Across the Bridge

"I do not believe it." Christine reaches for the newspaper from Raoul's hand, but he pulls it away too quickly. "Let me see."

"Now is that the way you speak to your beloved?"

Swallowing hard, she purses her lips, twisting her hands in front of her.

Despite the choice she made but three days, two nights ago, a sense of loss…of having made an enormous mistake fills her with the desire to turn back the clock.

"The bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn."

The silence of this manor house is like being inside a tomb. Instead of stone, however, everywhere she turned was heavy oak – doors, bookcases, tables and chairs – the overstuffed sofas upholstered with equally dark fabrics of green, brown and gold. The heaviness of the room is suffocating.

"Could we perhaps have our petite dejeuner in a room with a bit more sunlight?"

"Why?"

"Because it is morning and the sight of the garden cheers me."

"Do I not cheer you?"

"Of course…"

"Well, this is where the family eats breakfast," Raoul said with finality.

Today, the sense of being out of control of her life – trapped – grows even stronger. The words he spoke removed the sense of hope she is not aware she harbored until that moment.

The roiling of her empty stomach and tears threatening to flow only increase the smirk on his face as he waves the paper at her, only to be replaced by a look of mild disgust take as he takes note of her costume.

"I do wish you would wear one of the new gowns I purchased for you. The blue of this dress is becoming quite tiresome."

"I made this dress myself with new fabric, not just another turned hand-me-down," she says, smoothing the chambray paisley print she fell in love with, straightening the lace-edged peplum. The blue just the right shade, neither too light nor too dark – perfect for everyday wear with small accoutrements to alter the appearance. A white collar one day, cuffs the next. "You never complained before – it goes so well with my red scarf – remember?"

"That it does. Your handiwork is quite nice, of course, I just thought you might like to wear something different," he says to appease her. "What I do object to, however, is your attempt to redo that white…wedding gown I found you in…"

"Raoul, I seldom had many clothes, turning dresses is something I am quite familiar with – the fabric of the gown is new and quite fine and as you say, I am adept at sewing."

"Well, not to worry anymore about such things. I had the housekeeper remove what was left of it from your armoire. You shall have a new wedding gown – more glorious than anything you might make from those leftover scraps." The tone laden with finality, he says, "After we finish eating, I should like to see you in the pink gown I chose for you."

Never did she believe keeping the gown was a possibility, so Raoul's admitting he ordered its destruction. Taking the dress apart herself allowed her to save the fabric from the bow and bodice, along with the buttons and some of the lace trimmings which are now tucked in her carpet bag along with her sewing kit. Despite seldom seeing another soul in the house, her sense was she was being constantly watched – she hoped the housekeeper took no notice of a few missing yards of fabric when she removed the disassembled gown from her armoire.

"Very well," she concedes, exhausted from arguing with him. The insistence on him having his way seems to never end. When had he become so overbearing? When had she become so meek?

"Christine, Christine, don't think that I don't care – but every hope and every prayer rests on you now…"

Ah, yes…then. "May I see the paper now that I have agreed to change my dress?" she asks, forcing a lilt into her voice. "Your words have piqued my interest."

His smile was immediate. At one time the tilting of his full pink lips cheered her. Never before would she call his smile a smirk. Combined with the words he just expressed, however, the beautiful face…yes, he could definitely be called beautiful. The eyes of deepest blue, blond hair coiffed in perfect waves over his brow, a small mustache perched perfectly over the smile…smirk…sneer.

"See for yourself," he says, holding the newspaper out to her, pointing to the headline.

BODY OF OPERA GHOST RETRIEVED FROM SEINE

"No."

"He was a murderer and who knows what all, my dear," Raoul says.

"He let us go – there was no murder."

"Buquet? Piangi?"

"Buquet committed suicide – the police said so – the doctor said he was already dead when he fell from the flies."

"A little prank by the Opera Ghost?"

"I just know what Madame Giry told me. "A convenient accident he took advantage of. Many of the incidents were such, many caused by Buquet himself."

"Piangi then?"

"Piangi did not die," she retorts. "I am not forgiving his actions – he was becoming crazed – the ring…the engagement, but he did not kill."

"Still, he terrified everyone at the Opera House – I doubt anyone will grieve him. Except for you."

"The paper just says a body believed to be the Opera Ghost – the face was…oh, God." turning away from him, she grabs a linen napkin from the table to cover her mouth.

Taking the paper from her hands, he says, "Ah, yes, here is it is: the face was gone and a few fingers – eaten by fish, no doubt. A white porcelain mask was found nearby and the corpse was garbed in a black cloak gilded with an assortment of black gemstones," Raoul says. "Quite a costly piece of haberdashery."

