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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 50/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3768
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: I read the news today, oh boy.
READ ALL ABOUT IT
SPURNED LOVER BEHIND ATTACK ON POPULAIRE’S MAESTRO?
Could La Daae’s former fiancé, the Vicomte de Chagny, be the one responsible for the vicious attack upon Erik Claudin last month? While it is believed that the incident has been reported to the police, there appears to be no visible progress and the perpetrators have yet to be caught. The Vicomte has the men and the means at his disposal, and made much of his intentions to catch the fabled ‘Phantom’ and end his reign of terror over the Opera. Could it be that, failing to lay hands upon his rival for the fair Christine’s hand as he originally intended, Monsieur de Chagny has resorted to stealth, sending his lackeys after the man she is to marry in a fit of jealousy? This correspondent would very much like to know the truth...
“Oh, that man..!” Christine balled up the newspaper in her hands and flung it into the nearest litter bin. Sinking down onto a nearby bench, she brushed away the angry tears that sprang to her eyes at the sight of Béringer’s latest pack of printed lies. It was bad enough that she and Erik had to endure the man’s continued harassment without dragging Raoul into it; he had ceased to have anything to do with the affair the moment he left the house by the lake with the ring she had returned to him. And there, once again, was the name of the Phantom... she could not help but wonder if they would ever be free of Erik’s alter ego, or if the rumours and gossip would haunt them forever. Were it not for his mask, she was sure that Béringer would never have latched onto him in such an insane fashion, but then again, her rational mind reasoned, were it not for the mask Erik would never have become the Phantom in the first place. It was all such a tangled mess...
“Mademoiselle Daae?”
She jumped at the sound of her name and turned to find a vaguely familiar face looking down at her with concern. Frowning at the pleasant, open features beneath a rather old-fashioned but well-cared for bowler, it took a few moments for her to recognise Didier Tolbert. Christine smiled, prompting the young journalist to do the same, and he raised his hat slightly.
“My apologies,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you, merely wished to enquire whether everything was all right. I had heard that Monsieur Claudin was back at the Opera; I do hope that nothing has happened to prompt a relapse.”
Christine shook her head. “No, no, he is doing very well, thank you. I was just... that is, things would be much easier for both of us without...”
Tolbert followed her gaze and eyed the newspaper in the bin. “Ah, I see. Our old friend Béringer has been causing trouble again.”
“I don’t understand why he is plaguing us like this!” Christine exclaimed. “We have done nothing to him, nothing at all! I had never even met the man until he accosted me in a cafe one day.”
“Unfortunately, slime like Béringer do not need an excuse. However, in this case I may be able to shed some light on the situation.” With a sigh, Tolbert gestured to the space on the bench at Christine’s side. “May I?”
Much as she wanted to know what had prompted Béringer’s campaign of hatred towards her, Christine was not ignorant of the implications of being seen sitting and talking in public with a man who was not her fiancé. And Erik would be angry if he knew she had been consorting with journalists, however well-meant Tolbert’s attentions might be. But if Tolbert knew of some way to bring Béringer’s slanders to an end she would be silly not to listen to him... She opened her parasol, intending to rise. “I don’t think it would be a good idea, Monsieur,” she said carefully. “I know that your intentions are honourable but I do not wish to give more fuel to Monsieur Béringer’s fire.”
“Your discretion does you credit, Mademoiselle, but I can assure you that these calumnies will not go away,” Tolbert told her gravely. “Béringer is like a dog with a bone; once he latches onto a story he will not let go until he gets what he wants.”
“And what does he want?” Christine asked, unable to help herself.
“Recognition, by both editors and public. He wants his name known in every drawing room. Failing that, of course, there is always money; he has tried to blackmail several well-known figures into paying him vast sums to keep quiet about their peccadilloes.”
“And did they? Pay him, I mean.”
The reporter smiled slightly. “Thankfully, those he went after had tame lawyers to chase him off before any damage could be done. That is probably why he has turned his attention to less exalted circles.”
“But why should he pick on me? I have no money,” Christine said. “If he tries to extort money from me I have none to give; contrary to popular opinion, the stage does not pay well, Monsieur.”
