DELETED SCENE from 'The Angel Descends'
After rehearsal, La Carlotta cornered Christine with a terrifying smile and informed her - loudly, in front of the whole company - that there was a police inspector in Firmin's office who wished to speak with her.
Why must she make it sound damning? Christine thought angrily. No one suspects me of anything.
But then, all the Ghost's notes had been about her.
Her heart sank.
When she arrived, she was alarmed to see the managers' office was full of important-looking, grim-faced men. Even Andre had dispensed with his usual empty smile.
"Daae, this is Inspector Mifroid from the police," Firmin said.
"Commissiare," Mifroid corrected tersely.
Firmin shrugged. "Just ask her whatever you need to and get on with it."
The hair on the back of Christine's neck prickled. "Monsieur le Commissaire," she greeted him apprehensively.
"You ought to sit, Mademoiselle," the Commissaire said, nodding toward a chair in front of Firmin's desk. "This may take some time. Signora Giudicelli, you are not obliged to remain."
"I want to be of any assistance I can," Carlotta simpered, aiming a triumphant glance at her rival.
Christine hid a scowl.
Shaking his head, the commissaire closed the door.
"Christine D... Dai?" he said, seating himself behind Firmin's desk.
Close enough, I suppose. Certainly better than some attempts she'd heard. "Yes."
"Born 1850?"
Marvelous. Now everyone knows how old I am. A female singer could scarcely afford that. Reluctantly, Christine nodded.
"Birthplace Vaxjo, Sweden?"
"Yes."
"Quite," the commissaire said. "Well, Mademoiselle, no doubt you are wondering why I have called you here."
Christine nodded.
"You have heard the rumors about an individual calling themselves the Opera Ghost, I presume?"
"Oh, yes," she said quietly. "I only wish we all could go back to never having heard of him."
"Well, unfortunately, Mademoiselle, he has written this company another letter, and once again it concerns you." The commissaire pushed a paper toward Christine. "I shall require a sample of your writing."
Christine looked at him in surprise and alarm. "Monsieur, I did not write any of those notes."
"Then you have no reason to be reluctant to comply," he said. Christine quailed, and his face softened a little. "Handwriting analysis is a very exact science,
Mademoiselle. The innocent need have no fear."
Christine could only hope that was true. She had heard Erik's thoughts on the subject of handwriting analysis, and they were by no means so favorable.
"I am going to dictate to you," the commissaire went on. "Do not try to disguise your writing - I shall know if you do."
"I assure you, Monsieur, I have no reason to do so," Christine said firmly, with a glance at Carlotta.
"If you please, Mademoiselle." The inspector gestured to the paper.
Christine hesitated. Should she ask to see an attorney before beginning? No, where in Heaven's name would she find the money? Raoul might be willing to pay, but she couldn't bear the thought of asking him. This wasn't his fault. Moreover, it would make her beholden to him, and she wasn't at all sure she was comfortable with that idea.
Her heart heavy, she picked up the pen Mifroid had offered.
" 'Gentlemen'," Mifroid began, reading from a piece of elegant parchment, " 'It has come to my attention that the company has not been compensating'... There, that will be sufficient."
Has not been compensating who? And for what? Christine's mind fairly vibrated with curiosity.
When she had finished, Mifroid took the paper from her and pushed the original note, which appeared to be written on fine old parchment, not that she had much cause to know anything about expensive stationery, across the desk towards her. "Does this note look familiar to you?" he asked.
She peered toward it curiously. She had never been this close to one of the Ghost's letters - she lacked the morbid curiosity about him that so had possessed so many people at the Opéra. It presented a curious spectacle, written in eerie blood-red ink, in the most disgraceful scrawl she had ever seen. "No," she said.
Even as she said it, however, something prickled at the back of her brain. That scrawl looked familiar somehow.
The inspector took back the note and began to read. Christine listened first with interest, then growing discomfort.
Gentlemen,
It has come to my attention that the company has not been compensating Mademoiselle Christine Daae according to the standard rates for a principal performer (despite her being by orders of magnitude the best singer ever to take on the role at this opera house).
In spite of the grim situation, Christine had to hide a smile - La Carlotta was the only other singer ever to take on the role at the opera house.
Christine could see the insult was not lost on her, either.
I am most seriously displeased, the writer went on. You therefore will immediately compensate her for every rehearsal and performance, with interest. If this demand is not met at once (underlined twice), a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.