"Shut up," Christine shouts. "Just shut up."

Raoul attempts to take her into his arms. "Oh, my dear, I am sorry. I really did not think this would upset you so. He was a monster. He tried to kill me. He kidnapped you."

"He was my tutor," she mutters. "He let us go."

BODY OF OPERA GHOST RETRIEVED FROM SEINE

Tossing a coin at the young boy hawking Le Petit Journal, he notes the drawing of a body being dragged along the rocks before opening the paper to scan the short article. At last. He wondered how long it would take those foolish police to find the body he left tucked in the embankment beneath the Pont Neuf. The man had been dead for at least a day, not more, rigor had passed, but the rot had not yet set in. The poor wretch was easy enough to move from the alley where he spent his last hours in the small cart borrowed from the opera house to accomplish just such a task. The back alleys of Paris were rife with these forgotten men. This man, however, would become famous, if only for a day or so.

The head placed just below the water line…a few cuts about the weathered face and hands would ensure the fish would make a positive identification difficult. The addition of one of his cloaks, sadly one of his favorites, but most well-known, a fedora and an older mask, randomly placed not far from the body, would lead to the assumption this was the infamous Opera Ghost…if one did not look too closely at the other garments.

No one would, of course, the police would be so pleased to find something so they could end their search, declare the demon dead and get on with their lives. Much ado about nothing. Just a crowd riled up by the arrogance and pride of a person of minor nobility and a major ego.

Whatever did Christine see in the boy? Well, she had him…or he had her. For a moment he believed she might stay, a kiss, then another…but better she left. What could he offer her now? Whatever Raoul de Chagny was as a human being, he was in possession of a home, a title and, he supposed, a certain love for his precious Angel.

The news of his death would certainly reach her, Raoul would see to that, and she could be entirely free of him. If she still thought of him…of possibly returning…that folly would be removed from her thoughts. For himself, the document would assure he will not be disappointed when she does not appear – seeking him out.

Why would she look for a dead man?

"Angel? Erik?" Christine whispers, slowly opening the door to the abandoned dressing room where she first met him, her Angel of Music. "Are you here? Please be here. I cannot bear the idea you are dead. That I caused your death."

The only illumination in the small room comes from the open door. Stepping inside, she finds the small oil lamp still sitting on her dressing table. After scratching a match stick against the roughened copper, she lights the wick. Checking the hallway, assuring herself no one has seen her, she closes the door and locks it behind her, pocketing the key.

The room appears unchanged since the last time she was here – the night she followed him through the mirror. The managers deemed the place off limits – haunted they called it. No one argued the point. Cobwebs took up the corners as if someone installed lace curtains to beautify the small room. The shawl from her debut lays draped over the back of the chaise, as she left it that night. The skirt from her costume hangs neatly on the dressing screen. Everything the same, yet oddly not.

Her heart catches at seeing Pappa's photograph is still on the dressing table. So much lost, but the silver framed image smiles at her, lifting her spirits. Sitting down on the chaise, she rubs her thumb across the glass. "Oh, Pappa, I have been so foolish," she sighs, relaxing for the first time in what seems like ages.

There is sense of peace here for her, and while so much appears the same, the room does not feel unused. The air itself, though vaguely musty, holds a scent – cinnamon and myrrh. His scent. Fragrances linger – she is well aware of that – long after people pass. A closed up room might be more likely to retain a smell – the De Chagny mansion a case in point. Except she was never aware of his scent until he took her to his home beneath the Palais. Except for the moment when the mirror opened, he was never a man…just her Angel of Music. Did angels wear cologne?

The thread of light coming from beneath the door is faint, yet definitely present. Despite his knowledge of every inch of the theater and the levels below, the haunted dressing room is where he found himself those few nights ago. With the mob filling the caverns beneath the theater, he avoided his usual routes – his home had been invaded, torn apart. Returning after a few hours, wearing a wig borrowed from wardrobe along with a workman's clothing, he re-entered the Garnier through the stage entrance. No one noticed as he walked to the dressing room as any human might – through the door. A safe place to settle until the turmoil died down and he could move on.

The beating of his heart dulls whatever logical thoughts he fights to form. Hope. Damn you, you little prying Pandora. Giving him hope and taking it away. Could it be. Could she have returned to look for a dead man after all?

Lightly testing the knob, finding the door locked, his breath catches in his throat. Closing his eyes, saying what some might consider a prayer, he removes a key from the pocket in his waistcoat and inserts it into the lock.