“Would you walk with me? I am sure there can be nothing objectionable in that.” Tolbert gallantly extended a hand; despite her initial reluctance, there was something disarming about him that made Christine rest her fingers on his forearm, allowing him to help her to her feet. Once she was standing he withdrew to a respectable distance, clasping his hands behind his back; for a journalist, in Christine’s experience his manners were impeccable. They strolled a little way down the path together before he continued, saying, “Though you may not be an ideal target for blackmail, the Vicomte de Chagny is. His family is one of the wealthiest in France, and also one of the most upright. Oh, yes, Comte Philippe’s long-standing liaison with La Sorelli is well-known but then every man is allowed his mistress in polite society as long as he is discreet. What they do not like is the idea of the heir to the throne, is it were, dragging the family name through the mud.”
Christine remembered the awkward dinners under the eye of the Comte and Raoul’s mother, a constant blush of embarrassment colouring her face as she struggled to remember which cutlery to use for the fish course, listening to conversation that went straight over her head as they talked of fine art and literature, speaking of friends and assemblies, of people whose names were foreign to her. She knew well that they barely tolerated her presence for Raoul’s sake, doubtless hoping that his infatuation would be brief and he would settle down and marry someone suitable: a plain, dull girl whose heritage was flawless and whose ability to bear little de Chagnys unquestioned. There were curious looks thrown her way, giggles and mutterings from Victoire and Amelié, the sisters who regarded Christine as rather like an exotic plant or rare animal, someone who earned their own living through the talents they possessed quite the novelty; she had no doubt that they enjoyed the frisson of danger, of something forbidden, when they looked at her, a dancer from the Opera, from that mainly male preserve of loose morals and vice. Raoul had tried to make the days she spent among his family easier for her, assuring her that when they were married things would change, but though Christine wanted to believe him deep down she knew that even when the ring was on her finger and she bore the title of Vicomtess she would still be nothing more than that chorus girl, jumped up above her station. The whispers would follow them for the rest of their lives. “That is quite true,” she said now. “And is that what prompts Béringer to say the things he does? He hopes to obtain money from Comte Philippe?”
“Not from the Comte; there are too many legal pitfalls. But from the Vicomte... I believe he regards Raoul de Chagny as a softer touch,” Tolbert replied. “The Vicomte’s tendre for you is well-known, and if you were in danger of scandal, or worse... who knows how much he might pay to protect you?”
“I find that doubtful, now that I am engaged to another man.” Especially when that man was the one she had run from into his arms, all but begging him to save her, Christine thought.
The reporter shrugged. “Old affections run deep.”
“That may be true, Monsieur, but if Monsieur Béringer wishes to extract money in this way he would be better off applying to my fiancé, who has greater interest in my well-being than Monsieur de Chagny,” she told him, adding as the thought struck her, “Unless of course he is already attempting such a course of action. All of these tales about the Phantom, connecting Monsieur Claudin’s name with that of the Opera Ghost - ”
“Béringer is obsessed with the legend of the Phantom,” said Tolbert with a grimace. “He was there the night the chandelier fell, in the cheap seats; he says he saw someone in the dome, a shadow on the wall, just before the bolts sheared. Ever since that night his imagination has run riot and he has questioned anyone and everyone he thinks might have information about the Ghost, trying to force his theories upon those foolish or gullible enough to listen. He thinks unmasking the Phantom will make his name, you see. After the infamous ‘disaster’ he was most anxious to talk to you, as it appeared you knew more than anyone else, but you had disappeared, and when you returned all applications for interviews were rebuffed. Béringer is not a patient man, Mademoiselle, and he is quick to take offence. If he thinks you have slighted him, he is swift with his revenge and he holds grudges for a very long time.”
“Mon Dieu.” Christine stopped walking, staring at her companion with mounting horror. “Do you mean that he has been hounding me in this way just because he was denied the opportunity to speak with me after Il Muto?”
Tolbert nodded. “I do not make a habit of socialising with a man whom I regard as a deluded parasite, but I happened to be in a bar frequented by members of my profession one night when Béringer arrived cursing your name. I am sorry, Mademoiselle Daae, I wish I did not have to say such things but I believe you have the right to know the reason for your continued vilification at the hands of this blackguard.”
“No, no, do not apologise. Thank you for telling me.” Without even realising that she was moving, Christine found her feet carrying her towards the park gates, desperate now to share the knowledge with Erik. She was grateful that Tolbert made no move to follow her. “I am in your debt, Monsieur!”
