A/N: Thank you for the reviews! : ) And now ...
Previously - at end of last chapter, a fire broke out at the boarding house. Through Erik's experience with escapes, he saved both himself and Christine, though the rope snapped with his own descent. Exhaustion and fright confused Christine and she mixed up events of that night with the terror of the fire in Paris. At her teacher's approach, with the backlight of the flames, in her confused state she accused him of being at fault, subconsciously sensing his true identity. He convinced her she was mistaken and he was Monsieur de Ranier, that they were at the boarding house, not the Opera House. Coming to her senses somewhat, worried he'd been hurt in his fall, she laid her hand upon his cheek, looked at her hand then at him - and screamed.
Chapter XVII
.
At her terrified scream, the Phantom shot to his feet and stumbled back a step, slapping one hand to his face. Sensing a wet, creamy warmth thick against his palm and fingers, even through the glove, he immediately understood the pain felt there.
Blast it – the mask!
His first desperate thought – to grab Christine and flee – was eclipsed when she suddenly fell back senseless in a dead faint, clearly overcome. Instantly the interloper was at her side, his arm going beneath her shoulders in support and lifting her slightly from the ground.
"Mademoiselle," he urged while a woman stooped to kneel beside her, taking her by the wrist and repeatedly slapping her hand in an attempt to revive her.
Three sets of eyes turned in his direction. Filled with suspicion, disgust, and anger. Those looks he had seen before, the unforgiving looks of a burgeoning mob.
"What have you done to her?" the fool Laurent demanded. "Why did she scream like that?"
Two more men approached, coming to stand near Christine as if ready to rise to her defense, their stance threatening as were the expressions on their faces. One man held his walking stick higher in a clenched fist, his intent to use it evident. Upon hearing Laurent's raised voice, a nearby gendarme trying to manage the crowd also swung his head around to look.
There was naught to do in that moment but evade possible capture – a lifetime of harsh experience taught him that. With one last wistful and frustrated glance toward Christine, who suddenly groaned, coming to life, Erik turned on his heel and swiftly blended into the swarm of onlookers.
Damnation! Certainly the Fates were laughing at him once again, cruel with their vicious ploys to abet his destruction.
Yet they would not win! Not this time.
He would go to the stables, saddle Cesar, find some cloth to wrap around his face and return for Christine. Take her far away from these meddlesome fools and find them both shelter, hidden away from those who would once more try to separate them.
His head began to spin, no doubt from the excessive smoke and his former exertions and this entire blasted night. Regardless, he pushed through the ever-growing mass of men, women, and children gawking at the roaring inferno. A few bystanders looked his way, the horror and shock never leaving their eyes as they switched their stare to rest on his face. He could feel the hot wax of the ruined mask dripping down his collar and onto his neck. Surely even his gloved hand desperately clapped over his cheek and forehead could not hide such a gruesome sight.
A close scream had him fiercely swing his head in that direction, but it was not on him the woman's horrified eyes were fastened. He recognized his landlady who frantically pointed to the burning building and cried out for any who would hear.
"My Jess! She never came out - she's still in there!"
Erik cast a somber glance toward the burning building as he swept past, intent on reaching the stables. His quest took him to the side of the blazing tenement down an alley and toward the back. He noticed the window that led to the kitchen stood open, smoke pouring forth from it.
His eyes swept back to the empty path before him. He must hurry, must return to Christine. But memory of the child offering up a plate of cheese biscuits to him, her eyes eager for his approval, swiftly assailed his mind. The girl so young. So sprightly. Her life abbreviated like a wisp of smoke dissipating into the darkness. Distress at her horrendous plight stabbed at his heart. And in that moment he heard it – over the crackle of fire, a soft and despairing cry for help.
Damnation!
He looked with impatience down the path and the near-distant stable then cut his gaze back to the window, aware there was no choice to be made.
With a muffled curse, the Phantom moved toward the open pane and leapt up, easily gaining access, the sill warm beneath his gloves. Once inside, a quick scan of the room showed him the scope of destruction the fire had wrought – up ahead, through the fiery opening in the dining room, the flames were high, engulfing the ceiling. Fire ravaged what was left of the wooden countertop in the kitchen in which he stood – now spreading to the wall closest to him. A basin had been overturned, a large amount of water glistening on the floor and likely acting as a buffer for the fire to spread in that direction, though its barrier was fleeting. Flames now raced high along the walls and ceiling of this chamber, heading toward the closed pantry door - from which he heard a sudden bout of harsh coughing.
