Across the Bridge – Chapter 2

Odd. The door opens with a soft push. No need for the key he holds ready to place in the lock on the heavy oak door.

"Christine?" Raoul says, fully opening the door to the room Christine was napping in…or so he expected.

"I should like to be alone for a bit…to rest, Raoul. While you may not be upset about Erik's death, I am."

"Erik? So he had a name?"

"Everyone has a name, Raoul, even beggars on the street have names someone bestowed upon them at birth, however they might live now."

"Of course, silly of me," he said. "I never heard you refer to him by name is all. So…Erik? No surname?"

"That is what he told me to call him – a surname did not seem relevant."

"Surnames are always relevant – a surname gives you some idea about a person's beginnings…what sort of family they rise from."

"Like Chagny?"

"Well, yes, like Chagny. One would know much about me based on my family name."

"Not enough, I fear," head lowered, she murmured sotto voce. Lifting her chin, she offered him a pallid smile. "I am sorry I did not ask him. Alas, it no longer matters does it?"

"I suppose not, however, it would have been interesting to know – just out of pure curiosity."

Arms folded, her left foot tapping the heavy woolen carpet, she says, "I really am weary."

"Well, I need some air…I should like to speak with the inspector. Newspapers often make errors."

"Do what you need to do," she said, walking to her lavatory.

After waiting a moment, certain he is out of her sight, he left, turning the key in the lock, pocketing it.

The room was one of the smaller guest suites – nothing grand, a small bed with a tufted headboard, an armoire larger than most to contain the dresses and gowns purchased for her, a vanity with a small mirror.

Instead of his beloved, lying on the bed is the frothy pink dress he asked…insisted she wear earlier. The new gray pumps, sit next to the bed, the white silk stockings, rolled carefully, are tucked one into each shoe. The velvet hair ribbon, recently securing her copper-tinted curls, lays on the vanity next to the double-strand pearl necklace.

"Christine?" he calls out once again, knocking lightly on the door to the lavatory…with no response. "Damnation."

Despite knowing what he will find…or rather, will not find…he goes to the armoire and throws the doors open. No blue dress, no blue cape, no red scarf. Her carpetbag gone as well. Moving to the vanity, pulling the drawer so hard it comes free from the dresser – sending a few miscellaneous items flying across the floor. No sewing kit, however. Her precious sewing kit. The gift from her precious father is gone. Whatever else is missing, he cannot say. Those things do not matter.

Raoul storms from the room to the balustrade at the top of the landing. Gripping the banister to maintain his balance as he runs down the carpeted stairs, his soles of his shoes slipping every few steps. "Heloise! Francois!"

The maid appears at the bottom of the stairs just ahead of the butler.

"Monsieur Vicomte, are you all right," the petite, dark-haired young woman asks, holding out her arms to keep him from falling.

"Where is she?," he demands, brushing her away. "I told you to watch her…watch over her."

"I-I left her in the garden, M. le Vicomte," she replies, stepping back, looking to the butler, her dark brown eyes wide.

"Why would she be in the garden?"

"Mlle. Christine rang for me," Heloise gulps. "When I went to her room and knocked, she said the door was locked the door and she could not find a key."

"She has no key."

Taken aback, the maid lowers her head and steps back. "Oh, dear, I did not know. I…"

"M. Vicomte, Heloise came to me to ask for assistance in opening the door, which I did," Francois says, lifting his shoulders to display his full height, half a head taller than his master. With two steps forward, he places himself just in front of the young woman. "Le Comte Phillippe, and your father as well, always insisted our guests be personally given keys to their bedrooms in the event of fire. I take full responsibility for the grave error and apologized to the lady and now to you." The face of tenured head servant is unreadable. "I opened the door without concern and gave the mademoiselle another key – I was certain you would approve."

"Of course, of course," Raoul mumbles. "I suppose I took her key by mistake when I left her, thinking I was in my own room."