The young journalist - he could not be many years older than she was, she thought, his round face was so smooth and hairless - raised his hat once more. “Should you wish to put the record straight, you know where to find me!” he called, and then he was out of sight behind the high wall and she was hailing a cab to take her back to the Opera.
________________________________________
“Not here? But he must be here, there is a rehearsal this afternoon - ”
Jacques shook his head. “Not any more. There was a dust-up of some sort, that Signor Rossi shoutin’ at your masked man till he was blue in the face. Don’t know what it was about but I could hear them all the way out here and I watched the Italian storm past with smoke comin’ out of his ears.” He turned a page of his pink sporting paper and licked the end of a pencil, noting down one of the runners at Maisons-Laffitte. “Caused such ructions that they cancelled the rest of the day’s practise, for the singers at least. Reyer’s up in the auditorium working with the violins and your man’s gone home. Looked like he was going to explode when he left.”
“Thank you, Jacques.” Cursing inwardly Christine spun around, almost running the short distance back down the passage from the porter’s box to the stage door and hoping that the cab would not yet have left. Reaching the exit she was just moments too late: the driver was pulling away from the kerb and did not respond to her shouts. Dropping the arm she had been waving to try and attract his attention she whispered with a vehemence that would have surprised all those who thought her a good, mild girl, a prude, even, “Merde.”
“Christine Daae, wherever did you learn such an unladylike phrase?” a familiar voice asked behind her. “Anyone would think that you had fallen under a bad influence.”
Startled for the second time that day, Christine whirled to face the person who had accosted her. Though she had not for a moment expected to see him, it was as though the old adage ‘Speak of an angel and he shall appear’ was true for the handsome figure of the Vicomte de Chagny stood there in the darkened the corridor, the summer sunlight that filtered through from outside glancing from his fair hair and giving it the appearance of spun gold. He was smiling, blue eyes dancing with amusement. Stupidly, she stared at him, mouth falling open in surprise. “Raoul!”
“The very same.” He gave a little bow and then frowned. “Is everything all right? You look rather... flustered.”
“I’m fine, really,” Christine assured him, though her laugh was a little wobbly. “What are you doing here? I thought you would be in the middle of the ocean by now!”
“Oh, I will be soon. This is merely a flying visit to get my affairs in order, just in case...” Raoul trailed off but they both knew exactly what he meant. Naval service was not without its personal risks, even in a time of peace. “Philippe is to be married next month; had you heard?” he asked, changing the subject.
She nodded. “I read about it in the society pages. I hope he will be happy.”
“That is unlikely, but I think they will tolerate each other.” He pulled a face. “Once they have an heir and a spare he’ll go back to Sorelli and the new Comtesse will probably welcome half of Paris to her bed. At least I’ll be finally off the hook and allowed to do as I wish.”
Christine blinked in surprise. “I thought that the affair with Sorelli was over? She was boasting just the other day about the Chevalier de Roscoff being her new protector.”
“She loves him, and he loves her,” Raoul replied with a shrug. “They may fight and take different partners but they’ll always return to one another.” He flushed, realising what he had said. “I’m sorry, Lotte, I’m forgetting myself. Too much time spent with sailors! I shouldn’t be discussing this with you.”
“Oh, Raoul, I’m not a child,” she told him with a smile. “You are as bad as Erik! You don’t have to protect my delicate ears from every piece of salacious gossip; I won’t faint, I promise.” He smiled back, relaxing slightly, so she added, “Now, tell me why you are really here.”
“You don’t believe that I popped in to see you?” he asked hopefully.
She shook her head. “You have that serious look in your eye.”
“Oh, very well.” Raoul sighed, his gaze roaming over the ceiling and through the open stage door before returning to her. The brim of his hat twirled restlessly between his fingers. As she watched him Christine realised that there were tiny little lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there before and his skin was lightly tanned; his new life aboard ship was changing him in subtle ways. “Philippe showed me this morning’s Figaro,” he said finally.
“Ah.”
“Is that all you can say? This Béringer fellow is slandering both of us!”
“He has been slandering me for months,” Christine retorted. “Erik, too. We have had to endure a constant stream of lies and fabrications in the gutter press.”
Raoul raised an eyebrow at the mention of Erik’s name. “Facts do not count as slander, Christine,” he said quietly.
“They do when they contradict the truth as we have allowed it to be known.”
