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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 51/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3974
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: A council of war.
COUNCIL OF WAR
“When you said we would be visiting Erik, I expected to have to traverse those dreadful tunnels again,” Raoul remarked as his driver guided them expertly through the city. “I had no idea he was actually living above ground, and working at the Opera..!”
Christine glanced out of the window, at the familiar landmarks passing by. “Things have changed, Raoul. Erik’s talents are finally being recognised,” she said proudly. “His compositions are being published, and people appreciate his genius; they want him to weave the same magic with the voices of the chorus as he did with mine. Theodora Merriman decided to join the company purely because of him; before she heard Rigoletto she was going to return to America. She stayed because she couldn’t let the opportunity to work with him pass her by.”
“I’m impressed. Amazed, too,” he confessed, shaking his head. “I’ll admit it, Christine; if you had told me all this a few months ago I would never have believed it possible that the... creature who terrified you, threatened us and held the entire Populaire in his thrall as though he really was some supernatural being, could have a home and a job and be going about his business like a normal, respectable man.”
“He is a normal man, Raoul; he always was, underneath. Acceptance was all he ever wanted, but it was the one thing his face denied him,” Christine told him, her voice soft. “He didn’t choose to be a monster; the world made him into one.”
Raoul looked unconvinced and she sighed inwardly. He didn’t know Erik and probably never would; all he would ever see was the Phantom and remember the deadly rivalry between them. Christine supposed she could not blame him, not really; it would be impossible to think well of someone who had wanted you dead, no matter what the circumstances. “It doesn’t matter what I think.” Raoul’s gaze fell to her hands, clasped loosely in her lap, and the ring on her finger. “You’re marrying him?”
She nodded, biting her lip. “I’m sorry, Raoul.”
“I suppose I should have expected it; you did return my ring, after all. But I still...” he trailed off, watching the houses flash by for what seemed like an interminably long time, before turning back to her and asking earnestly, “Do you love him? Truly?”
Christine thought her heart might break at the hope and affection she still saw shining in his eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I do. I love him with all my heart and soul.”
“I see.” Raoul’s shoulders slumped slightly and he almost seemed to deflate. He sank back against the squabs, attention back on Paris as it passed. “When is the wedding to be?”
“The end of next month. We’ve only been engaged six weeks.”
“Six weeks?” He laughed, but there was little humour there. “We were engaged six months and never set a date.”
“Raoul, please don’t do this,” Christine begged, unable to bear the direction the conversation had taken. “I don’t want there to be ill feeling between us. You are one of my best friends.”
“Friends, yes.” With a sigh he looked at her once more. There was a sad smile touching his lips. “It seems that’s all we were ever destined to be.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and rested a hand on his knee; there was a pause, and then he covered her hand with his own. “Just because I love Erik, it doesn’t mean that I don’t still care for you,” she said. “I was never Little Lotte to Erik; you knew me before he was even aware of my existence. You knew my father and we shared such wonderful times as children; nothing will ever take that away from us. We’ll always have Perros, the sea and my red scarf.”
Raoul squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” he murmured, adding briskly before she could say any more, “Well, I suppose we had better enter the lion’s den and see if your fiancé can extricate us from the mess into which we’ve been landed by his ghostly persona. Should I keep my hand at the level of my eyes?”
________________________________________
They could hear the music before they reached the house, wild and pounding, reminiscent of the darker parts of Don Juan Triumphant.
It was strange to be knocking on a smart dark green front door in a quiet neighbourhood, knowing that Erik was somewhere behind. Raoul told his driver to wait, but Christine suggested maybe he should not do so directly outside; if someone saw a carriage bearing the de Chagny crest standing at the kerb in front of this particular dwelling it would only add fuel to the rumours stirred up by Francois Béringer and that was the last thing they wanted. With a shrug he sent the man away with a request to return within the hour.
The first time she came to the house to visit him, Christine had almost expected to find the curtains pulled against the daylight, Erik hiding in the resultant shadows like one of Monsieur Stoker’s vampires. It had been a surprise when he came to the door, ushering his guests inside with a graceful bow. Waiting for a break in the thundering of the piano she rapped the knocker twice, and after a pause an excited barking began within until Erik’s voice cut across it, commanding Bruno to be quiet. Obediently the spaniel fell silent and Christine couldn’t help but smile; it had not taken Bruno long to learn who was master.
The door opened and Erik peered warily round it, instinctively tilting his head so that his mask was not immediately visible. When he saw Christine he relaxed, only to tense up again the moment his gaze found Raoul standing behind her. “Christine,” he said. “I thought I made it clear that you should only visit me here with a chaperone? Your - ”
“I had little choice; you weren’t at the theatre,” she pointed out.
“Ah. You heard about the rehearsal, then.”
