by Colette Gale
He’d forgotten them; but even in the midst of that little embarrassment, he did not mind. For she was coming with him. “Of course, mademoiselle. Pure white roses, tipped with the blush of pink … only for you.”
If Christine’s other admirers were affronted at his sudden whisking away of the object of their affection, Raoul did not notice. He had a goddess on his arm, and he knew nothing else.
Even though it was a winter’s day, he wanted to take her outside…away from the dark busyness of the theater, away from the clamor of her other admirers. He settled her comfortably in his carriage, tucking fox- and rabbit-fur blankets about her legs and then wrapping the softest of ermines around her shoulders.
A fresh snow sparkled and would have blinded him if he’d not had his top-hat brim down low over his eyes. “Where shall we go?” he asked, turning to smile at her.
“Wherever you wish.”
He glanced at her as the carriage started off, the horse’s hooves clip-clopping smartly as they turned along the busy rue de la Paix. Her ivory cheeks had blossomed pink in the chill air, and even the tip of her perfect nose had reddened. He thought she looked delectable.
But while he was watching her, she was watching everything else. It occurred to him that she probably did not often have the luxury of taking a carriage ride through the streets of Paris. If she left the Opera House, it was likely rare, and on foot.
Raoul turned his attention to the rue and looked at it as she must see it, with its occasional closed carriages and caped men in tall hats driving them. Women and men walked along the brick streets too, both garbed in subdued, but fashionable, clothing for the messy winter months, holding umbrellas as they did in nearly every season—to protect them from sun, rain, or snow.
Raoul noticed the street vendors calling out to sell fromages and fruits and bread, dressed in clothing not much better than what Christine herself wore, and dodging a trio of scruffy dogs that bothered them underfoot.
When they turned along the Left Bank, the icy Seine lay unbroken in a long stretch of white. They were flanked on the other side by a rough wall that separated the street from the road, and the river. And then he saw the spidery, wrought-iron atrocity that was just beginning to take form on the riverfront ahead of them.
Christine must have heard his snort of disgust, for she turned her attention away from the sights to look at him. “You do not like this new tower that is being built?”
“Indeed not,” he replied. “Monsieur Eiffel will destroy the Parisian silhouette, with this tall, gangly monstrosity. I have seen drawings of what it will look like when it is finished, and I cannot believe the mayor has allowed such an affront to take place in our beautiful city.”
Christine gave him an innocent smile that eased some of his annoyance. “But it is for the celebration of the centenary of your Great Revolution. And there is no intention that they shall leave it standing after, is there?”
“I certainly hope not, but we will have to look at it for at least two more years. And you might recall that it was not my revolution,” he chided gently. “My family were some of the ones who lost more than our land during the Reign of Terror. But being Swedish, perhaps you are not as well versed in our history. At any rate,” he said, determined to steer the conversation away from such unpleasantness and toward something more personal, “I hope you aren’t angry with me for taking you away from your admirers.”
“No, of course not, Raoul. I am pleased that you would care to be seen with me in public.”
“Of course I do, Christine. I told you that I intend to court you.”
She looked away. “I know that’s what you said, but…well, that was last evening.”
“You think that I might have changed my mind overnight? When all I could think of last night was you?”
“I was not suggesting that you would have changed your mind, but that perhaps you might have had some assistance.”
“You speak of my brother, the one who himself had a widely known attachment to none other than La Sorelli.” Raoul laughed, but it felt hollow. He hadn’t spoken to Philippe yet, and although he had every intention of courting—and, if the truth be known, marrying—Christine Daaé, he acknowledged that it would likely take some convincing of his brother.
But he would do it. Philippe never denied him anything he truly wished; for he was twelve years older, and had always thought of Raoul as more of a son than a brother, since their mother had died when Raoul was born, and their father less than a decade later.
It was true, however, that Raoul did not like to think of angering or disappointing Philippe. That was why he’d gone to sea: to make something of himself that the comte would be proud of.
Christine didn’t reply, and they rode along in silence, broken only by the shouts of street vendors and the scrabbling of carriages along the cobbled street.
Raoul struggled to put his thoughts into words; he wanted to talk to her, to find out about her, to learn her…but one could not just suddenly delve into a woman’s life with personal questions. Yet, he felt almost as if he had earned the right to do so, all those years ago, that summer. After all, he wasn’t just a young man who’d suddenly noticed her glorious voice and lovely person…He’d known of it for years.
Perhaps he would start there. Where they’d left off. “I didn’t realize your father died that winter after our summer together. It must have been terrible for you.”
She nodded next to him. “It was the coldest winter I’d ever known. I felt frozen, Raoul. Numb and slow. He was all I had. Father and his music. And then suddenly, it was gone. It was worse than losing Mama, for I was so young and I barely remember her. But Papa…but you know. You lost your parents too.”
“Yes, but…well, it was different for me. I had my brother, who became like a father to me, and my two sisters, who were all so much older than I. And my mother’s sister, who raised me. Of course, I have her to thank for living in Brest, for that is how we came to be in Perros and how you and I met.” He flashed her a quick look. She had a sad smile on her face. She must be remembering.