“I doubt if that would stand up in a court of law,” Raoul told her, and she knew that he was right, no matter how much she was loath to admit it. “The point is that my family has now been drawn into this whole sordid mess and my brother is not happy about it. You must see why.”
Something within Christine prickled at his tone; it was the one he used to use when he told her that the Phantom of the Opera did not exist. He tried to be reassuring but unfortunately, given his background, sometimes came over as commanding, which still rankled. She was sure that he had no idea he was doing it and so she tried her best to retain her temper. “Of course, we cannot have an open scandal touching the de Chagny name,” she said bitterly.
“There are appearances to think of, and a reputation to maintain, especially with the wedding so close - ” he began, but she cut him off.
“You didn’t think of any of that when you wanted to marry me!” she exclaimed. “Reputation could go hang, you said. True love conquers all! I had no idea you were such a hypocrite, Raoul.”
“Christine!” Looking this way and that, Raoul caught hold of her arm and steered her into an empty office, closing the door behind him. Christine folded her arms, staring him down, until he spoke again. “Look, you must see that, until the wedding is over at least, I have to toe the line. If anything happens to spoil this alliance, not only will the pressure be back on me to provide the next generation of de Chagnys, but my life will be made a living hell. I’ve yet to be forgiven for the damage our relationship did to the family name, and no, I don’t regret it for a moment because I did, and still do, love you,” he added before she could open her mouth, “but my family don’t see it that way and blame me for the reluctance of certain young ladies and their influential parents to want to associate themselves with us. The letter that came this afternoon hasn’t helped matters.”
“Letter? What letter?” Remembering Tolbert’s description of Béringer as an attempted blackmailer made Christine’s blood run cold.
“A letter from that damned journalist. The arrogant fellow believes himself to be doing me a favour by offering me the chance to have my name cleared of this attack upon your fiancé,” Raoul said, scowling. “If I pay him ten thousand francs he will have a retraction printed, telling the world I had nothing to do with it!”
Christine’s hand stole to her mouth. “So it is true...”
Completely misunderstanding, unaware as he was of the greater picture, Raoul stared at her, eyes wide. He had paled beneath his tan. “Christine,” he said desperately, “surely you don’t believe I had anything to do with that? Please, Lotte, I swear on my father’s grave I wish the Ph – I wish Erik no harm!”
“What? I – no, of course not! Raoul, how could you even think that I would - ” Quickly she crossed the little room to reach up and kiss him on the cheek. “I know that you were nowhere near Paris when it happened, and so does Erik. You are an honourable man; you would never do such a thing!”
“Then why did you, just now - ”
“I was told earlier that Béringer was a blackmailer but I did not want to believe it,” Christine explained. Briefly she recounted the information given to her by Didier Tolbert; as she spoke, Raoul’s mouth became a grim line and he took a tighter grip on the brim of his hat. “He wants to revenge himself upon me because of some imagined slight. And now, because his tales are not doing the kind of damage he wants, he has targeted you because you are the one with the money, and he will take the cash if that is all he can get. He obviously thinks that you would rather pay than risk your reputation.”
With a short laugh Raoul shook his head. “I can’t pay,” he said. “I haven’t any more money than my brother gives me as an allowance, and he refuses to advance me one sou to give to that man. Philippe told me in no uncertain terms that I was to get rid of the fellow; he didn’t care how but made it clear I was to do it with no assistance from him.”
“Oh, Raoul. I’m so sorry,” she told him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You should never have been dragged into this.”
They stood there for some time, like two children drawing comfort from one another’s presence. Raoul began tentatively to stroke her hair, but withdrew when she lifted her head to look at him. His eye fell to the diamond and ruby ring that sparkled on the third finger of her left hand as she straightened his collar; she wondered whether the chain around her neck, the chain from which she had hung the ring he had given her, had had the same effect upon Erik as the sight of her wearing the Phantom’s mark evidently did on Raoul. It was as though she wore a collar, marking her as belonging to another man; he gently pulled away, taking her other hand in his. “What should we do?” he asked, and he sounded just as lost as she felt.
What was there to do? Christine’s instinct had always been to consult her father, and in his absence, regardless of any friends or surrogate family she might have now, there had only been one other person she trusted enough to turn to in her hour of need: her Angel of Music, for so long her guide and guardian. Their dilemma concerned him too; what could be more natural than to consult the former Phantom, with his greater experience of the world and all its dark corners?
