Erik being Erik, Raoul being Raoul, and Philippe being Philippe. And all three of them making some unfortunate choices.

Chapter 44. August 1887.

"Macaroons!"

Erik shot sideways out of bed and into a defensive posture before he was fully awake. He looked wildly around the room, searching for the threat, until his brain belatedly recalled her word.

"What did you say?" he asked, sure that he must have misheard. He lowered his hands, suddenly acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look; unmasked, in his nightshirt, and ready to pounce on a non-existent assailant.

"Macaroons!" she repeated, twisting her hands in the bedclothes.

"What about them?" he said crossly.

"I want some!"

Oh, Christ. This again. In the past couple of weeks, Christine had taken to craving some particular food desperately, to the point that she turned the kitchen upside down looking for what she knew they had on hand, and went out in search of those which they did not – or sent him out. He had no idea what time it was just now, but that didn't matter. Unless he wanted to suffer through a full-scale crying fit, he'd better either go out himself or let her go.

"Just a minute," he muttered, and turned to look at the clock on the nightstand. But no one had remembered to wind it, and it had stopped. Christine was getting more forgetful, which he understood was common with expectant mothers. He shoved an arm into the silk dressing gown which was lying over a chair and went out into another room to check the time, pulling the robe on the rest of the way as he went. Two a.m. Well, he would definitely have to be the one to go. Briefly he considered telling her it was the middle of the night and climbing back into bed, but he knew that a storm would break over his head if he did.

He was very tired. He'd been up the entire night previous, his composing going so well he refused to halt it. Christine had given up on him sometime around midnight and flounced off to bed. Then there'd been no opportunity for him to catch a nap in the course of the ensuing day, as he had business to take care of in connection with the purchase of the property on which he intended to build their new house, and Christine, bored from being left by herself, had wanted to converse with him when he came back from that. He'd tried to go to bed early, only to find that she wanted the same, but not for the purpose of sleep. Not right away, at least. It was, of course, unthinkable for a devoted husband to turn down a wifely request of that nature, and he'd exerted himself to the utmost before she allowed him to fall asleep – but not for long, it seemed. He'd probably only been in the arms of Morpheus for a couple of hours.

But there was nothing for it. He went grudgingly to dress, and then back into the Louis Philippe bedroom, where Christine was sitting up in bed and looking woebegone. He felt a little twist in his stomach, and was glad that he would be the one who would make her smile again, when he came back with her treat. He gave his wife a kiss on the forehead and asked, "What flavour do you want?"

"Strawberry and lemon – oh, and pistachio."

"As you wish. I will be back as soon as I can." He stole another kiss, this time on her lips, before donning a mask and taking up his cloak and hat, and heading for the door on the Rue Scribe. Difficult though she could be, he loved her and he was the luckiest man in the world. He reminded himself of this as he went through the dark streets in the direction of the patisserie which he knew Christine liked, his eyes burning from fatigue and his head aching. He was glad it was only a few blocks away.

The shop was also dark, of course. It was prosperous enough that its owner did not live over it, which was all to the good given the current endeavour. Erik circled around to the alley behind the building and found the back door, whose lock he had undone in moments. He slipped inside and glided across the floor, silent in his black robes, using all his art to stay in the shadows so no late passer-by would see anything amiss. Soon he located the cupboards where the unsold goods from the previous day had been put away. There were no lemon ones; Christine would have to be content with just strawberry and pistachio. With a bit more effort, he found the little waxed paper bags which the shop used to put its customers' purchases in, and slid several macaroons of each flavour into one. The bag tucked away in one of the many pockets in his magician's cloak, he went out the same way he had come and relocked the door, confident that no one would notice it had been breached.

On the way home, he thought of how ridiculous he must have looked, dressed in the flowing cloak and black felt hat of "The Phantom," sneaking around the back rooms of a pastry shop in the dead of night and making off with cookies. What a good thing the daroga did not know about this expedition; he would never be done teasing Erik about it. It was a relief to reach the front door of the underground house, and have this nonsense be over and bed forthcoming.

Christine was up and dressed in a wrapper, and was sitting in the parlour eating slices of a baguette spread with butter and jam. She squealed with delight when Erik handed her the bag of macaroons, ripped it open, and set about the treat with the general air of a starving animal.

She'd also made coffee; he debated about having a cup, but decided he'd have too much trouble getting back to sleep if he did. And at the rate she was eating, they'd be back in bed soon enough. He sat down in the wing chair opposite hers and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. But a few minutes later, he was ripped out of his doze when the clock began to chime and Christine made a surprised sound.

"What time is it?!"

"You heard the clock," said Erik grumpily. "It is three a.m. Would you please finish eating so we can retire to bed again?"

"It's three a.m.? I thought it was morning! That's why I made coffee!"

"Well, it's not," he retorted.

She was frowning at the bag in her hand. "Where did you get these at this hour?"

"Where do you think? I broke into a shop and appropriated them."

Her mouth dropped open. "You did?"

"Yes. How else did you expect me to get you macaroons in the middle of the night?"

"I didn't know it was the middle of the night! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because the time of day does not seem to have any effect whatever on the strength of your cravings."