Speaking of disasters, I couldn't help but notice the chorus was a little flat during yesterday evening's performance, and when I say a 'little' flat, I mean, of course, a little more flat than usual, which is to say so off-key that the melody was all but unrecognizable. That the entire bottom tier of the audience did not run screaming from the auditorium, I can only attribute to their drunkenness. Speak to the chorus-master tout de suite or I shall be forced to do so myself, with unpleasant consequences for everyone concerned.
The dancing, however, was acceptable - though if you would stop putting Marie Jammes in the solos, the world would be a better and sweeter place. It was nothing short of astounding to watch a pastoral ballet that could have been danced better by one of the sheep. A once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.
Once again I am visited by the temptation to give up on the arts entirely - but someone must endeavor to assure that this company does not sink still further into mediocrity, and unfortunately that responsibility falls to me since the present managers are so wholly inadequate for the task.
I remain, honored gentlemen, your obedient servant,
F. de l'O.
Fantôme de l'Opéra.
Christine was filled with sudden rage toward the Phantom. How dare he put her in this position? No wonder the commissaire suspected her. Anyone would.
"Signora," she said to La Carlotta, "I did not write that note, and I have never said any such thing about you, you have my word."
The great diva sniffed.
"You can see why I am concerned, Mademoiselle," Mifroid said, fixing Christine with a hard stare.
Christine nodded, feeling sick.
"Have you any idea who might have written this?" he asked.
"None," she said.
"No associate of yours?"
"No," Christine repeated. Still, she felt that uncomfortable itch of recognition. it felt familiar somehow. That distinctive brand of sarcasm sounded very like someone she knew, though she could not imagine who.
It wasn't Raoul, certainly.
The managers were not clever enough to write such a note, and even if they were, they had no reason to.
La Carlotta was conniving enough, but her French was not up to that standard (though Christine had long suspected her of exaggerating her accent to play up her image as an exotic foreign diva). And Christine was almost certain she wouldn't have written those insults about herself.
But that only eliminated three suspects. The trouble was there were too many people who could have done it. There was an infinite supply of hopeful sopranos who would have gladly killed to take her place in the limelight.
Mifroid, who had been comparing Christine's writing with the letter, looked up.
"Mademoiselle Daae is not the writer of this note," he pronounced confidently. "Just as I suspected."
Thank Heaven! Christine thought, and then, But why is he interrogating me, then?
"Still," the inspector went on, "The 'ghost' may have accomplices."
Christine stared at him in alarm.
After a moment, he looked up. "Where did you acquire that gown?" he asked.
This was intolerable, Christine thought angrily. "It was my mother's. I made it over myself. It took me weeks." She cursed herself for wearing her best dress today.
0000000
"Monsieur le Vicomte has done me the honor of offering me his hand."
She saw the inspector's face change, recalculating their relative positions in the world. "My congratulations, Mademoiselle," he added after a moment, in a considerably more humble voice than he had used before.
"I have not yet given him an answer," she said.
The inspector looked astonished; Raoul, disappointed.
This surprised Christine. Had he been hoping she would suddenly announce to the whole room that they were engaged - would leap into his arms to get himself out of this predicament? After all, by doing so she would instantly have made herself untouchable.
But Raoul would not think anything so ungentlemanlike, she told herself.
"Very well," the inspector managed at last, looking at her with even more suspicion than before.
Christine could not entirely blame him for that. She was, without question, the only unmarried woman on earth who would not immediately say yes to a proposal from Raoul de Chagny. (For that matter, no doubt there were thousands of married women, including some otherwise happily married ones, who would have cheerfully killed their husbands for a chance at him.) Indeed, she sometimes wondered herself if her hesitation was not due to insanity.
"And why have you not accepted?" the inspector asked. "That is surprising, you must admit."
Even the very best of men would have looked smug at such a moment. To do otherwise was simply against human nature. Raoul hid it remarkably well, pretending to be fascinated by a pigeon on the windowsill. He did not, to the smallest degree, look pointedly at Christine, a feat which she gave him a great deal of credit for.
"There is a great deal I still hope to accomplish before I marry," Christine said. "I hope to make a career in the Opéra." Though I daresay all chances of that are well and truly finished now.
"You are an ambitious woman," Mifroid said, as though inquiring about an embarrassing disease.
"I own it." She lifted her chin a little higher. At that moment she would have given anything to be able to curb her headstrong nature. But she knew it was impossible. Heaven knew she had tried in the past. But it ran in a long line of Daae women and there was no rooting it out. It was like restraining the wind.