“We ask Erik,” she said.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3768
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: I read the news today, oh boy.
SPURNED LOVER BEHIND ATTACK ON POPULAIRE’S MAESTRO?
Could La Daae’s former fiancé, the Vicomte de Chagny, be the one responsible for the vicious attack upon Erik Claudin last month? While it is believed that the incident has been reported to the police, there appears to be no visible progress and the perpetrators have yet to be caught. The Vicomte has the men and the means at his disposal, and made much of his intentions to catch the fabled ‘Phantom’ and end his reign of terror over the Opera. Could it be that, failing to lay hands upon his rival for the fair Christine’s hand as he originally intended, Monsieur de Chagny has resorted to stealth, sending his lackeys after the man she is to marry in a fit of jealousy? This correspondent would very much like to know the truth...
“Oh, that man..!” Christine balled up the newspaper in her hands and flung it into the nearest litter bin. Sinking down onto a nearby bench, she brushed away the angry tears that sprang to her eyes at the sight of Béringer’s latest pack of printed lies. It was bad enough that she and Erik had to endure the man’s continued harassment without dragging Raoul into it; he had ceased to have anything to do with the affair the moment he left the house by the lake with the ring she had returned to him. And there, once again, was the name of the Phantom... she could not help but wonder if they would ever be free of Erik’s alter ego, or if the rumours and gossip would haunt them forever. Were it not for his mask, she was sure that Béringer would never have latched onto him in such an insane fashion, but then again, her rational mind reasoned, were it not for the mask Erik would never have become the Phantom in the first place. It was all such a tangled mess...
“Mademoiselle Daae?”
She jumped at the sound of her name and turned to find a vaguely familiar face looking down at her with concern. Frowning at the pleasant, open features beneath a rather old-fashioned but well-cared for bowler, it took a few moments for her to recognise Didier Tolbert. Christine smiled, prompting the young journalist to do the same, and he raised his hat slightly.
“My apologies,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you, merely wished to enquire whether everything was all right. I had heard that Monsieur Claudin was back at the Opera; I do hope that nothing has happened to prompt a relapse.”
Christine shook her head. “No, no, he is doing very well, thank you. I was just... that is, things would be much easier for both of us without...”
Tolbert followed her gaze and eyed the newspaper in the bin. “Ah, I see. Our old friend Béringer has been causing trouble again.”
“I don’t understand why he is plaguing us like this!” Christine exclaimed. “We have done nothing to him, nothing at all! I had never even met the man until he accosted me in a cafe one day.”
“Unfortunately, slime like Béringer do not need an excuse. However, in this case I may be able to shed some light on the situation.” With a sigh, Tolbert gestured to the space on the bench at Christine’s side. “May I?”
Much as she wanted to know what had prompted Béringer’s campaign of hatred towards her, Christine was not ignorant of the implications of being seen sitting and talking in public with a man who was not her fiancé. And Erik would be angry if he knew she had been consorting with journalists, however well-meant Tolbert’s attentions might be. But if Tolbert knew of some way to bring Béringer’s slanders to an end she would be silly not to listen to him... She opened her parasol, intending to rise. “I don’t think it would be a good idea, Monsieur,” she said carefully. “I know that your intentions are honourable but I do not wish to give more fuel to Monsieur Béringer’s fire.”
“Your discretion does you credit, Mademoiselle, but I can assure you that these calumnies will not go away,” Tolbert told her gravely. “Béringer is like a dog with a bone; once he latches onto a story he will not let go until he gets what he wants.”
“And what does he want?” Christine asked, unable to help herself.
“Recognition, by both editors and public. He wants his name known in every drawing room. Failing that, of course, there is always money; he has tried to blackmail several well-known figures into paying him vast sums to keep quiet about their peccadilloes.”
“And did they? Pay him, I mean.”
The reporter smiled slightly. “Thankfully, those he went after had tame lawyers to chase him off before any damage could be done. That is probably why he has turned his attention to less exalted circles.”
“But why should he pick on me? I have no money,” Christine said. “If he tries to extort money from me I have none to give; contrary to popular opinion, the stage does not pay well, Monsieur.”