She blinked, nonplussed, and then said suspiciously, "Did you leave money for these?"

"What – of course not. Why would I?"

"You mean you stole these?!"

"If you want to put it that way, yes. It was a minor thing. Why are you looking so upset?"

"Because – Erik, that's wrong!"

"Woman, you wanted sweets at two o'clock in the morning and Erik got them for you. You have nothing to complain about."

"Yes, I do! I'm not going to have you stealing things anymore, I already told you that. You go right back and leave some money on the counter for these!"

"No!" he said, outraged. "It is late and I am tired. And I am going to bed once you're done eating."

"Oh no you're not," she said menacingly. "You put on your cloak this minute and go back."

"No!"

"Erik, yes!"

"If I go back, that is doubling the chances of someone seeing me and raising a hue and cry."

"Who do you think you're fooling? You're perfectly capable of not being seen if you don't want to be. Go on!"

"No."

"If you'd paid for them in the first place, you wouldn't have to go back now. Go!"

"And why would you expect me to have done so? You know whom you married, Christine. That is a prosperous bakery and the shopkeeper can do without the small number of francs those things would have cost."

"I don't care," she said obstinately. "Stealing is wrong."

"If you wanted a saint, you should have married the Vicomte."

"Don't you bring that up! You're just trying to distract me! Erik, please!"

There was no reason at all for Christine to be suffering from hysteria, given the extent to which she had worn him out before they fell asleep; but nonetheless, a full-scale fit of it appeared to be in progress. He could not bear it.

"Shhhhh, my love, shhhhh, hush now." He was not feeling warm or loving just at present, but he deliberately put both of those tones into his voice anyway. "There is no need for you to upset yourself so. Let Erik handle this…he knows just what to do." Christine had stopped talking, and looked confused.

"There is no need to risk a second disturbance…I shall send payment through the post tomorrow, more than what those cost. Let it be a pleasant surprise for them, Christine…Christine…"

"Erik…" She sighed quietly, her eyelids fluttering.

"As you liked those so much…I shall shop there often…they will profit considerably from this night, and all due to your concern, my darling…Christine…"

He rose and sat down again beside her, letting her lean heavily against him, and he took the bag of macaroons out of her slackening hand and set them aside.

"Christine…my wonderful Christine…" He let the name slide smoothly into a melodious whisper. She yawned widely, and let her head fall onto his shoulder. Erik stroked her hair. It was becoming less difficult to be tender. Her uncorseted body was sweetly supple and yielding against his, and he put his arms around her and rocked gently back and forth, fondly recalling the joy she had gifted him with only a few hours ago.

"Always so kind to others, Christine, just as you have been kind to Erik…you have shown him the error of his ways, and he loves you so for it…he can be a virtuous man now, with your love to help him." The barest suggestion of a lilt, to make the words musical to the ear and persuasive to the mind. "He understands how she feels about such things now, Erik understands now, there is no need for Christine to worry…Erik will make everything all right…"

He slid into a song then, as it was less effort that way to maintain the beguiling sound, and when he stood and stretched out a hand to her, she followed him without argument, her eyes full of a flattering adoration and her mouth slack. In the bedroom he drew her wrapper from her shoulders and lifted her into bed. She curled into the mattress, and was asleep in moments.

Erik stripped his clothing off and drew his nightshirt on for the second time that night, and finally settled back into the softness of the mattress, his tired body stretching luxuriously and then relaxing as sleep came. His last thought was of how useful it was that he had trained himself, so long ago, now, to enchant with speech as well as music, mingled with bafflement at how other men managed unreasonable requests from women. Mesmerism was ever so much easier than argument…and it worked better anyway. He had, after all, six more months of this. And he hoped the medical journals he had read were correct that a pregnant woman's cravings for certain foods tended to last only for a few months; it would be winter before the child was born, and going out in the middle of the night would be far more unpleasant.

At least he could be certain that the Vicomte would not have done this for her.

O-O-O

"Thank you for the meal, my dear," said Erik, rising and dropping his napkin on the table. He went out of the dining room, and Christine heard his footsteps receding down the hall. She knew where he was going; to clean his teeth. Erik insisted upon doing that after every single instance of eating. Early in their marriage, her curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she'd asked him about it.

"Christine, can you imagine me going to a dentist?" he'd said evenly, giving her a stare. And that had been the end of that. It had, at least, explained his aversion to sweets. After some thought, she'd also realised that his apparent deathly fear of tooth decay might be at least part of the reason he was so thin; perhaps, all his life, he'd been unwilling to eat unless he knew he would have the opportunity to attend to his teeth immediately afterward? And then he had gradually gained the habit of ignoring hunger, till he felt it only rarely?

Now, however, he did not reappear, and eventually she investigated. He was still in the bathroom, but with the door open; he had a pair of small scissors in his left hand, and was trimming his hair.

"Oh!" she said. "You do that yourself?" As the words were coming out of her mouth she realised why, but could not take them back. Erik, however, did not take offence, and merely remarked, "Yes. I have never cared to try to patronize a barber while wearing a mask, or my pasteboard nose. I wear a wig in public anyway; it was no matter whether my own hair was less than perfectly cut. No one was going to see it."