"Of course, sir." The butler nods, his thin lips feigning a smile. "Heloise, perhaps you might explain where Mlle. Christine is right now."

"In the garden, I would imagine. She said she would like to see the grounds – it was such a lovely day and hoped to walk about outside for a while."

"You escorted her?"

Heloise frowns and looks to Francois. "I hope I did nothing wrong, I simply gave her directions. She wanted to change her frock first – did not wish to dirty the new dress, so I left her and returned to my other chores."

"So, you did not see her after that?"

"Oh, but I did – I saw her through the window of the drawing room," the maid says, relaxing. "She seemed quite taken with the rose bushes – the one with the deep red blooms in particular. Smiling she was. She has quite a lovely smile."

"Would you like me to fetch her for you, sir?" Francois asks.

"No, I am quite capable of doing that myself," Raoul says, chewing on his thumbnail.

"Shall I ask cook to prepare for dinner then?"

"No. I shall retrieve Mademoiselle, we shall visit a café for dinner," Raoul says, wiping his face with a handkerchief. "I suspect she is weary of being couped up in the house. Must have frightened her to be accidently locked in her room."

"Yes, sir. Is there anything else?"

"No – return to your duties, both of you," he says. "We might be quite late, so do not wait up."

"Where is she?"

Madame Giry steps back from the door, balancing herself on her staff, allowing Raoul to push past her into the small sitting room.

Despite the deep green papered walls – two tall windows allow enough light to enter to reflect off a sizeable collection of crystal displayed in two hutches and several mirrors of different shapes and sizes hung on each wall in a haphazard, yet artistic display. The davenport and a small occasional chair upholstered in sage and gold brocade lighten what might otherwise be yet another dreary apartment. The usual housing for the dancers and singers from the Garnier and other Parisian theaters. A small cooking area and what appears to be another room behind a door covered with the same drapery as the windows complete the floorplan. Hardly space for one, but the Girys shared the space with Christine after her father died.

"Do you mean Meg?" Adele asks, closing the door behind the two of them. "She is fetching our dinner. Some bread and whatever vegetables the green grocer could not sell."

"You know very well who I mean."

"Did you lose someone again, Vicomte?" Adele returns to her place on the couch, indicating Raoul take the smaller chair.

"Very funny."

"I take it Christine has gone missing," the former prima ballerina sniffs. Nudging the newspaper sitting on the coffee table with her toe, she says, "I assume you made his death known to her. Cannot blame the opera ghost anymore for stealing her affections. It would seem the girl does not care for you. Too bad you did not see this sooner, might have saved all of us a great deal of grief."

"So, she is not here?"

"Feel free to search," she snickers. "Christine! Do come out from under the bed – your young noble has come to take you to home – or at least to dinner – a better one than I can offer, I assure you."

"Stale bread and rotten vegetables?"

"Not necessarily rotten. A few carrots, a turnip, onion and garlic make a nice broth. Adding a bone not gone bad, you have a decent supper. You are actually fortunate you came tonight, we shall be relocating from this flat soon. Had you come on another day, we would be gone."

"Why?"

"You really are a dolt."

"The monster?"

"Betraying the monster because I trusted you, silly me. When was the last time I trusted a patron? Meg's father I believe it was. One would I think I might have learned."

"You still have your job – I made certain of that," he says, "Meg as well. I do not understand your anger."

"The major part of my job was to control people because they were afraid of me…partly due to my…um…assumed relationship to the Phantom. No Phantom. No fear. No job." Her laugh is bitter. "That does not include the police who still believed…at least until today…I was harboring him."

"Were you? Harboring him?"

"Of course. He hid under the bed with Christine," she snaps. "Do you really think he would trust me after both Meg and I betrayed him to you?" Bracing herself with her cane, she stands up and walks to the window. "No. I have not seen him since I told you where to find his house. The mob followed her and destroyed everything. Meg found a mask and managed to hide it from them." She nods her head toward one of the china cabinets. "What a glorious victory for you."