Mifroid wrote something down. "You would do anything to achieve success?"
"Anything that was right," she said firmly.
"Perhaps you were driven to desperation."
Christine, her nerves strained to breaking point, lost her temper. "Monsieur, I see what you are insinuating. I assure you, I do not need to resort to deception and blackmail to achieve success. My gifts, whatever they may amount to, will speak for themselves. I will succeed by my own efforts, and on my own terms!"
This speech was met with a blank stare from Raoul, suspicion from Mifroid, a snort from La Carlotta, and hostility from everyone else.
"Not entirely by your own efforts, perhaps," Mifroid said at last. "Monsieur de Chagny tells me he has some concerns about your instructor."
Christine froze. How dare he?
"Monsieur le Commissionare, that in no way means I have any doubts about Mademoiselle Daae's character!" Raoul said.
"I understand perfectly," said Mifroid, "But you must understand that that makes little difference in the eyes of the law."
It was plain from Raoul's expression that this idea had never occurred to him before.
Christine hid her annoyance.
"Would you be so good as to tell us about him?"
Christine thought frantically. What could she say?
Would mentioning the mask make people suspicious?
Did anyone know about that particular detail? Oh, yes, she had mentioned it to Meg. But then, Meg would not mention that. Surely not. She would never say anything that might get Christine into trouble.
Besides, since the war there was nothing unusual about people wearing masks. Thousands of men had emerged from the carnage mutilated beyond recognition, too ashamed to ever show their faces in public again.
One did not ask about such things. Everyone knew that. It would be an unthinkable violation.
She decided to let the commissaire take the lead. She would volunteer as little information as possible.
"His name is Joseph Masson," she said, "but I know little else about him."
"A rather generic name," he said. "Do you think it possible it might be an alias?"
"I had no reason to think so at the time."
"At the time?"
"When I met him."
"When did you meet him?"
"Some years ago."
"And he offered to teach you?"
"Yes."
"And who is paying for your lessons?"
"No-one."
"What do you mean?"
"He has been teaching me for free."
"Then I suppose - forgive me - there is kind of arrangement?" Mifroid said, having teh decency to look embarrassed.
If she said there was not, she would be under suspicion for criminal activities.
If she said there had been, her reputation would be dragged through the mud.
As she always preferred to do, she told the truth.
"No," she said. "He never made any inappropriate suggestions."
"Did that not strike you as suspicious?"
"Really, Monsieur le Commissaire, it is a sad world we live in if behaving respectfully toward a young lady is considered suspicious."
The commissaire made a noise that was extremely like a snort. "Then let me put it this way: Why do you think he is teaching you?"
"He said my father had been kind to him, some years ago," Christine said.
There was a silence.
"What is it you suspect me of?"
"I suspect that this Monsieur Masson is the Phantom, and that you have been collaborating with him."
"But-"
"-Mademoiselle," said Mifroid, "I am sorry, but it is my duty to take you back to the station for questioning."
"Wait!" Christine gasped. "Please! I cannot..."
"You cannot do that!" Raoul cried. "I forbid it!"
"Monsieur, forgive me, but you are not in a position to forbid anything," the commissaire said.
"Your superiors will hear about this!" Raoul cried.
"I'm sure they will," Mifroid muttered under his breath.
Christine had expected Raoul to protest further, but to her surprise, he did not. "Christine, I will come with you!" he said instead.
"Please," she said helplessly, tears stinging her eyes, looking around in vain for support. "Monsieur, if it comes out that I have been questioned by the police, my reputation will be ruined!"
"Mademoiselle," said the commissaire, "That is not my concern."
One of his assistants came forward and seized her by the arm. Christine began to panic. "Let me go!" she cried, trying to snatch away from him, but his grip only tightened.
"It pains me to interrupt such a pleasant occasion," a deep voice suddenly said from behind them, "But under the circumstances-"
Everyone whirled around, and whatever the voice had been going to say was drowned out by their gasps.
A masked man sat in an armchair by the door, legs languidly crossed, a pleasant smile on his face. In one large hand, gloved in black leather, he twirled a pistol.
Christine stifled a yelp of surprise. At the same time, she felt the policeman's grip loosen, and snatched her arm away.
"Why so silent, good Messieurs?" the intruder said pleasantly. "Ah, Signora. Buongiorno."
Carlotta scurried to the back of the room, crossing herself.
