Two Weeks – Chapter 24

The stage is dark, lit only by a small lamp. Settled comfortably behind a Hannibal scrim Raoul feels secure in his hiding place. A small bench provides him with a place to sit while he waits for Christine and her protectors to leave. How dare she treat him as if he was some commoner off the street.

The rude dismissal by the two women and the threats from the officious Persian are not going to prevent him from following Christine to find out where she is hiding. Whoever she is seeing, he will prove to her he is the better man. A face to face confrontation is needed.

Phillippe was wrong about her. He discovered that on the roof top. Did she not realize it was only a test? This new suitor or whatever role he plays in her life is simply a temporary whim. When she saw him again, he knew in his heart she still loved him. Always loved him as he did her.

There was no one else in his life who cared for him as Christine had that summer.

"What do you want to do with your life?"

"I am a vicomte, so my life will be overseeing our lands…helping my brother."

"Nothing else?"

"What else is there?"

"Music…art…writing – something personal that is yours," she said with a shrug. "Or actually working the land or caring for the animals if that is appealing. Pappa was a farmer and loved his work, but music was his true love. Do you play an instrument?"

Raoul shook his head. "I do like boating, but that is only during the summer…like now."

"The sea is so vast, manning a boat seems a fearful task. I thought you were quite brave to dash into the waves to fetch my scarf."

"I am a good swimmer." Looking up at her from his dark lashes, unable to contain the blush rising on his cheeks.

"Indeed you are," she agreed, smiling. "Maybe you can find work on a boat."

"I do not need to work."

"Well, maybe just to feel useful," she replied. "You never seem very happy. I should just like to see you smile and you smiled so much just now talking about the sea and boats."

"Well, I will be expected to fulfill a commission in the Navy when I am of age…a family tradition."

Clapping her hands, she says, "There, you see, you shall be able to do work you love."

In fact, the commission was to begin in two months' time. Before seeing Christine again, he was quite looking forward to the venture. Living under his brother's thumb, he only felt dread. Even the visit to the opera was at Phillippe's insistence.

"Time you made some sort of contribution to the arts."

"How exactly is my presence at some dreary opera a contribution?"

"The family name is well known amongst the elite and there have been questions about you and why you were not among the patrons."

"I shall ask again: why should they care about me?"

"I care – that is why and should be enough for you."

Now everything was upside down. As it turned out, Phillippe was correct, even if not in the way he thought. As for himself, going to sea was something he did not wish to think about. Seeing her again made him feel alive. How could he leave now whatever the repercussions?

The feeling of the rough cord around his neck takes him by surprise. "What are you doing?" Raoul cries, digging his fingers under the ridge of his collar to keep the rope from tightening.

"Thought you could get away with leaving me to die, did you?"

"Buquet?" he gasps.

"How does it feel?'

"Do not kill me."

"I am not the devil you are," Buquet says, releasing the noose, pushing Raoul off the bench.

Rubbing his throat, Raoul says, "What do you want?"

"To teach you a lesson. Just know I can do this again. You would be well advised not to be wandering around here."

"So I have been told," Raoul snaps. "I prefer to follow my own will, thank you. Again, I ask: what do you want?"

"The Phantom…or the man who fancies himself to be the Opera Ghost."

"What can I do?" Raoul frowns.

"Tell the police you saw him try to kill me."

"I cannot – the Persian…M. Khan…he said there is a witness who saw me leave you."

"Who?"

"He did not say, but he warned me not to pursue the story."

"Then I will have to put this noose around your neck again."

"No!" Raoul exclaims, jumping back.

"Not to kill you, just enough to put you out. You will tell them you were attacked from behind."

"By the Phantom?"

"Yes. He is not with them…he crept back into his basement. The Persian believes I am resting at home so will not suspect me…so who else would want you out of the picture."

"I do not know if they will believe me."

"You want the girl and I want the man she is living with dead."

"Can I trust you?"

"I could have strangled you to death earlier…"

Raoul's quizzical look turns to one of compliance. If, indeed, she believed her lover…the word triggers a shiver of disgust to rise from his belly to his throat. Shaking off the nausea, he convinces himself Christine would certainly chose him over the man who would try to murder him. And, so, it would be worth trusting Buquet now. "A drink first."