“Would you walk with me? I am sure there can be nothing objectionable in that.” Tolbert gallantly extended a hand; despite her initial reluctance, there was something disarming about him that made Christine rest her fingers on his forearm, allowing him to help her to her feet. Once she was standing he withdrew to a respectable distance, clasping his hands behind his back; for a journalist, in Christine’s experience his manners were impeccable. They strolled a little way down the path together before he continued, saying, “Though you may not be an ideal target for blackmail, the Vicomte de Chagny is. His family is one of the wealthiest in France, and also one of the most upright. Oh, yes, Comte Philippe’s long-standing liaison with La Sorelli is well-known but then every man is allowed his mistress in polite society as long as he is discreet. What they do not like is the idea of the heir to the throne, is it were, dragging the family name through the mud.”
Christine remembered the awkward dinners under the eye of the Comte and Raoul’s mother, a constant blush of embarrassment colouring her face as she struggled to remember which cutlery to use for the fish course, listening to conversation that went straight over her head as they talked of fine art and literature, speaking of friends and assemblies, of people whose names were foreign to her. She knew well that they barely tolerated her presence for Raoul’s sake, doubtless hoping that his infatuation would be brief and he would settle down and marry someone suitable: a plain, dull girl whose heritage was flawless and whose ability to bear little de Chagnys unquestioned. There were curious looks thrown her way, giggles and mutterings from Victoire and Amelié, the sisters who regarded Christine as rather like an exotic plant or rare animal, someone who earned their own living through the talents they possessed quite the novelty; she had no doubt that they enjoyed the frisson of danger, of something forbidden, when they looked at her, a dancer from the Opera, from that mainly male preserve of loose morals and vice. Raoul had tried to make the days she spent among his family easier for her, assuring her that when they were married things would change, but though Christine wanted to believe him deep down she knew that even when the ring was on her finger and she bore the title of Vicomtess she would still be nothing more than that chorus girl, jumped up above her station. The whispers would follow them for the rest of their lives. “That is quite true,” she said now. “And is that what prompts Béringer to say the things he does? He hopes to obtain money from Comte Philippe?”
“Not from the Comte; there are too many legal pitfalls. But from the Vicomte... I believe he regards Raoul de Chagny as a softer touch,” Tolbert replied. “The Vicomte’s tendre for you is well-known, and if you were in danger of scandal, or worse... who knows how much he might pay to protect you?”
“I find that doubtful, now that I am engaged to another man.” Especially when that man was the one she had run from into his arms, all but begging him to save her, Christine thought.
The reporter shrugged. “Old affections run deep.”
“That may be true, Monsieur, but if Monsieur Béringer wishes to extract money in this way he would be better off applying to my fiancé, who has greater interest in my well-being than Monsieur de Chagny,” she told him, adding as the thought struck her, “Unless of course he is already attempting such a course of action. All of these tales about the Phantom, connecting Monsieur Claudin’s name with that of the Opera Ghost - ”
“Béringer is obsessed with the legend of the Phantom,” said Tolbert with a grimace. “He was there the night the chandelier fell, in the cheap seats; he says he saw someone in the dome, a shadow on the wall, just before the bolts sheared. Ever since that night his imagination has run riot and he has questioned anyone and everyone he thinks might have information about the Ghost, trying to force his theories upon those foolish or gullible enough to listen. He thinks unmasking the Phantom will make his name, you see. After the infamous ‘disaster’ he was most anxious to talk to you, as it appeared you knew more than anyone else, but you had disappeared, and when you returned all applications for interviews were rebuffed. Béringer is not a patient man, Mademoiselle, and he is quick to take offence. If he thinks you have slighted him, he is swift with his revenge and he holds grudges for a very long time.”
“Mon Dieu.” Christine stopped walking, staring at her companion with mounting horror. “Do you mean that he has been hounding me in this way just because he was denied the opportunity to speak with me after Il Muto?”
Tolbert nodded. “I do not make a habit of socialising with a man whom I regard as a deluded parasite, but I happened to be in a bar frequented by members of my profession one night when Béringer arrived cursing your name. I am sorry, Mademoiselle Daae, I wish I did not have to say such things but I believe you have the right to know the reason for your continued vilification at the hands of this blackguard.”
“No, no, do not apologise. Thank you for telling me.” Without even realising that she was moving, Christine found her feet carrying her towards the park gates, desperate now to share the knowledge with Erik. She was grateful that Tolbert made no move to follow her. “I am in your debt, Monsieur!”