"Where was I?" Erik said. "Do forgive me. Even an intellect as formidable as mine must eventually begin to succumb to the ravages of age. Ah, yes, of course." And standing up, he pointed the pistol at Christine's head.
Well, that was interesting, Christine thought. A moment later, she realized that whatever was going on, she needed to look terrified if they were to keep up the deception. To her surprise, she managed to do so. It seemed she was a better actress in real life than on the stage.
She was quite sure she had accomplished the transformation quickly enough that no-one noticed the brief delay.
"What are you doing?" Raoul said.
"Mademoiselle is my hostage," Erik explained, taking hold of Christine's arm, though much more gently than the policeman had done.
"No!" Raoul cried.
Christine had to keep her face from lighting up with relief. So Erik did have a plan! Why, but then... this would mean they would be chasing him instead of her. That was no better.
Her look of distress turned to a real one.
Erik smiled at Raoul. "The matter is entirely in your hands, Monsieur le Vicomte."
"What do you mean?" Raoul said, with a look of mingled fear and anger.
Erik winced with impatience. "Must I explain everything to you? It seems straightforward enough, surely? Signora, you are the second-most devious person in this room - surely you agree it is not difficult to understand?" He looked at Carlotta, who frantically nodded her assent, slumping with relief when he looked away from her again. "I want the outstanding balance of this month's salary, plus a late fee. Shall we say forty percent?"
"Another six thousand francs? You can keep her for that!" Firmin scowled.
Everyone turned to look at him. Even Erik looked offended. "I think this moment has taught us all something rather important about your character, my dear Monsieur," he said at last. "And your grasp of mathematics."
Firmin sputtered himself angrily into silence.
After treating him to a final glare, Erik resumed his speech. "If that entirely reasonable sum is delivered to me by - twelve o'clock tomorrow, shall we say? I shall return her."
"Do we have your word?" Raoul said.
Erik fixed him with a pinched stare. "I do not know," he said with deliberate laziness. "She is a pretty little thing, as I think we both agree. Perhaps I may keep her. She would make me a charming Phantomess, don't you think?"
That's going a bit far! Christine elbowed him in the side.
Smiling, Erik ignored this hint.
"What a disgraceful scoundrel you are!" Raoul snarled.
Erik smiled. "Thank you."
"Please," Christine gasped, "Let me go." To her surprise, she even managed to produce a few tears, something she had never before managed to do on command.
"Enough!" Raoul cried. "Let us meet on the field of honor like gentlemen!"
"Do you see any gentlemen here?" Erik chuckled.
"A duel, Monsieur!" Raoul clarified.
"I think not," Erik said, still in the same lazy drawl. "You would probably wind up castrating me by accident, and that would be too great a loss for the women of the world."
A smile nearly made it to Christine's face. She managed to contort it into an expression that looked like she had stubbed her toe. Sternly, she ordered herself not to laugh until later.
"You coward!" Raoul bellowed. "You would not be so full of braggadocio if the rest of us were armed!"
Erik smiled. "My dear Vicomte, Signora Giudicelli has all her (frankly repulsive) muffs made with a special pocket for a derringer, Monsieur Andre never goes anywhere without a knife strapped to his left ankle - no doubt he has the war to thank for that habit - Monsieur Firmin keeps his old service revolver in his desk (not that he ever used it; I seem to remember hearing somewhere that he escaped before the siege by disguising himself as a woman), Monsieur Mifroid is currently attempting to reach into his coat for his pistol without my noticing, and the rest of these gentlemen all belong, as they are concealing with varying degrees of success, to the police. Even Mademoiselle Daae keeps a dagger in her bodice. He nodded to Christine and then looked away as she began to extract the weapon in question from her stays.
"In other words," Erik said to the Vicomte, "you are the only person in the room who is not armed."
"The next time we are in this predicament, I shall not be without a weapon, you would do well to remember!" the Vicomte cried.
"Do you plan to be in this predicament again?" Erik said with a chuckle, accepting the knife from Christine.
"Mark my words, we will cross paths again," Raoul cried, "and when that day comes, I will be ready for you!"
"Does he ever stop making that appalling noise?" Erik said with a glare that could have burnt through metal.
"Monsieur le Vicomte," the Commissaire said apologetically, "I must ask you to refrain from making any further remarks at present."
"Finally, a person of intelligence." Erik turned to the Commissaire. "Mifroid, it is a thrill to meet you at last. I have been watching your career with interest."