"Suit yourself, but hurry – Giry and the Persian went to get the Daae girl, they will be walking past here any time now."

"The blue – she will want both of the blues, it is her favorite color," Erik mutters to himself as he fingers the gowns in the armoire. How quickly the garments…this entire room became hers. The scent of gardenia fills his nostrils, sweet and delicate – much like the blossom itself. The creamy white of the petals so like her flawless skin.

"The pink…no, not her favorite at all, although the color does flatter her. With her hair pulled back from her face with a satin bow, she looks much like one of the porcelain figurines his mother so loved.

"It is not the color I dislike," she told him. "I just find the dress a bit too fussy for my taste. Besides whenever I wear it, Isis insists on pulling on the tassels sewn around the hem. I am always afraid I will trip and fall over her."

A tendency to avoid the darker shades except for the nightly carriage rides, had him decide to stay with the lighter colors. The two blue dresses, the green, a tan and black plaid he felt was too plain, but one she liked because there was no bustle to deal with. More often than not, the simple cotton frock was her choice for when they sat reading, tucking her feet under her as she sat on the sofa with him in his wing-backed chair.

His own armoire contains almost as many suits as Christine has dresses, but his garments are mostly black with the exception of the brocade smoking jacket he acquired on a whim after his escape from Persia. He reminds himself of that fact as he considers how many outfits to pack for her. "Five should be sufficient with the gray wool she chose for our venture out."

"The meeting is for business and this is the most proper of the dresses, I think," she said. "Do you not think so? The white bodice and cuffs brighten the dull color. I think Madame Giry will approve."

"Whatever suits you, it is the warmest and we will be walking, so for that reason alone, I agree."

Of course she looks perfect in all the dresses – how she loves switching them about during the day. When the dressmaker suggested different outfits for morning, luncheon, supper, formal, daytime and evening outings, he was speechless.

"So many?"

"Do you not wish the young lady to be properly attired for every occasion?"

"I suppose so."

"Do you not wish the young lady be able to try different colors and styles to suit her whims."

"I do."

"Well, then, you must agree that the young lady must have a vast array of gowns to choose from. How humdrum her life would be if she only wore one color or pattern all the time."

Other than his mother, who favored black, grieving for her lost husband as she never failed to remind him, it never occurred to him she wore different gowns for different times of day. Even with a dim memory, he did recall now how the dresses varied being made from different fabrics, silks or wools depending upon the season. Some with ruffles, others with beading. "I wonder if Adele chooses black for a similar reason," he wonders aloud to Isis. "You wear black quite well, my dear. The bits of white on your face and bib offer just the right amount of contrast."

The dressmaker went on to explain about peplums and bodices and bustles until his head was spinning. The choice of undergarments he left to her discretion, but now he must pack some of those items for her as well. Christine had everything sorted so he could just gather two or three of each item without focusing too much on what he was touching or how they fit on her body. Packing one after another into the two leather cases chosen for the task – he talks incessantly to the cat so as not to think about the task he is performing and what half emptying her closet means.

When Isis jumps into the armoire, he swats her gently away. "I know, I know – she must have her shoes."

A feeling of urgency pressures him to get everything just right. Sending too much would suggest she is no longer welcome, but he must choose the items he knows she would want or need. Maybe he is being precipitous in doing this at all. Perhaps he should wait. No, best to have this done now while he is still sane. If he has to face her potential rejection, he doubts he would be able to bid her farewell without falling apart.

"Now for toiletries, Isis. Extra jars of each…she will want to share these with Little Meg and Adele. The gardenia, of course, and perhaps the lilac scented lotion. Not the rose. She does like the blossom but finds the eau de toilette offensive."

A sense of panic rises inside of him and the choices become more arbitrary, simply wanting this business to be over. The aimless chit chat stops abruptly as he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging over the sink. Christine's was the only room with any mirrors. The cheval and vanity mirrors were addressed when he first entered by a blanket and scarf respectively – he quite forgot about the bathroom.

Where is he? Where is his mask…his wig? The shock of seeing his own face both frightens and disgusts him.