He hastened across the wet floor, doffing his cloak to beat out the flames that came treacherously close, then pulled up the latch, which from his own nocturnal visits to this room he knew to be faulty. Doubtless when the door earlier closed, it triggered the deficient latch to fall in place and trap the occupant.
The child lay on the floor of the dark pantry the spilled water had also reached, her cheek pressed to the dampness.
"Jess," he commanded, coming close. "Make haste. We must go."
She opened reddened eyes, pushing herself up to sit. Her expression did not change to see his wreck of a face, likely because against the fire she saw him as a dark silhouette, the smoke coming thicker as it rushed in behind him.
"I'm sorry," she said in a halting voice saturated with tears. "I w-wanted to surprise Maman with a tart for her bi-birthday. But I knocked over the lamp when I c-climbed the hutch for a plate..."
"Never mind that," Erik bit out, putting her childish hysterics to a swift close and grabbing her arm to hoist her up from the floor. "This isn't the time."
He pulled her with him out of the pantry, but she slipped and fell on the wet floor.
With another curse, the Phantom hoisted her up into his arms. Her face now close to his, and without his hand to shield the disaster of his countenance, in the brightness of the flames she could not help but see. Her eyes widened in terror, but she did not scream, her voice perhaps paralyzed in fright or her lungs too weakened from the smoke.
Swiftly, he retraced his steps to the open window and pushed her through, dropping her to her feet. Once again, she fell to her bottom, staring up at him from the ground as if frozen in place.
"Go, damn you!" he cried. "GO!"
Sobbing hard and coughing, the girl scrambled to her feet and awkwardly ran to the front of the building. Before Erik could make his own escape, something heavy slammed against the back of his head and he fell to the wet floor.
He heard an urgent voice cry out to him, cry out for him to rise - Christine? - and came to his senses.
Judging by the scope of the fire, not much time had elapsed. With difficulty the Phantom clambered to his feet, aware of the ceiling beam near where he had lain, charred to its middle. He remembered the voice - but Christine was safely away from this inferno, he had seen to that, and he realized his mind was playing tricks on him.
The roar of flames now consumed the entire wall, tearing through the pantry door. With no time to lose, Erik slid through the window and dropped to his feet, pressing a hand to the timber wall of the building opposite when a powerful wave of dizziness beset him.
His vision was blurred from the smoke, the wrecked side of his face unbearably hot, more painful than the unflawed side which also stung, what was left of his mask searing flesh. His bout of coughing perpetual, he continued toward the stables at a staggered run. Somewhere he had lost his spectacles, the world no longer dusky blue, but his hearing had not been affected - or perhaps it had - as once again he thought he heard a woman call out to him from a distance.
Impossible. Very few knew him by that name. His mind was again deceiving him.
He did not stop to look over his shoulder but ducked into the stable, grateful to see it empty of all but horses. Spotting a trough, he stumbled to it and dropped to his knees, dunking his head completely beneath the cool, relieving water.
A hand on his shoulder had him snatch himself from the wide bin and swing about, drops flying everywhere. Lifting his arm as a block, he clenched his fist, ready to defend himself. Another harsh wave of dizziness had him fall to the seat of his pants and he looked up through water-blurred eyes, scratchy and reddened from smoke, attempting to piece together what his hazy mind told him.
"Madame…?" he hoarsely whispered –
Before crumpling insensible to the ground.
xXx
Christine's eyes fluttered open to see the faces of several men and one woman, all of them staring down at her in sober contemplation.
"Mademoiselle Daaé," the man she recognized as Monsieur Laurent said, "are you well? Should I seek out a physician?"
Christine shook her head, trying to clear it. "No, I…" For a moment she'd forgotten until the roar from nearby flames served to remind her. What she had seen – what she had thought she'd seen – was impossible. The faces of people did not melt. Certainly the smoke from the fire and all that resulted from it had deceived her vision as well as her mind. "Where is Monseiur de Ranier?"
The man before her frowned. "That cad? He left and good riddance."
"He left?" Christine echoed in disappointed shock, though after screaming at him as though he were a monster, when he had done nothing but help her, she should not be surprised.
"Allow me to help you to your feet."
Monsieur Laurent slipped a hand beneath her arm and supported her back as she struggled to stand. Her somber gaze went to the fire before scanning the multitude nearby, some of the men aiding to extinguish its flames, though most of the crowd watched the melee as if it were a show at the circus. In the background, a group of youths ran from a gendarme, the hole in the glass of a shop window nearby suggesting they had tried to loot the place.
A tableau so terribly familiar to her...
And nowhere did she see any sign of her teacher.