0000000
Mifroid had been handling the whole catastrophe very well, doing a good job of appearing unimpressed and contemptuous of Erik's [efforts]. "I don't suppose it's worth asking," he said with acrid sarcasm, "but if I might inquire - how, precisely, did you get in?"
Erik winced apologetically. "My dear inspector, I would like nothing better than to tell you the full story, but I have an appointment with my tailor, so regrettably I cannot linger. The secret to looking as immaculate as this is always to stay on the good side of one's clothiers. Another time. Monsieur le Vicomte, I warn you!"
Raoul froze from where he had been attempting to edge behind Firmin's desk.
"Good God, it is worse than training a puppy," Erik said.
"Out of interest, Mademoiselle Daae," Mifroid said, "this wouldn't happen to be your Monsieur Joseph Masson, would it?"
"No!" Christine exclaimed, and the Commissaire's look of confidence faltered.
"I am sorry to disappoint you, my dear Commissaire, but I have never heard of a Joseph Masson," Erik said. "I would be automatically suspicious of anyone who introduced himself to me as that. It sounds like an alias, do you not think so, my dear Inspector?" He glanced at the clock on the wall across from Andre's desk. "And now, my dear Mademoiselle, I am afraid we really must make our departure."
"No!" Raoul shouted, distraught. "Free her! Have you no pity?"
"Your lover makes a passionate plea," Erik smirked.
He is not my lover! Christine wanted to correct him, but now did not seem the time to get lost in such details.
"Show some compassion!" Raoul cried. "I love her!"
"You do not have it in you," Erik said.
"I cannot live without her! For God's sake, take me instead!"
"You would only be a useful substitute if we assume they would want you back, which is not an assumption I am prepared to make, given your total lack of any attractive personal characteristics whatsoever," Erik said. "Now, Mademoiselle Daae, if you would be so kind as to take this-" He held out what Christine could only assume was a key to Firmin's office- "insert it into the lock, and, without closing the door first - that part is important, as I am sure you will appreciate - turn it to the locked position."
Christine complied.
"Flawlessly executed, my dear Mademoiselle," Erik said. "Now raise your hand and bring it down sharply on top of it. Have no fear - it is a rather brittle alloy of my own devising, and will snap quite easily without hurting you."
Again, Christine followed his instructions. The key snapped off just as Erik had described.
He smiled, looking pleased with himself. "Et voilà. And now we must be going, my dear."
"Please, let me go!" Christine cried.
"I sympathize with your predicament, Mademoiselle, but your fate is in their hands," Erik said. "Good afternoon, Signora, Messieurs. I shall send proof that she is unharmed - for the present. You have twenty-four hours, gentlemen."
"What do you mean to do to her?" Raoul wailed.
"What do I mean to do with her?" Erik glared at him. "I shall furnish her with a rather excellent luncheon, after which I thought perhaps I might play her some Chopin, if she is amenable to the idea. What do you take me for?" And he bundled Christine out the door, shutting it gently but firmly behind them.
He turned to Christine, who was staring at him in mute shock, and smiled.
There came the sound of Firmin exclaiming something unprintable, followed by a crash that Christine was quite sure was the Vicomte throwing something at the door.
Erik raised an eyebrow. "I hope his nurse sends him to bed without supper."
Christine opened and closed her mouth several times without any sound coming out.
"It will not work if we stay standing here," Erik said, bundling her gently down the hall. "Someone is bound to come along."
"Erik!" Christine cried when she could find her voice. "Merciful Heaven!"
For the first time, his smug demeanor faltered. "You disapprove, Christine?"
"I am grateful that you mean to help me, but... the risk you took! There will be repercussions! You have gotten yourself in a great deal of trouble!"
"I did not have any other ideas. Or at any rate, none that promised to be this fun." He grinned.
"Fun!" Inside, she found to her alarm that a part of her was thrilled. But she forced herself not to show it.
"Admit it - you are enjoying this," he said.
"I am not!" she lied. "This is a serious matter!"
"Seriousness is a matter of relativity, I find. Do not look at me like that. No one was harmed, except, if I guess correctly from the sound, that hideous vase that Firmin's mistress bought for his office."
"You may be harmed!" she said. "You must be careful! If you are caught - Erik, they might think you are actually the Phantom! The real Phantom - the one who has been blackmailing them and sabotaging the scenery!"
Erik chuckled. "Yes, that would be a catastrophe."
They stopped suddenly in front of an ornately decorated wall. He peered at it for a moment, then pressed on a panel in the marble, which, to Christine's astonishment, swung open like a door, revealing a passage beyond.