"Maman, Maman, help me please – there is a monster in your room," he cried as he beat against the mirror of his mother's vanity. Why did the monster turn into shards of shattered glass? Why was he bleeding?

"Why?" he screams, as he slams his fist into the wood framed oval looking glass. Stumbling back, he takes a deep breath. Unwilling or unable to hold back his tears, he slides down the wall to the floor, and cries. "Why?"

"What on earth?" Nadir exclaims as he runs toward the limp body lying in the direct path of the stage door.

Holding Christine back with her cane, Adele asks, "Who is it?"

"Erik?" Christine cries, pushing past Madame Giry.

"No," Nadir says, lifting Raoul's shoulders onto his lap, removing the noose.

"Raoul?" Christine kneels down next to the two men. "Is he alive?"

"Yes, the rope was loose around his neck – but he is unconscious."

"Loose?" Adele comes up behind him. "I would not be surprised if he put it there himself," she sniffs. "I smell whiskey."

"Madame, do you think he tried to…kill himself?"

"Hardly, child." Adele presses her hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "Come, get up. You need to leave here now."

"But we cannot leave him," Christine says, getting to her feet.

"I will take care of this," Nadir says. "Madame Giry is correct, it is best you are not seen with him."

"Do you think Erik did this?"

Nadir shakes his head no.

"How do you know?" Christine asks, frowning. "He was very upset about Raoul."

"I just know," he says, running his fingers under his collar.

"A garrot is most suitable for the task. I am most adept."

"Can you just not hit me over the head with the handle of the riding crop? Or, here, take my gun, hit me with the butt."

"I could, but there would be no guarantee you would survive. Head injuries are always difficult to manage and if I had your gun, why would I not just shoot you?"

"But you can manage a piece of wire?"

"I can indeed," Erik smirked. "You will survive. You will lose consciousness for a short time, then you will awaken to vomit up whatever you ate for dinner. A short period of dizziness, then, other than some slight bleeding and a thin scar, you will be fine. I could not say the same for a concussion or a gunshot wound."

"You sound as if you have experience with this."

"Yes, both as attacker and attacked," he replied, pulling his cravat aside to show the red line as witness to the latter. "An elegant weapon. Besides, unless you are as close to death as possible, the shah will not believe you did not assist in, if not plan my escape."

"You must trust me about this. I think this was a set up to blame Erik. That is why you must return to him now – to vouch for him."

"What of me?" Adele asks. "Do you want me to stay?"

Shaking his head, he gets to his feet, wrapping the rope into a coil. Taking a coin purse from his waistcoat, he removes several coins. "Secure a carriage…drop Christine off at the Rue Scribe where she instructs you, then go home."

"I cannot bear not knowing what is going on," Adele complains. "However short a time we have known each other, you should know that about me." Standing over, both hands propped on the head of her cane. The firm line of her thin lips and unblinking dark eyes suggest she will bode no argument. "I will leave and make certain she is safely back inside, then I will return. In the meantime, the watchmen will be advised as to what happened." Looking up at the flies, she says, "Whoever did this might still be lingering about and it would not hurt for you to have some support getting him back on his feet."

"Perhaps that is best," Nadir admits, his own green eyes following her gaze.

"Of course, it is best," Adele laughs. "Besides I want to hear how the vicomte tries to explain what happened to him and perhaps persuade you into telling me why you believe Erik did not do this."

"Madame!" Christine exclaims. "Do you think he did attack Raoul?"

"No, but for my own reasons. I want to know M. Khan's." Quirking an eyebrow at the daroga before turning back to Christine, she says, "Come now, he is waking up. It would not do for him to see you."

Sighing deeply, Christine acquiesces. "Alright, fine, I trust you both and I am concerned about Erik." With one sorrowful look back at the body lying so unkempt on the floor, she follows Madame Giry toward the stage door. "This is all so confusing to me. "

"Men are confusing creatures, my dear. It would seem you have affected two of them quite deeply," Adele says, quickening her pace. "Come along. I want to return as soon as possible."

Hitching her skirt, Christine skips a step then scurries to catch up to the older woman now several feet in front of her. "Of course, Madame, sorry. Here I come."