She nodded. “Jacques told me. I thought you might have come and found me before rushing off like that.”
“My apologies, my dear. I was unsure of your whereabouts and that Italian buffoon made me so angry I thought it best I get away; he was disputing every direction I gave and I could not be sure of my temper.” Erik looked at Raoul and raised an eyebrow. “Monsieur le Vicomte. To what do I owe this honour?”
“Erik, may we come in?” Christine prompted gently when he made no move to allow them inside. “There is something very important that we need to discuss, and I think it safer if we do it somewhere more private than the doorstep.”
He blinked, as though awakening from a trance, and stood aside to permit them to cross the threshold. “Of course, of course.” Even had she not heard the evidence it was obvious he had been working, for his tie was loose and his jacket missing, the sleeves of his lawn shirt pushed up to the elbow; suddenly self-conscious of the old white scars that encircled his wrists, he unrolled them and hurriedly fastened his cufflinks. Glancing at Raoul, Christine saw that he was trying to hide his surprise at encountering an elegant, domesticated gentleman instead of the angry Phantom he had been expecting; Erik was wearing one of the lighter summer suits she had persuaded him to order, in a soft fawn shade that was a world away from his habitual black. “You must forgive me,” Erik said awkwardly, “I was not expecting company.”
“You have come up in the world, Monsieur... Claudin, is it?” Raoul remarked as Christine led the way to the parlour. “In more ways than one, it would seem.”
Erik inclined his head, replying carefully, “I had thought you embarked upon your naval career by now. What brings you back to Paris?” And Christine, added the unspoken words that were audible to them all. Whether deliberately or unconsciously, they kept a wide stretch of floor between them, Raoul remaining by the door while Erik stood before the fireplace, surveying the room with hands clasped tightly behind his back.
“Family business,” Raoul said, and Erik nodded. “I... Christine has told me of your...” He swallowed uncomfortably “... of your engagement. It seems congratulations are in order.” For a long moment the two just looked at each other, and then, to Christine’s delight, Raoul held out a hand. “I wish you both every happiness.”
The only indication of Erik’s surprise was a brief widening of the eyes; a facial flicker almost immediately controlled. He hesitated, regarding Raoul’s hand as though he thought it might bite him, but then he reached out, accepting the gesture and returning it with a firm shake of his own. “Thank you,” he said, the slight wobble in his voice betraying his emotions. Clearing his throat he added with the ghost of a smile, “I bid you welcome to my home, Monsieur. Please, do take a seat; there are no tricks or trapdoors here, I assure you. May I offer you some refreshment?”
“I’ll make some tea,” Christine said before Raoul could answer, releasing the breath she had not even realised she was holding. Satisfied that left alone they were not likely to come to blows, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove, straining her ears to try and catch some of their conversation. Bruno had been lying in his basket in the corner but was immediately alert upon seeing her, pawing at her skirts and begging for attention. He yapped excitedly as she petted him, tail wagging furiously. “Has he been neglecting you?” she asked, scratching the spaniel behind the ears. “I shall have to have words with him.” Doubtless Bruno was the last thing on Erik’s mind when he was caught up in a frenzied bout of composing.
The tea made, she took up the tray and returned to the sitting room, Bruno trotting at her heels. As she reached the door, however, she pulled up short, listening; Bruno sat down, looking up at her with a puzzled whine. Christine shook her head and touched a finger to her lips.
“...thank you,” Erik was saying. “Had it not been for your intervention I would probably have bled to death beneath the Opera.”
“You owe me nothing, Monsieur,” Raoul replied stiffly. “It was after all upon my orders that you were shot in the first place.”
There was a pause, and then Erik said, “Even so, I am grateful. I am not sure I would have been able to make the same gesture had our circumstances been reversed.”
“That is the difference between us. I did it for Christine, Monsieur, not for you,” Raoul admitted. “In the end, I could not bear to see her torn apart by your death.”
There was the sound of leather creaking as Erik leaned back in his chair. “You know, Monsieur le Vicomte, perhaps we are not quite so different.” Christine could picture Raoul’s look of surprise, but he said nothing. Erik’s next words were soft, so much so that she only just caught them. “We would both go through hellfire for her.”
“You may be right,” Raoul agreed. “And in that case, I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that if you do anything to make her miserable I will hunt you down and kill you. Don’t think that it is an idle threat, either; my skill with a pistol is much improved.”
The Phantom chuckled. “Of course,” he said, his tone serious despite his amusement. “I would expect nothing less.”
________________________________________
“That man goes too far,” Erik growled fifteen minutes later, when the tea had been poured and Christine and Raoul had told their respective stories. “It is high time he was stopped.”
“I’m surprised you have allowed him to keep printing these lurid tales,” said Raoul, accepting a biscuit from the plate proffered by Christine and balancing it carefully on his saucer. “One little tug on the Punjab lasso and this Béringer would have been out of your hair weeks ago.”