“I had no one. No one except the Valeriuses, and they were wonderful to keep me on, but it wasn’t the same. For a long time, I didn’t want to even hear the violin. Do you still play?” she asked suddenly, taking him by surprise.
“I haven’t in many years, but I believe if I picked up the instrument, I would remember what your father taught me that summer, after I rescued your scarf.”
“Those were lovely days by the sea, with the gulls calling in the distance behind the notes you and father were practicing.”
He chuckled. “I would not have called them notes, Christine…I was only a passable player, not talented like your father. And you.”
There was another silence as he considered his next move. He needed to ask; he needed to know…but he was afraid. So at last, he tightened his fingers on the reins, looked straight ahead, and said, “Christine. How…how was it for you all these years in the Opera House? What I mean to say is…Sorelli and my brother have been together, and other singers and dancers have had protectors, and…I just wish to know…Have you been treated…well?”
When she didn’t respond, he gripped the reins tighter, but didn’t look at her. This was so much more difficult than steering a massive ship in a storm and planning and executing voyages and training for ship-to-ship attacks. There, one could learn one’s way with the lines and the sheets and the navigation, and even use the weather and myriad weapons.
But this was a woman, and she did not have a helm.
At last Christine spoke, her voice barely audible over the soft crunch of hooves on a portion of the rue that was still covered with snow. “I was lonely. I didn’t fit in with the other girls, because for a long time, I didn’t want to sing. I barely danced. When Papa died, I lost the music and I still don’t know how Professor Valerius convinced the conservatoire to take me. Perhaps because I was the daughter of the famous violinist, they believed I would rise to the occasion.”
“But you have, Christine. You did! You were magnificent last night.”
“Last night. Yes, I felt it. But there were many months and years where I didn’t belong and I didn’t believe I would ever have the chance to be…to be the beautiful lady, who stands onstage in the limelight, and garners all of the applause and admiration. I longed for it, Raoul…but it was out of my reach.”
“You have arrived there, Christine. No one will contest it now.” He wanted to reach over and take her hand from beneath those furs and press it to his lips, to comfort her. How he wished he’d been there during her lonely days.
“I made friends with one of the other dancers and Franco, a young Italian man who was brilliant at organizing the props docks. Franco and I…Raoul, he made me feel not so alone. We were clumsy and furtive, but we needed each other.”
Raoul swallowed. He’d hoped, but he really hadn’t believed she might have still been untouched, living in an environment such as the Opera House. “Did you love him?”
When she shrugged, the furs shifted and fell away, exposing her shoulder to the brisk wind. She busied herself, trying to pull the fox and rabbit skins back up over her as she answered. “I don’t know. But whatever it was, it did not last long, for he soon had his attention caught by one of the older chorus girls, and they ran off to join the theater in Marseilles.”
“And after Franco?”
“Does it matter so much to you, Raoul? Will my answer change anything?”
“No.” It was true.
“Then why ask it?”
“Because I want to know that your life wasn’t as hard as I think it was; while I was raised in a world of luxury and comfort, I don’t want to believe that you were lonely and afraid or…or mistreated. All those times I thought of you—and I did think of you, Christine, I truly did.”
“Thank you, Raoul. It’s nice to know that perhaps I wasn’t as alone as I thought I was. And…to answer your question, no, I did not seek out a protector. Nor did one seek me out. I was too shy, and not talented enough. I didn’t attract their attention, and I was rather glad I did not. And it seemed so…false. Practical, perhaps, but false.”
“I’m selfish, but I am glad.”
“I was lonely. I was surrounded by people all the time, but I was alone. I don’t know if I shall ever find my place.”
“You will, Christine. You will. With me.”
Then she looked at him. “That’s what I love about you, Raoul. You’re a good listener. You help me to put into words things that I didn’t realize I felt until I spoke them.”
But he didn’t want to be just a good listener, just a friend. He wanted all of her.
And he would have it. All of her.
~*~
Erik dreamt.
He dreamt of her, of her long, swirling dark hair, cloaking him…of the slender warmth of her body, lining his own, tangling with his limbs.
Of her luscious mouth, red and full, smiling, pouting, coming to him, closing over him…of her delicate fingers, narrow and creamy in the dark hair of his body…of driving into her, filling her, joining with her…loving her.
Loving her.
Of her laughing, singing, dancing…even of eating, of mundane things such as dressing her hair and buttoning her gown.
He dreamt of Christine onstage, singing for him, only for him, her blue eyes lifted to his box and her whole being centered on him, on pleasing him.
Of waking next to her.
Of walking boldly into the Opera House to take his seat in the front of the stalls.
Of pushing through the throngs of admirers outside her dressing room door, carrying an impossible armful of lilies.
Of driving with her along the Seine, in an open carriage.
And then the dreams changed…from a warm, sun-filled day to a dark, cold emptiness. To pain, searing pain, and scratchy wool coverings and iron chains. To the shrieks and cries and jeers, and the running. Always, the running, and running, and running.
Down dark hallways, through moon-glistening streets, into deep, dank tunnels and underground rivers. With the echoes of life above, permanently exorcised from his own. He could not draw in enough breath; he could not gasp in enough air…He rounded the corner of the never-ending tunnel… .
