," he admits, the stiffness in his shoulders loosens. "You have every right to speak, even if I do not care to hear what you might want to say."
"I was apologizing," she smiles gently. "You do not care to hear apologies?"
"You cared for him, of course you would not wish for his death."
"You are not angry then?"
Shaking his head no, he says, "I would just rather not talk about the Vicomte, if that is alright with you."
"What if he gets lost…down there?" Indicating the path they just traversed with a tilt of her head.
"Nadir will be back in the morning," he says, starting to walk again. "He found his way down – not once, but twice – he may very well find his way back and I should like to be safely inside if that happens."
"You are right, of course." Picking up her bag, she attempts to keep up with him.
Noticing her difficulty, he slows down until their steps fall in with one another. "Better?"
"Better," she laughs lightly. "Thank you."
"Monsieur! Madame! Stop! Please!" A voice rings out in the fog behind them.
"Should we run?"
"Best to respond, I do not think we can outrun anyone, in any event." Erik positions himself between Christine and the unidentified voice. Setting his bag down, the violin case placed on top, he reaches into his pocket. Holding the garrot on the ready, they wait for the voice to become a person. "How may we help you?"