Erik’s eyebrow rose. “Contrary to popular opinion, I do not kill for sport, Monsieur, and I am not desirous of drawing attention to myself. Stringing the fool up on a lamppost is hardly subtle and smacks of the worst excesses of the Revolution, however satisfying it might be.”
“Could we threaten him with legal action?” Christine asked, inwardly pleased despite the situation to see the two men in her life sitting together in the same room, apparently having agreed on a truce, albeit an uneasy one. “Teddy told me that James has a brace of tame lawyers we could consult.”
Raoul looked confused at the mention of the diva and her manager, but Erik shook his head. “If we involve lawyers, too many awkward questions would be asked. We may be bending the truth somewhat from necessity, but I am not keen on the idea of lying under oath, which is what it would come to should we try a libel action.”
“Lawyers are expensive,” Raoul added gloomily. “I could never afford representation without Philippe’s help.”
“You surprise me,” Erik remarked, setting down his teacup on the little table at his elbow and sitting back, crossing one long leg over the other. “I had thought your family one of the wealthiest in France.”
“We are. It is my misfortune to be the younger son; my brother holds the purse strings and at present he has them in a death grip. After the debacle at the Opera he regards this as my mess and I must extricate myself alone.”
“Then your patronage of the Populaire - ”
“Was with Philippe’s money, yes,” Raoul said bitterly. “And what a waste it was. My entire family now thinks me a fool thanks to you, Monsieur Opera Ghost; I really must express my gratitude.”
“Raoul - ” Christine began in a warning tone as Erik straightened, strong white fingers curling around the arms of his chair.
“No one emerged from that affair with any glory, boy,” he hissed. “If you imagine I congratulate myself for the things I did you are sadly mistaken. I am not proud of my behaviour, but at least I am able to admit I did wrong and try to make amends.”
Raoul had picked up the biscuit; it snapped in half as his hand clenched into a fist, falling to the floor where Bruno immediately scooped it up. “Don’t pretend that makes you somehow better than me! How much money did you extort from the managers over the years? Was this house paid for out of your ill-gotten gains?”
“Raoul!” Christine said sharply as Erik started forwards, mismatched eyes flashing dangerously, his fingers unconsciously searching for the absent lasso. They both turned to look at her and she sighed, reaching down a hand to stroke the spaniel, who licked her wrist. “We are all in this mess and together we must find a way out. When it is over, you will never have to see each other again but until then can you not at least pretend to be civil, for my sake?”
Neither of them spoke for a long time. Raoul flushed to the roots of his hair and averted his gaze, suddenly finding his cup the most fascinating thing in the world. Erik got to his feet and leant against the mantelpiece, staring into the empty fireplace. Christine waited, offering Bruno another biscuit, which the little dog accepted with enthusiasm, the crunching noises he made breaking the heavy silence in the air. At length, Erik turned, shoulders tense but expression contrite.
“I apologise, Christine,” he said, much to her relief. “I am behaving in a manner quite unfitting of a man of my age. If the Vicomte can do the same, I promise to restrain myself.”
“Raoul?” Christine asked, looking at her old friend, and he nodded tersely. For a moment she felt as though she was dealing with a pair of children instead of two grown men. “Thank you. Now, what are we to do about Monsieur Béringer?”
The ticking of the clock, that ormolu monstrosity from Erik’s music room under the Opera, was so loud in the resulting quiet that she was sure she could actually feel it. Erik drummed his fingers on the mantel, the sound sharp and staccato; Christine knew without asking that his mind was working a mile a minute, a conclusion supported a few moments later when he began to pace, long fluid strides taking him to the window and back. Raoul sat on the edge of the sofa, back ramrod straight and fingers curled tightly around the handle of his cup; Christine was sure his tea must be cold by now. She lifted the pot, offering him a refill; he jumped and blinked at her for a moment before holding out his saucer, the porcelain rattling slightly as his hand shook.
“I’m sorry, Christine,” he said quietly as she poured, casting Erik a sidelong glance. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come; I’ve no wish to bring down his anger upon you.”
“You won’t,” she assured him. “He’s not truly angry, just extremely vexed. Unfortunately it seems that the pair of you bring out the worst in one another. I should have realised that.”
“Still, knowing what he’s like... I’m not happy with the thought of leaving you here alone with him.”
Christine sat back and settled her skirts, trying not to swamp Bruno with fabric as he lay down and rested his head heavily on her feet. “I’ve been alone with him many times before, and I’m still here to tell the tale. Erik would never hurt me; sometimes I think he would have been satisfied if I allowed him to carry my bags and help me on with my slippers. You needn’t worry for me, Raoul; I made my choice and I stand by it. I’ve no regrets.”