The young journalist - he could not be many years older than she was, she thought, his round face was so smooth and hairless - raised his hat once more. “Should you wish to put the record straight, you know where to find me!” he called, and then he was out of sight behind the high wall and she was hailing a cab to take her back to the Opera.
________________________________________
“Not here? But he must be here, there is a rehearsal this afternoon - ”
Jacques shook his head. “Not any more. There was a dust-up of some sort, that Signor Rossi shoutin’ at your masked man till he was blue in the face. Don’t know what it was about but I could hear them all the way out here and I watched the Italian storm past with smoke comin’ out of his ears.” He turned a page of his pink sporting paper and licked the end of a pencil, noting down one of the runners at Maisons-Laffitte. “Caused such ructions that they cancelled the rest of the day’s practise, for the singers at least. Reyer’s up in the auditorium working with the violins and your man’s gone home. Looked like he was going to explode when he left.”
“Thank you, Jacques.” Cursing inwardly Christine spun around, almost running the short distance back down the passage from the porter’s box to the stage door and hoping that the cab would not yet have left. Reaching the exit she was just moments too late: the driver was pulling away from the kerb and did not respond to her shouts. Dropping the arm she had been waving to try and attract his attention she whispered with a vehemence that would have surprised all those who thought her a good, mild girl, a prude, even, “Merde.”
“Christine Daae, wherever did you learn such an unladylike phrase?” a familiar voice asked behind her. “Anyone would think that you had fallen under a bad influence.”
Startled for the second time that day, Christine whirled to face the person who had accosted her. Though she had not for a moment expected to see him, it was as though the old adage ‘Speak of an angel and he shall appear’ was true for the handsome figure of the Vicomte de Chagny stood there in the darkened the corridor, the summer sunlight that filtered through from outside glancing from his fair hair and giving it the appearance of spun gold. He was smiling, blue eyes dancing with amusement. Stupidly, she stared at him, mouth falling open in surprise. “Raoul!”
“The very same.” He gave a little bow and then frowned. “Is everything all right? You look rather... flustered.”
“I’m fine, really,” Christine assured him, though her laugh was a little wobbly. “What are you doing here? I thought you would be in the middle of the ocean by now!”
“Oh, I will be soon. This is merely a flying visit to get my affairs in order, just in case...” Raoul trailed off but they both knew exactly what he meant. Naval service was not without its personal risks, even in a time of peace. “Philippe is to be married next month; had you heard?” he asked, changing the subject.
She nodded. “I read about it in the society pages. I hope he will be happy.”
“That is unlikely, but I think they will tolerate each other.” He pulled a face. “Once they have an heir and a spare he’ll go back to Sorelli and the new Comtesse will probably welcome half of Paris to her bed. At least I’ll be finally off the hook and allowed to do as I wish.”
Christine blinked in surprise. “I thought that the affair with Sorelli was over? She was boasting just the other day about the Chevalier de Roscoff being her new protector.”
“She loves him, and he loves her,” Raoul replied with a shrug. “They may fight and take different partners but they’ll always return to one another.” He flushed, realising what he had said. “I’m sorry, Lotte, I’m forgetting myself. Too much time spent with sailors! I shouldn’t be discussing this with you.”
“Oh, Raoul, I’m not a child,” she told him with a smile. “You are as bad as Erik! You don’t have to protect my delicate ears from every piece of salacious gossip; I won’t faint, I promise.” He smiled back, relaxing slightly, so she added, “Now, tell me why you are really here.”
“You don’t believe that I popped in to see you?” he asked hopefully.
She shook her head. “You have that serious look in your eye.”
“Oh, very well.” Raoul sighed, his gaze roaming over the ceiling and through the open stage door before returning to her. The brim of his hat twirled restlessly between his fingers. As she watched him Christine realised that there were tiny little lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there before and his skin was lightly tanned; his new life aboard ship was changing him in subtle ways. “Philippe showed me this morning’s Figaro,” he said finally.
“Ah.”
“Is that all you can say? This Béringer fellow is slandering both of us!”
“He has been slandering me for months,” Christine retorted. “Erik, too. We have had to endure a constant stream of lies and fabrications in the gutter press.”
Raoul raised an eyebrow at the mention of Erik’s name. “Facts do not count as slander, Christine,” he said quietly.
“They do when they contradict the truth as we have allowed it to be known.”