"We must go."
"Go?" Christine returned her attention to Monsieur Laurent.
"The authorities have ordered that those who are not giving aid clear the area. I have also learned that the hotel is offering rooms for the night to those of us who lost our homes. Shall I accompany you?"
"Oh, but…" Christine tried to think, to reason. It did make sense. Where else could she go? But…
She scanned the area once again.
"Perhaps we should look for Monsieur de Ranier? He might be hurt after that fall."
"He did not look hurt to me," he said rather stiffly. "I am sure he is fine and had other business to attend to. I will remind you, he walked away and did not linger."
Christine winced at the implication that Monsieur de Ranier did not care as to her own welfare. He did save her life - but she had treated him shabbily, screaming in terror at what must have been a deception of her eyes. What else could she expect but for him to abandon her to the care of others?
A sudden wave of dizziness had her sway. She felt Monsieur Laurent's hand slip beneath her arm.
"Mademoiselle, I must insist." He stooped to pick up her carpetbag that sat on the ground nearby.
"What?" Christine attempted to recall the thread of conversation. "The hotel, of course."
She felt she should stay, should try to find Monsieur de Ranier and apologize. Yet the evening had extracted its toll, and a soft bed in a dimly lit room was all she wanted.
Once at the hotel, Monsieur Laurent seated her on a short sofa near the front doors and continued on toward the desk. After a short interchange with the man there, he returned, a bellboy in tow, who with a polite tip of his head, took Christine's carpetbag in hand and led them to a room on an upper floor. He unlocked and opened the door for them.
Christine came up short at sight of the bed. One bed.
"Oh but I'm not certain –"
"Merci, that will be all." Monsieur Laurent tipped the boy who with another servile tip of his head left them.
"Monsieur, I cannot stay here with you."
Christine was firm in her declaration, but Monsieur Laurent only gave a flippant little wave.
"It seems there is a famous guest lecturer in the city, and the hotel is at capacity."
"But you led me to believe we were invited!"
He gave her a tight smile. "Yes, it is true. Others have arrived before us. I was able to procure the sole room remaining."
She looked with a great deal of uncertainty and longing toward the bed, the sight of it only making her more exhausted.
"I will take the chair," he said somewhat impatiently.
He did not force her inside, awaiting her decision. At last she nodded, though still did not feel at ease with the arrangement.
"Perhaps you would care for some refreshment?" he said, the relief evident in his tone. "I will see if I can procure some food and drink."
"Yes, please, that would be lovely." Christine had no stomach for such things, but welcomed the solitude, however temporary.
Once he left, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at her carpet bag. Needing reassurance, she pulled out Papa's violin and unsnapped the fastenings. Grateful to see it remained in one piece with no apparent damage, she closed the case but didn't return it to the bag, instead setting it beside her on the bed.
Weary beyond all thought, Christine stretched out atop the coverlet, still wearing her Angel's cloak to shield herself from the chill as well as for modesty sake.
She was horrified to awaken suddenly as a man's weight pinned her to the mattress. In the dim light of the lamp, she recognized his face.
"Monsieur Laurent – what are you doing?!"
"I should think that obvious, mademoiselle." His chuckle came oily, his breath reeking of alcohol, his strong hands circling her wrists and trapping her. "Come now, I know you favor a tumble."
"No – of course I don't!"
"You came into the room with me of your own volition," he countered, cutting her off. "Don't be denying it."
"I thought you to be a gentleman!" She struggled against his heavier weight to no avail.
He snorted. "Then you have very poor judgment indeed, which should not surprise me given what I recently learned of your scandalous affairs. I know who you are, Christine Daaé …"
His words froze her blood, and she rued ever giving her true name in this city.
"I know of your dealings with the murdering Phantom and your work as a chorus girl before your sudden promotion to star – all of it purported to be due to your ghostly lover," he scoffed with a laugh.
"Unhand me!" she demanded in alarm, attempting command though she shivered in helplessness.
"I know, too, about the fire in Paris. They say you are as much to blame as he is. Tell me, was tonight a repeat of that performance?"
Her lips tightening, she again struggled against him, letting out a sharp, little exclamation of outrage. "If it was, you can be certain you are now on his list," she hissed, not even making an attempt to deny such wretched claims.
He flinched, and for a moment, his eyes grew apprehensive, before the expression faded and his wicked smile returned.
"Come now, Miss Daae, we are one of a kind, you and I. I am no gentleman, and you certainly are no lady. No doubt, you will come to enjoy our little dalliance tonight … besides, I heard they found his body in the tunnels."