Raoul nodded, and turned his attention to the spaniel. An involuntary smile touched his lips. “You seem to be a favourite there,” he remarked.
“Oh, this is Bruno,” Christine said, giving the little dog a pat. “Erik and I adopted him... or rather he adopted Erik. It would appear that he resents being sidelined in favour of whatever it is his master has been working on, hence his preference for my company.”
“I would not have imagined the Phantom with a dog.”
“You never imagined him with a home and gainful employment, either,” she countered, but before Raoul could respond the subject of their conversation lifted his chin from his chest and abandoned his perambulations.
“This journalist of yours, Christine,” he said, coming to stand on the hearthrug. Bruno got up and started pawing at his trouser-leg; absently Erik bent down to scratch him under the chin. “Is he trustworthy, do you think?”
Christine frowned. “I hardly know him, but yes, he seems so. He did not have to tell me about Béringer but he did.”
“What are you thinking?” asked Raoul. “How can another reporter help us?”
Erik ignored him. “You recall suggesting that we use the press to our advantage?”
“Yes, but that idea hardly turned out well,” Christine pointed out. It had been their capitulation to the press men outside the Opera that ultimately led to his beating at the hands of the gypsies; had they continued to say nothing and disregarded the questions their likenesses would never have appeared in La Monde and Grigore would not have been able to recognise Erik. Sitting at his bedside, eyes fixed on his battered face, she had cursed herself repeatedly for even making the suggestion. “Surely we don’t want to make the same mistake?”
“I have an idea,” Erik told her. “You urged me to then to tell the truth. What do you say to doing just that, and giving an interview to your Monsieur Tolbert?”
“You... Erik, how can we possibly tell him the truth?” she exclaimed, staring at him as though he had just informed her that he intended to run naked through the streets of Montmartre. “We will all be arrested! You might be - ” She broke off, unable to bring herself to say ‘executed’.
He shook his head, lifting a hand to stall her protests. “I have naturally considered that. However, I believe that there is much to be gained by yourself and the Vicomte telling your stories.”
“If we do so, you will definitely have an appointment to keep with Madame Guillotine,” muttered Raoul. When Erik glared at him he met the older man’s gaze defiantly. “Have you forgotten Joseph Buquet?”
“Buquet did not die by my hand,” Erik said in a tone that brooked no argument.
Typically, Raoul did not heed the warning. “Was it not your lasso they discovered wound around his neck when he plunged towards the stage and terrified those poor ballerinas?” he enquired.
“That does not mean I killed him. You would make a poor lawyer, de Chagny; a court needs a little thing called ‘evidence’ in order to prosecute,” Erik informed him coldly. “The inquest gave a verdict of accidental death; Buquet had been drinking heavily all evening.”
“You cannot prove that.”
“Maybe not, but I have the evidence of my own eyes. I was up on the catwalks throughout the performance and I watched him; I could also smell alcohol on his breath when he tried to attack me. And there was the post mortem: the pathologist’s opinion of the man’s liver made enlightening reading. But this is beside the point,” Erik said, waving away his rival’s objections. “Béringer is desperate to publish the truth about the Opera Ghost because he believes it will bring him the notoriety he craves; he has no intention of ceasing his ‘investigations’ until the whole story is revealed. But would his pretensions not be stopped in their tracks if a rival journalist was given unprecedented access to the key players in that very drama? Where would Béringer’s ambitions be if the very scandal he wishes to uncover was already out in the open?”
“Are you suggesting we tell the man everything? That we expose you as the Phantom?” Raoul asked incredulously, eyes wide.
“I am suggesting that you tell the truth, albeit without mentioning the Phantom’s identity. That there was a man with a dark obsession stalking Christine is not in doubt; he is standing here before you.” Erik bowed his head slightly. “However, there is no need to connect that man, consumed as he was with jealousy and hate, with Erik Claudin, chorus master of the Opera Populaire. You may tell your tale up to the performance of Don Juan Triumphant, when the Phantom, scared away by your ingenious plan, failed to make his appearance and Christine’s tutor took the stage instead.”
The Vicomte shook his head. “No, it would never work. The whole affair is too fantastic to be believed.”
“Then make it believable!” Exasperated, Erik ran a hand through his hair, adding to its already dishevelled appearance. “Use your imagination, limited though it may be. I thought the two of you used to sit in your parents’ attic during thunderstorms, telling one another lurid Scandinavian folk tales?”
“Good grief, is there nothing you haven’t told him?” Raoul demanded, rounding on Christine. She flapped a hand at him, thinking furiously. Could it work? It was a strange story to be sure, but the detail would be not in what they chose to put in, but what they left out...
“Well, Christine?” asked Erik. “What do you say?”
“I say...” Making a decision she looked up, chin tilted determinedly. “I say we give it a try.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3974
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: A council of war.