“I doubt if that would stand up in a court of law,” Raoul told her, and she knew that he was right, no matter how much she was loath to admit it. “The point is that my family has now been drawn into this whole sordid mess and my brother is not happy about it. You must see why.”
Something within Christine prickled at his tone; it was the one he used to use when he told her that the Phantom of the Opera did not exist. He tried to be reassuring but unfortunately, given his background, sometimes came over as commanding, which still rankled. She was sure that he had no idea he was doing it and so she tried her best to retain her temper. “Of course, we cannot have an open scandal touching the de Chagny name,” she said bitterly.
“There are appearances to think of, and a reputation to maintain, especially with the wedding so close - ” he began, but she cut him off.
“You didn’t think of any of that when you wanted to marry me!” she exclaimed. “Reputation could go hang, you said. True love conquers all! I had no idea you were such a hypocrite, Raoul.”
“Christine!” Looking this way and that, Raoul caught hold of her arm and steered her into an empty office, closing the door behind him. Christine folded her arms, staring him down, until he spoke again. “Look, you must see that, until the wedding is over at least, I have to toe the line. If anything happens to spoil this alliance, not only will the pressure be back on me to provide the next generation of de Chagnys, but my life will be made a living hell. I’ve yet to be forgiven for the damage our relationship did to the family name, and no, I don’t regret it for a moment because I did, and still do, love you,” he added before she could open her mouth, “but my family don’t see it that way and blame me for the reluctance of certain young ladies and their influential parents to want to associate themselves with us. The letter that came this afternoon hasn’t helped matters.”
“Letter? What letter?” Remembering Tolbert’s description of Béringer as an attempted blackmailer made Christine’s blood run cold.
“A letter from that damned journalist. The arrogant fellow believes himself to be doing me a favour by offering me the chance to have my name cleared of this attack upon your fiancé,” Raoul said, scowling. “If I pay him ten thousand francs he will have a retraction printed, telling the world I had nothing to do with it!”
Christine’s hand stole to her mouth. “So it is true...”
Completely misunderstanding, unaware as he was of the greater picture, Raoul stared at her, eyes wide. He had paled beneath his tan. “Christine,” he said desperately, “surely you don’t believe I had anything to do with that? Please, Lotte, I swear on my father’s grave I wish the Ph – I wish Erik no harm!”
“What? I – no, of course not! Raoul, how could you even think that I would - ” Quickly she crossed the little room to reach up and kiss him on the cheek. “I know that you were nowhere near Paris when it happened, and so does Erik. You are an honourable man; you would never do such a thing!”
“Then why did you, just now - ”
“I was told earlier that Béringer was a blackmailer but I did not want to believe it,” Christine explained. Briefly she recounted the information given to her by Didier Tolbert; as she spoke, Raoul’s mouth became a grim line and he took a tighter grip on the brim of his hat. “He wants to revenge himself upon me because of some imagined slight. And now, because his tales are not doing the kind of damage he wants, he has targeted you because you are the one with the money, and he will take the cash if that is all he can get. He obviously thinks that you would rather pay than risk your reputation.”
With a short laugh Raoul shook his head. “I can’t pay,” he said. “I haven’t any more money than my brother gives me as an allowance, and he refuses to advance me one sou to give to that man. Philippe told me in no uncertain terms that I was to get rid of the fellow; he didn’t care how but made it clear I was to do it with no assistance from him.”
“Oh, Raoul. I’m so sorry,” she told him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You should never have been dragged into this.”
They stood there for some time, like two children drawing comfort from one another’s presence. Raoul began tentatively to stroke her hair, but withdrew when she lifted her head to look at him. His eye fell to the diamond and ruby ring that sparkled on the third finger of her left hand as she straightened his collar; she wondered whether the chain around her neck, the chain from which she had hung the ring he had given her, had had the same effect upon Erik as the sight of her wearing the Phantom’s mark evidently did on Raoul. It was as though she wore a collar, marking her as belonging to another man; he gently pulled away, taking her other hand in his. “What should we do?” he asked, and he sounded just as lost as she felt.
What was there to do? Christine’s instinct had always been to consult her father, and in his absence, regardless of any friends or surrogate family she might have now, there had only been one other person she trusted enough to turn to in her hour of need: her Angel of Music, for so long her guide and guardian. Their dilemma concerned him too; what could be more natural than to consult the former Phantom, with his greater experience of the world and all its dark corners?
“We ask Erik,” she said.