His careless words sliced through her mind.
"No!" She shook her head fiercely in denial. "You lie!"
He only chuckled, his head dipping to her neck, his lips wet and warm. She shrieked at the contact, which only led him to chuckle again. His hand went to the neckline of her bed gown, pulling it downward as she squirmed and desperately struggled to fight back. With one hand now free, she swept it out to the side, locating her violin case. Grabbing its handle, she swung it toward him, hitting his back.
"What the devil!" he grunted and shrunk back then had the temerity to smile. "I always knew you had a spark of fire in you!"
She scrambled away, but he grabbed her arm before she could make a complete escape.
"Come now, mademoiselle – don't act so coy. We both know differently."
Desperately, she swung again, this time connecting with his temple. He grunted and fell to the bed, his eyes falling shut. She jumped to her feet with a wide stare, noticing the thin stream of blood that trickled from his brow and to the pillow.
Dear God – had she killed him? As she watched, his chest slightly stirred, testimony that he yet breathed, and she backed swiftly away.
He would have despoiled her, would have ruined her reputation for his lecherous desires, and likely when the shameful act was done would have cast her out like so much rubbish. Her angry gaze lit on his wallet he had thrown to the bedside table next to his gold pocket watch. Without conscious thought of what she was doing, she grabbed both up, grabbed her carpetbag, and hastened from the room.
Her exit from the hotel went unnoticed, everyone busy with their own affairs, but it wasn't until she was out on the street, walking to only who knew where, she came to her senses.
She was no thief. She did not his need money, still in possession of enough of the Phantom's borrowed francs until she could locate other arrangements. The answer came to her with the next bend in the road she took.
In a recessed doorway, two small children huddled together, the older girl's arms around the boy. The poor state of the children's clothing and their dirt-streaked faces told of neglect.
"Please, ma'amselle, can you spare a centime?" the girl asked, her accent foreign, her eyes holding no hope of receiving her quiet request.
Christine's heart wrenched at the sight of them. She could hardly return to give the lying cad back his belongings and decided to put them to good use. Opening his wallet, she pulled forth all the currency – five twenty franc notes, and one fifty - and handed them down to the girl. Both children's eyes went round with astonished disbelief and Christine smiled, though it came shaky.
"And this is for you," she said to the boy, handing him the gold pocket watch. "Guard your treasures well. Tell no one of this, lest you come to harm. Promise me."
"Yes, Miss," the girl said and nodded briskly. "Thank ye, Miss."
She left the children whispering in excitement, with their heads tilted to one another, and continued her course.
The scoundrel's words resounded dully in her weary mind - but her Angel could not be dead. She had faithfully looked through the paper each day for news and found none.
No, he simply could not be dead.
Ahead, she realized her destination and hastened toward the great double doors, despite that her stocking feet stung even more with her hurried pace.
Thankfully, one opened without struggle, and she entered the dim interior, empty of all but herself. She moved forward, her step muffled on the carpet, and slipped into a side pew. The nearby candlelight illuminated the ivory statue of the Virgin with the Christ child held in her arms, both of whom seemed to be looking at her. For the first time since she left the hotel, shame niggled at Christine's conscience and bit into her soul.
She was a thief. Though she had not been avaricious in her motive, the items had not been hers to take. She had reacted in a vengeful manner, wishing in that moment only to inflict harm, as he had done to her, and she realized with a swift intake of breath –
She had reacted much like the Phantom would – did – in his own desperation! Wreaking vengeance, devoid of calm reflection, acting only in the moment without counting the cost of what it would entail...
She had told him that the true distortion lay within his soul.
Yet her supposed moral compass was clearly no better than his.
Christine lowered her head to her arms that she crossed and rested against the back of the pew before her, softly sobbing at her hypocrisy as well as at her misfortunes. Her papa would be so disappointed. Yet she could not go back to the scoundrel in apology, fearful of what more Monsieur Laurent might do to her, especially since she had knocked him out cold.
A hand pressed against her shoulder and she jumped in alarm, wresting her head around so swiftly to look behind that a fierce burn traveled along her neck, making her draw a quick intake of breath through her teeth and wince.
"My child, are you unwell?"
Her eyes again clouded with hot tears from the pain, from the sight of the priest in the black robe, from the truths and the lies of this entire wretched night, and she spoke of that on which her mind did torment -
"Mon Père, I need to confess."
xXx
A/N: Hmm… our main characters do seem to find themselves in quite a pickle, don't they? (You really didn't think things would resolve themselves so easily, did you?) ;-)