Erik bundled her gently through.
Thinking this was one of the hidden corridors used by the cleaners, she complied. But as her eyes adjusted to the gloom within, she realized what a horrible miscalculation she had made.
There were no buckets or mops, no tools. The place was begrimed with cobwebs. No-one had come here in weeks - months, even.
The door swung shut behind them.
Christine, feeling lightheaded, staggered. He caught her by the arm, steadying her.
She snatched her arm away. "No!"
"Christine?" He stared at her, startled. "What is this?"
"It was you all this time! You - you are the Phantom!"
He stared at her for a long moment in silence. "Frankly, I was always surprised you did not guess," he said. "Indeed, I think in your heart you have known it for some time."
"If I [get in trouble] because of this, I will be furious!"
"That is precisely what I am trying to avoid," he said.
"You scoundrel!"
Suddenly he snapped open the cartridge of the gun. It was empty.
Christine's eyes widened. "You are not armed," she said.
"No."
"I did not think..."
"It was stupid of me, perhaps."
"You risked your life for me."
He quirked a smile, with a faint flicker of his usual wit. "Try not to let it go to your head."
"Obviously after this we shall have to find somewhere else to meet for our lessons. There is a little studio in Clichy I have my eye on. I shall send you the address-"
"-No!" she exclaimed.
He peered at her in confusion. "What?"
"Never come near me again!"
"But Christine!"
"You are a scoundrel and a criminal! I cannot [condone] that!"
"But how will you afford your lessons?"
"I don't know!"
"Please," she said.
He [threw open a panel] and ushered her through, swinging it shut behind them. Christine found they were in a staircase [near the main hall, with sunlight [pouring in through the windows].
She blinked at the sudden brightness.
Erik had not made any move to take hold of her arm again; she could easily have run away from him. Why she did not, she couldn't have said.
"Come, quickly," Erik said, and then they were descending a flight of stairs.
"Those two fools who run my theater ought to [come out right about here," he said.
Just as he spoke, those two fools who ran the theater materialized from around a corner, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.
"At last," Erik muttered,in. "Really, I almost had to chase them."
"Unhand her, you demon!" Raoul cried, starting to charge forward.
"Why have you not said anything?" Erik asked.
Christine was silent.
Erik pressed the barrel of the empty revolver to her head. "All of you, be still," he cried, his deep voice filling the space. "Chagny, drop your weapon."
The group froze, Raoul a little faster than the others, Firmin last of all.
"Will you help me?" Erik murmured.
She said nothing.
He drew her closer to him. His lips brushed against the little curls that grew just in front of her ear. Before, the touch would have thrilled her, but now all she felt was revulsion. "If you would be so good as to pretend to fall down the stairs," he murmured. "If you do it slowly, you will not be injured, but the effect will be convincing."
He started to back away, his footsteps as [deliberate] as a tiger's. As he went, he gave her a slight push in the back. Not enough to really knock her over, however.
She must act now or the illusion would be spoilt. Pretending to stagger, she crumpled, then let herself flop awkwardly down the steps.
Before she reached the first landing a pair of strong arms had encircled her and pulled her to a sitting position.
"Are you well?" Raoul said, his concerned face inches from hers. "Christine... Great Heavens! Thank God! That demon! Did he hurt you?"
Without hesitation, she collapsed into his arms. She didn't care if everyone was looking, or what they thought. She needed the closeness of another human being.
There came a stifled sound. Was he weeping? she thought in surprise, looking up at him. He very nearly was, she saw. He certainly cared more about her than Erik - no, the Phantom; he was the Phantom - did.
"No," Christine said. She was conscious of a faint bruise forming on her side - Erik had not factored the effects of a tightly laced corset into his calculations - but apart from that she was uninjured.
Through the gap between Raoul's arm and his side, she looked back up the stairs to the place where Erik had stood. He was gone, safely escaped once more. For a number of reasons, she prayed he would never be seen here again.
"I don't know what I would have done without you," Raoul confessed, so quietly that only she could hear.
Christine had planned on pretending to cry. After an ordeal like that, she reasoned, she ought to produce some tears for the sake of verisimilitude. But a moment later she realized she didn't have to pretend.
Her sobs were quite real.
Sitting there, huddled in a pathetic, weeping bundle, she suddenly realized something. She'd worn her best dress today because she wanted to impress Erik.
What a fool she was.
Thank you so much for reading!