“When you said we would be visiting Erik, I expected to have to traverse those dreadful tunnels again,” Raoul remarked as his driver guided them expertly through the city. “I had no idea he was actually living above ground, and working at the Opera..!”
Christine glanced out of the window, at the familiar landmarks passing by. “Things have changed, Raoul. Erik’s talents are finally being recognised,” she said proudly. “His compositions are being published, and people appreciate his genius; they want him to weave the same magic with the voices of the chorus as he did with mine. Theodora Merriman decided to join the company purely because of him; before she heard Rigoletto she was going to return to America. She stayed because she couldn’t let the opportunity to work with him pass her by.”
“I’m impressed. Amazed, too,” he confessed, shaking his head. “I’ll admit it, Christine; if you had told me all this a few months ago I would never have believed it possible that the... creature who terrified you, threatened us and held the entire Populaire in his thrall as though he really was some supernatural being, could have a home and a job and be going about his business like a normal, respectable man.”
“He is a normal man, Raoul; he always was, underneath. Acceptance was all he ever wanted, but it was the one thing his face denied him,” Christine told him, her voice soft. “He didn’t choose to be a monster; the world made him into one.”
Raoul looked unconvinced and she sighed inwardly. He didn’t know Erik and probably never would; all he would ever see was the Phantom and remember the deadly rivalry between them. Christine supposed she could not blame him, not really; it would be impossible to think well of someone who had wanted you dead, no matter what the circumstances. “It doesn’t matter what I think.” Raoul’s gaze fell to her hands, clasped loosely in her lap, and the ring on her finger. “You’re marrying him?”
She nodded, biting her lip. “I’m sorry, Raoul.”
“I suppose I should have expected it; you did return my ring, after all. But I still...” he trailed off, watching the houses flash by for what seemed like an interminably long time, before turning back to her and asking earnestly, “Do you love him? Truly?”
Christine thought her heart might break at the hope and affection she still saw shining in his eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I do. I love him with all my heart and soul.”
“I see.” Raoul’s shoulders slumped slightly and he almost seemed to deflate. He sank back against the squabs, attention back on Paris as it passed. “When is the wedding to be?”
“The end of next month. We’ve only been engaged six weeks.”
“Six weeks?” He laughed, but there was little humour there. “We were engaged six months and never set a date.”
“Raoul, please don’t do this,” Christine begged, unable to bear the direction the conversation had taken. “I don’t want there to be ill feeling between us. You are one of my best friends.”
“Friends, yes.” With a sigh he looked at her once more. There was a sad smile touching his lips. “It seems that’s all we were ever destined to be.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and rested a hand on his knee; there was a pause, and then he covered her hand with his own. “Just because I love Erik, it doesn’t mean that I don’t still care for you,” she said. “I was never Little Lotte to Erik; you knew me before he was even aware of my existence. You knew my father and we shared such wonderful times as children; nothing will ever take that away from us. We’ll always have Perros, the sea and my red scarf.”
Raoul squeezed her hand. “Thank you,” he murmured, adding briskly before she could say any more, “Well, I suppose we had better enter the lion’s den and see if your fiancé can extricate us from the mess into which we’ve been landed by his ghostly persona. Should I keep my hand at the level of my eyes?”
________________________________________
They could hear the music before they reached the house, wild and pounding, reminiscent of the darker parts of Don Juan Triumphant.
It was strange to be knocking on a smart dark green front door in a quiet neighbourhood, knowing that Erik was somewhere behind. Raoul told his driver to wait, but Christine suggested maybe he should not do so directly outside; if someone saw a carriage bearing the de Chagny crest standing at the kerb in front of this particular dwelling it would only add fuel to the rumours stirred up by Francois Béringer and that was the last thing they wanted. With a shrug he sent the man away with a request to return within the hour.
The first time she came to the house to visit him, Christine had almost expected to find the curtains pulled against the daylight, Erik hiding in the resultant shadows like one of Monsieur Stoker’s vampires. It had been a surprise when he came to the door, ushering his guests inside with a graceful bow. Waiting for a break in the thundering of the piano she rapped the knocker twice, and after a pause an excited barking began within until Erik’s voice cut across it, commanding Bruno to be quiet. Obediently the spaniel fell silent and Christine couldn’t help but smile; it had not taken Bruno long to learn who was master.
The door opened and Erik peered warily round it, instinctively tilting his head so that his mask was not immediately visible. When he saw Christine he relaxed, only to tense up again the moment his gaze found Raoul standing behind her. “Christine,” he said. “I thought I made it clear that you should only visit me here with a chaperone? Your - ”
“I had little choice; you weren’t at the theatre,” she pointed out.
“Ah. You heard about the rehearsal, then.”
She nodded. “Jacques told me. I thought you might have come and found me before rushing off like that.”