"Well, now you have a wife, and she can do it for you," said Christine. Erik turned to her, looking bewildered. Well, no surprise there, she thought; he had been forced all through his life to manage for himself much more than other people. No wonder it hadn't even occurred to him to ask her.

"You would do that for Erik?"

"Of course. Why not? I used to do my father's. We often could not afford to go to a barber." She held out her hand for the scissors. After a moment, he smiled crookedly, and gave them to her.

O-O-O

"Here you are, Monsieur." A glass and a wine bottle appeared in front of Raoul, and he picked it up, waving his hand irritably at the butler in dismissal. The library door shut quietly behind the servant, and the Vicomte turned his full attention to the timetable, taking a swallow of the wine.

He had determined that the confrontation between himself and Erik, which was to take place after Raoul made his daring rescue of Christine, and in which he planned to shoot Erik and hopefully kill him, must not happen in Paris. There was too much chance of trouble if other people were around. Some innocent person might be hit by one of the bullets, or Erik might kill someone who happened to be in his way. In addition, there was also too much chance of scandal. Not that duels themselves were scandalous; on the contrary, they were largely thought of as the measure of a man. But there had been talk, and press, about Raoul's association with Christine and about his "illness" afterward. The de Chagny family needed no more notoriety. Raoul shuddered to think of what Philippe's opinion would be of Raoul being discovered duelling with another man over an actress.

And Raoul wanted her there, to see it happen. He wanted to leave Erik dead at her feet, wanted to see the expression of joy that would surely be on her face at her tormentor's final defeat. And…and…Raoul had a vague idea that this last consideration was a bit dishonourable, but he could not repress it all the same; were not pregnant women said to be at risk of miscarriage if they suffered a shock? And watching this final fight between himself and Erik would surely be shocking. Suppose…just suppose…that this demon's spawn met its demise as a direct result of its hideous sire's? That would solve everything. Christine would no longer be obliged to carry and birth the child of the man who had subjugated her so horribly. After she recovered, she could go on to start a new life with Raoul, with no reminders of the nightmare that would now be fully in her past, never to harm her again.

Raoul felt a savage glee at the possibility of depriving Erik of his heir as well as his life. Of wiping his evil influence from the earth, and not letting it continue through his child. The urge to win in some fashion, any fashion, against Erik ate constantly at Raoul. The little Vicomte sometimes felt nearly dead of shame that, when he was given the opportunity to fight a villain for the heart of his beloved, he had failed. Failed spectacularly, too. The desire to reclaim his honour and, with it, his manhood, was rapidly becoming an idée fixe. Raoul had been raised to be a gentleman and a warrior, and he now feared that perhaps he did not measure up after all, on either front. And he wanted desperately to prove himself. His hatred of Erik and his fears about himself were growing in tandem, and he wanted by turns to have the day of reckoning arrive and to stave it off forever. Raoul put a hand in his pocket and touched Christine's glove. He must have the courage of his ancestors, his rank.

But none of this needed to happen in Paris, not with all the trouble that had already happened. The de Chagny country estate would be a much better place; Raoul would choose the time when the under-servants were having their half-day so that there would be fewer people about, and, if the combatants were out in the woods that surrounded the manor house, there would be little chance of discovery. After some thought, Raoul had decided that the best course of action would be for Christine to leave Erik an angry note, telling him that she was leaving him for Raoul and where they would be. Raoul and Christine would then get on a train and head for the de Chagny chateau. Erik would surely come right away, furious and frantic to get her back, and Raoul would be ready for him. The little Vicomte studied the railway timetable carefully. Everything must happen just so. There must be no delays or adverse changes of events. Erik must not be allowed to catch them while they were still in Paris.

The library door opened, and Raoul jumped and stuffed the timetable into a waistcoat pocket. Philippe strolled insouciantly past, reached for one of the glasses on the side board, and helped himself to some of Raoul's wine.

"Not bad," he commented, after a sip. "I was told you were in here. What are you doing tonight?"

"Nothing." This was only partly untrue, as Raoul had had no specific plans than to work on the particular plan which currently occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else. His brother took another swallow, and turned round to lean against a gilded window frame, all aristocratic ease, one ankle crossed over the other and his cravat positioned just so, the elegant ringed fingers of one hand holding the stem of the wineglass.

"Care to go out for dinner? It's a pleasant evening. You have spent too much time indoors of late."

Raoul started to crossly decline once again, and then stopped himself. It would not do to arouse his brother's suspicions in this manner.

"Yes," he answered, struggling to keep his voice light.

"Let's go and change, then," said Philippe, moving past him. "And for God's sake either grow out that moustache properly or shave it off and be done with it. It looks ridiculous the size that it is. Why do you wish to walk about looking as though you have a caterpillar on your upper lip?" Ignoring the hurt in his brother's eyes as Raoul put a hand to his mouth, the Comte left the room. Eventually, Raoul followed, his thoughts as turbulent as his rival's often were, though of course he did not realise it.

O-O-O O-O-O