And saw Christine, hanging on the wall, the black and gray and evil blue stone wall, her arms spread, her legs apart, her body white and naked against the dark.
He couldn’t get to her…couldn’t reach her…He kept running toward her, running and stumbling and running, but he could not reach her…
And then strong hands pulled on him, captured him…held his muscular arms; something hard crashed against the backs of his knees, sending him crumpling. His legs bound, his arms chained, he was thrown to the floor. The cold, wet, dark floor.
You’ll never have her, scuttling rat.
You bury yourself in the dark, and yearn for what you will never have. She will never look on the likes of you, no matter that she spreads her legs when you force her. She’ll not spread ‘em for your cock.
As Buquet’s taunting words echoed in his mind, reverberating in the cavern of his dreams, Erik struggled against his bonds. He had to reach her … to get to Christine…
But then…she was not alone.
Hands reached out, covering her breasts, and someone bent to her throat, his shadowy shape obstructing Erik’s vision from his miserable position on the stone floor. She moaned and closed her eyes, tipping her head back, baring her long, creamy neck.
The man played with her breasts, fingered her nipples, bent to suck loudly on one as Erik was forced to watch. Her hips were moving; she was making soft huffing sounds from full parted lips; she shivered and shifted and moaned as the man sucked on her beautiful breast, leaving it red and moist from his lips.
Erik could see every texture of her ruched-up areola under the thick fingers of the man who manipulated it…the jutting red point, the gentle pink wrinkles. It was as if it filled his vision; then the close view of the man’s lips, closing over the nipple. Greedy, they sucked, pulling it into the circle as the white flesh around it trembled and shook.
She cried out when the man moved, his hand fingering the black thatch between her legs. Erik saw it then, the red, swollen sex that he would die for…the slick, warm velvet of Christine…She bumped and moved and cried and Erik struggled again to pull himself loose and go to her…The man’s head bent there; Erik could see only the back of it as it moved, as he licked and sucked and tasted her.
She thrashed against the manacles that held her spread-eagled, her head rolling from side to side, her breasts, now free from questing fingers, bouncing and jiggling. She cried out, cried and struggled, begging…and the man pulled away.
He turned, and Erik saw the familiar face of his brother, glistening with Christine. His lips, full and red, dripped with her and he smiled. Mocking. Taunting.
“Don’t frighten the girls, Erik. They cannot stand your touch. Hear them scream?”
She spreads her legs when you force her. She’ll not spread ’em for your cock.
“But she’ll take mine,” his brother said to Erik. “She’ll take mine.”
He turned back to Christine, suddenly naked with her, and somehow her arms were around him as he drove into her. Then Erik could see the cock as though he were next to it, working in and out of her swollen sex, in and out, in and out, the rhythm pulsing within him, his own need building in agony.
Then he saw them from a distance again, writhing, twined, against the wall, Christine’s arms around him, her face tilted up, her eyes closed in deep pleasure. She cried out, cried her release, scoring her nails down the man’s back, and Erik felt her shudders as though it were he buried inside her…
And he woke.
Panting, sweating, naked, and tangled. His cock screaming with pain, jutting toward the ceiling. His heart racing, his hands clenched.
His unmasked face wet with tears.
Christine.
“O
h, Christine,” he cried softly, bringing his hands to his face. One side, smooth but for the stubble that edged his jaw…the other, rough and textured as the bark of a tree.
How he loved her.
He wanted her, yes, but he loved her.
He had grown to love her. Watching her, seeing the same loneliness in her face that would be etched in his own…if he had the courage to look at it.
Listening to her music—music that he pulled forth from her, music that they created together.
But she could never love him, deformed and defective as he was. He dared not let her see him, barely allowed her to touch him, though his body craved it. Trembled for it.
Oh, he had hope, buried so deeply inside him that he rarely let it out. Perhaps someday she would love him for himself, in spite of his face. In spite of his past.
From that first morning he’d watched her sing alone on the stage, months ago, Erik had been fascinated. Who knew why Christine should have touched him so, that first day? But she had.
After that, he’d watched her. Lurked. Loitered. Saw that she was not like the other girls—not like many of them, anyway.
There was a purity about her, and a shy goodness. A tolerance. She was kind to the door closer, the lowest of low on the hierarchy of the opera personnel, who had the club foot. Instead of ignoring the half-blind man who worked in the cellars below the stage, she greeted him. And he learned to recognize her voice.
She shared her meager meal of Red Egg and garlic sausage with one of the younger, smaller dancers, who obviously was in need of extra nourishment. She even gave one of her hair ribbons—a lovely scarlet one—to an ouvreuse for her daughter’s new baby.
Perhaps that was part of the reason he’d fallen in love with her. Certainly, if it were just for her beauty and her singing voice, there were others who’d passed their way through the Opera House. Carlotta had once even been less jaded, more innocent. Beautiful.
But neither she nor anyone else had ever touched Erik’s heart and soul the way Christine Daaé had. Lonely, sad, magnificent Christine.
And now…anger churned inside him. She was dining and associating with Raoul de Chagny and his brother, the comte.