“My apologies, my dear. I was unsure of your whereabouts and that Italian buffoon made me so angry I thought it best I get away; he was disputing every direction I gave and I could not be sure of my temper.” Erik looked at Raoul and raised an eyebrow. “Monsieur le Vicomte. To what do I owe this honour?”
“Erik, may we come in?” Christine prompted gently when he made no move to allow them inside. “There is something very important that we need to discuss, and I think it safer if we do it somewhere more private than the doorstep.”
He blinked, as though awakening from a trance, and stood aside to permit them to cross the threshold. “Of course, of course.” Even had she not heard the evidence it was obvious he had been working, for his tie was loose and his jacket missing, the sleeves of his lawn shirt pushed up to the elbow; suddenly self-conscious of the old white scars that encircled his wrists, he unrolled them and hurriedly fastened his cufflinks. Glancing at Raoul, Christine saw that he was trying to hide his surprise at encountering an elegant, domesticated gentleman instead of the angry Phantom he had been expecting; Erik was wearing one of the lighter summer suits she had persuaded him to order, in a soft fawn shade that was a world away from his habitual black. “You must forgive me,” Erik said awkwardly, “I was not expecting company.”
“You have come up in the world, Monsieur... Claudin, is it?” Raoul remarked as Christine led the way to the parlour. “In more ways than one, it would seem.”
Erik inclined his head, replying carefully, “I had thought you embarked upon your naval career by now. What brings you back to Paris?” And Christine, added the unspoken words that were audible to them all. Whether deliberately or unconsciously, they kept a wide stretch of floor between them, Raoul remaining by the door while Erik stood before the fireplace, surveying the room with hands clasped tightly behind his back.
“Family business,” Raoul said, and Erik nodded. “I... Christine has told me of your...” He swallowed uncomfortably “... of your engagement. It seems congratulations are in order.” For a long moment the two just looked at each other, and then, to Christine’s delight, Raoul held out a hand. “I wish you both every happiness.”
The only indication of Erik’s surprise was a brief widening of the eyes; a facial flicker almost immediately controlled. He hesitated, regarding Raoul’s hand as though he thought it might bite him, but then he reached out, accepting the gesture and returning it with a firm shake of his own. “Thank you,” he said, the slight wobble in his voice betraying his emotions. Clearing his throat he added with the ghost of a smile, “I bid you welcome to my home, Monsieur. Please, do take a seat; there are no tricks or trapdoors here, I assure you. May I offer you some refreshment?”
“I’ll make some tea,” Christine said before Raoul could answer, releasing the breath she had not even realised she was holding. Satisfied that left alone they were not likely to come to blows, she made her way downstairs to the kitchen and set the kettle on the stove, straining her ears to try and catch some of their conversation. Bruno had been lying in his basket in the corner but was immediately alert upon seeing her, pawing at her skirts and begging for attention. He yapped excitedly as she petted him, tail wagging furiously. “Has he been neglecting you?” she asked, scratching the spaniel behind the ears. “I shall have to have words with him.” Doubtless Bruno was the last thing on Erik’s mind when he was caught up in a frenzied bout of composing.
The tea made, she took up the tray and returned to the sitting room, Bruno trotting at her heels. As she reached the door, however, she pulled up short, listening; Bruno sat down, looking up at her with a puzzled whine. Christine shook her head and touched a finger to her lips.
“...thank you,” Erik was saying. “Had it not been for your intervention I would probably have bled to death beneath the Opera.”
“You owe me nothing, Monsieur,” Raoul replied stiffly. “It was after all upon my orders that you were shot in the first place.”
There was a pause, and then Erik said, “Even so, I am grateful. I am not sure I would have been able to make the same gesture had our circumstances been reversed.”
“That is the difference between us. I did it for Christine, Monsieur, not for you,” Raoul admitted. “In the end, I could not bear to see her torn apart by your death.”
There was the sound of leather creaking as Erik leaned back in his chair. “You know, Monsieur le Vicomte, perhaps we are not quite so different.” Christine could picture Raoul’s look of surprise, but he said nothing. Erik’s next words were soft, so much so that she only just caught them. “We would both go through hellfire for her.”
“You may be right,” Raoul agreed. “And in that case, I would like to take this opportunity to assure you that if you do anything to make her miserable I will hunt you down and kill you. Don’t think that it is an idle threat, either; my skill with a pistol is much improved.”
The Phantom chuckled. “Of course,” he said, his tone serious despite his amusement. “I would expect nothing less.”
________________________________________
“That man goes too far,” Erik growled fifteen minutes later, when the tea had been poured and Christine and Raoul had told their respective stories. “It is high time he was stopped.”
“I’m surprised you have allowed him to keep printing these lurid tales,” said Raoul, accepting a biscuit from the plate proffered by Christine and balancing it carefully on his saucer. “One little tug on the Punjab lasso and this Béringer would have been out of your hair weeks ago.”
Erik’s eyebrow rose. “Contrary to popular opinion, I do not kill for sport, Monsieur, and I am not desirous of drawing attention to myself. Stringing the fool up on a lamppost is hardly subtle and smacks of the worst excesses of the Revolution, however satisfying it might be.”
“Could we threaten him with legal action?” Christine asked, inwardly pleased despite the situation to see the two men in her life sitting together in the same room, apparently having agreed on a truce, albeit an uneasy one. “Teddy told me that James has a brace of tame lawyers we could consult.”
Raoul looked confused at the mention of the diva and her manager, but Erik shook his head. “If we involve lawyers, too many awkward questions would be asked. We may be bending the truth somewhat from necessity, but I am not keen on the idea of lying under oath, which is what it would come to should we try a libel action.”
“Lawyers are expensive,” Raoul added gloomily. “I could never afford representation without Philippe’s help.”
“You surprise me,” Erik remarked, setting down his teacup on the little table at his elbow and sitting back, crossing one long leg over the other. “I had thought your family one of the wealthiest in France.”
“We are. It is my misfortune to be the younger son; my brother holds the purse strings and at present he has them in a death grip. After the debacle at the Opera he regards this as my mess and I must extricate myself alone.”
“Then your patronage of the Populaire - ”
“Was with Philippe’s money, yes,” Raoul said bitterly. “And what a waste it was. My entire family now thinks me a fool thanks to you, Monsieur Opera Ghost; I really must express my gratitude.”
“Raoul - ” Christine began in a warning tone as Erik straightened, strong white fingers curling around the arms of his chair.
“No one emerged from that affair with any glory, boy,” he hissed. “If you imagine I congratulate myself for the things I did you are sadly mistaken. I am not proud of my behaviour, but at least I am able to admit I did wrong and try to make amends.”
Raoul had picked up the biscuit; it snapped in half as his hand clenched into a fist, falling to the floor where Bruno immediately scooped it up. “Don’t pretend that makes you somehow better than me! How much money did you extort from the managers over the years? Was this house paid for out of your ill-gotten gains?”
“Raoul!” Christine said sharply as Erik started forwards, mismatched eyes flashing dangerously, his fingers unconsciously searching for the absent lasso. They both turned to look at her and she sighed, reaching down a hand to stroke the spaniel, who licked her wrist. “We are all in this mess and together we must find a way out. When it is over, you will never have to see each other again but until then can you not at least pretend to be civil, for my sake?”
Neither of them spoke for a long time. Raoul flushed to the roots of his hair and averted his gaze, suddenly finding his cup the most fascinating thing in the world. Erik got to his feet and leant against the mantelpiece, staring into the empty fireplace. Christine waited, offering Bruno another biscuit, which the little dog accepted with enthusiasm, the crunching noises he made breaking the heavy silence in the air. At length, Erik turned, shoulders tense but expression contrite.
“I apologise, Christine,” he said, much to her relief. “I am behaving in a manner quite unfitting of a man of my age. If the Vicomte can do the same, I promise to restrain myself.”
“Raoul?” Christine asked, looking at her old friend, and he nodded tersely. For a moment she felt as though she was dealing with a pair of children instead of two grown men. “Thank you. Now, what are we to do about Monsieur Béringer?”
The ticking of the clock, that ormolu monstrosity from Erik’s music room under the Opera, was so loud in the resulting quiet that she was sure she could actually feel it. Erik drummed his fingers on the mantel, the sound sharp and staccato; Christine knew without asking that his mind was working a mile a minute, a conclusion supported a few moments later when he began to pace, long fluid strides taking him to the window and back. Raoul sat on the edge of the sofa, back ramrod straight and fingers curled tightly around the handle of his cup; Christine was sure his tea must be cold by now. She lifted the pot, offering him a refill; he jumped and blinked at her for a moment before holding out his saucer, the porcelain rattling slightly as his hand shook.
“I’m sorry, Christine,” he said quietly as she poured, casting Erik a sidelong glance. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come; I’ve no wish to bring down his anger upon you.”
“You won’t,” she assured him. “He’s not truly angry, just extremely vexed. Unfortunately it seems that the pair of you bring out the worst in one another. I should have realised that.”
“Still, knowing what he’s like... I’m not happy with the thought of leaving you here alone with him.”
Christine sat back and settled her skirts, trying not to swamp Bruno with fabric as he lay down and rested his head heavily on her feet. “I’ve been alone with him many times before, and I’m still here to tell the tale. Erik would never hurt me; sometimes I think he would have been satisfied if I allowed him to carry my bags and help me on with my slippers. You needn’t worry for me, Raoul; I made my choice and I stand by it. I’ve no regrets.”
Raoul nodded, and turned his attention to the spaniel. An involuntary smile touched his lips. “You seem to be a favourite there,” he remarked.
“Oh, this is Bruno,” Christine said, giving the little dog a pat. “Erik and I adopted him... or rather he adopted Erik. It would appear that he resents being sidelined in favour of whatever it is his master has been working on, hence his preference for my company.”
“I would not have imagined the Phantom with a dog.”
“You never imagined him with a home and gainful employment, either,” she countered, but before Raoul could respond the subject of their conversation lifted his chin from his chest and abandoned his perambulations.
“This journalist of yours, Christine,” he said, coming to stand on the hearthrug. Bruno got up and started pawing at his trouser-leg; absently Erik bent down to scratch him under the chin. “Is he trustworthy, do you think?”
Christine frowned. “I hardly know him, but yes, he seems so. He did not have to tell me about Béringer but he did.”
“What are you thinking?” asked Raoul. “How can another reporter help us?”
Erik ignored him. “You recall suggesting that we use the press to our advantage?”
“Yes, but that idea hardly turned out well,” Christine pointed out. It had been their capitulation to the press men outside the Opera that ultimately led to his beating at the hands of the gypsies; had they continued to say nothing and disregarded the questions their likenesses would never have appeared in La Monde and Grigore would not have been able to recognise Erik. Sitting at his bedside, eyes fixed on his battered face, she had cursed herself repeatedly for even making the suggestion. “Surely we don’t want to make the same mistake?”
“I have an idea,” Erik told her. “You urged me to then to tell the truth. What do you say to doing just that, and giving an interview to your Monsieur Tolbert?”
“You... Erik, how can we possibly tell him the truth?” she exclaimed, staring at him as though he had just informed her that he intended to run naked through the streets of Montmartre. “We will all be arrested! You might be - ” She broke off, unable to bring herself to say ‘executed’.
He shook his head, lifting a hand to stall her protests. “I have naturally considered that. However, I believe that there is much to be gained by yourself and the Vicomte telling your stories.”
“If we do so, you will definitely have an appointment to keep with Madame Guillotine,” muttered Raoul. When Erik glared at him he met the older man’s gaze defiantly. “Have you forgotten Joseph Buquet?”
“Buquet did not die by my hand,” Erik said in a tone that brooked no argument.
Typically, Raoul did not heed the warning. “Was it not your lasso they discovered wound around his neck when he plunged towards the stage and terrified those poor ballerinas?” he enquired.
“That does not mean I killed him. You would make a poor lawyer, de Chagny; a court needs a little thing called ‘evidence’ in order to prosecute,” Erik informed him coldly. “The inquest gave a verdict of accidental death; Buquet had been drinking heavily all evening.”
“You cannot prove that.”
“Maybe not, but I have the evidence of my own eyes. I was up on the catwalks throughout the performance and I watched him; I could also smell alcohol on his breath when he tried to attack me. And there was the post mortem: the pathologist’s opinion of the man’s liver made enlightening reading. But this is beside the point,” Erik said, waving away his rival’s objections. “Béringer is desperate to publish the truth about the Opera Ghost because he believes it will bring him the notoriety he craves; he has no intention of ceasing his ‘investigations’ until the whole story is revealed. But would his pretensions not be stopped in their tracks if a rival journalist was given unprecedented access to the key players in that very drama? Where would Béringer’s ambitions be if the very scandal he wishes to uncover was already out in the open?”
“Are you suggesting we tell the man everything? That we expose you as the Phantom?” Raoul asked incredulously, eyes wide.
“I am suggesting that you tell the truth, albeit without mentioning the Phantom’s identity. That there was a man with a dark obsession stalking Christine is not in doubt; he is standing here before you.” Erik bowed his head slightly. “However, there is no need to connect that man, consumed as he was with jealousy and hate, with Erik Claudin, chorus master of the Opera Populaire. You may tell your tale up to the performance of Don Juan Triumphant, when the Phantom, scared away by your ingenious plan, failed to make his appearance and Christine’s tutor took the stage instead.”
The Vicomte shook his head. “No, it would never work. The whole affair is too fantastic to be believed.”
“Then make it believable!” Exasperated, Erik ran a hand through his hair, adding to its already dishevelled appearance. “Use your imagination, limited though it may be. I thought the two of you used to sit in your parents’ attic during thunderstorms, telling one another lurid Scandinavian folk tales?”
“Good grief, is there nothing you haven’t told him?” Raoul demanded, rounding on Christine. She flapped a hand at him, thinking furiously. Could it work? It was a strange story to be sure, but the detail would be not in what they chose to put in, but what they left out...
“Well, Christine?” asked Erik. “What do you say?”
“I say...” Making a decision she looked up, chin tilted determinedly. “I say we give it a try.”