Standing up, he pulls out a black silk purse from his coat pocket. Removing a number of gold coins, he places them on the coffee table. "I am not a bad man, Madame," he says. "I only wanted everyone, particularly Christine, to be safe."

"We were all safe before you interfered in our lives, Monsieur," she says turning to him, taking note of the money on the table with a quirked brow. "I would refuse your money, but at the moment my need for shelter and food is greater than my pride."

"If Christine contacts you…"

Adele shakes her head.

"Do you know where she might go?"

"Obviously away from you," Adele says. "Whatever did you do to her she would run away?"

"I wanted to keep her safe to protect her."

"Yes, that is what you said."

"Well, I suppose I should go," he says. "I am sorry…I never intended..."

Adele's black eyes reflect nothing.

Offering a short bow, he clicks his heels in farewell. Before he can reach the door, Meg enters, backing in, her arms occupied with a large net bag she kicks the door shut. Pushing past him, she drops the parcel on the counter next to the sink in their cooking area. "What are you doing here?"

"I, um, was wondering if Christine came to call," he says.

Meg's laugh is harsh. "So she has left you already?"

Clearing his throat, he says, "Not at all. Her maid said she took a walk. I was simply concerned she might get lost and thought to accompany her home."

"Hmmm."

"Well, I shall not bother you any further," he says. Opening his coin purse again, he pulls out another two coins and places them on the table, next to the groceries. "Good-bye, then."

Once the door closes, Meg says, "Only three days and she has left him already."

"I would assume so."

"What did you tell him?"

"Since I know nothing, I said nothing," Adele says, eyeing the bag. "Did the kohl on your eyes help in filling the bag. If you were trying to look seductive, you failed. Your lip rouge is smeared."

"Is it?" Eyeing herself in the mirror above the sink. Unlike the decorative mirrors on the wall, the glass is a plain rectangle, a gas lamp placed directly above for daily hygiene and applying make-up. "I do look terrible." With that she runs the water and briskly washes her face with the bar of castile soap. After drying her face with a linen towel, she turns to her mother. "Actually it did…help, but not in the way you are thinking."

"How do you know what I am thinking?"

"Oh, Maman, really, I am not a little girl anymore – as you well know. However, I wanted more for supper than finding food in trash bins." Picking up the two gold francs, Meg grins. "Most generous."

"There are more on the table. Guilt is a great motivator." Adele indicates the coins sitting next to the newspaper. "What is in the bag?"

Emptying her parcel on the table, she recites the contents. "A turnip, two carrots, a handful of haricots-verts, an onion, as well as some chunks of beef round with a small bone – so stew instead of soup. For tomorrow's breakfast a baguette, a quarter round of cheese, two eggs…and some apples and chocolates."

"A veritable bounty." Adele raises her eyebrows.

"I met an old friend."

"How old and how good a friend?"

"Well, not exactly a friend – the man who wears the odd hat – the Persian," Meg says, cutting one of the apples in quarters, offering one to her mother and taking a bite of another herself. "He told me to pick what I wanted, paid for everything, then told me to go home and wash my face," she laughs.

"Nadir Khan."

"Is that his name?" she says, "He said he did not quite recognize me with all the paint, but always enjoys my dancing."

"An honest man."

"Odd I have never seen him around here before."

Adele shrugs as she bites into her apple, wiping the juice from her chin with the back of her hand. "Hand me a serviette, please…and a chocolate."

"No candy until after supper," Megs says, handing her the napkin. "Do you think Christine found Erik?"

"I could not say, but they do seem to be drawn to one another."

"So you do not believe he is dead?"

"Do you?"

"I suppose not."

"Then why would Christine?"

A chill runs down her spine at the sound of the key in the lock. Erik is dead – the newspaper said so. Who then is at the door? The lamp. Jumping up, she blows out the small flame, then kneels behind the chaise, watching the door. How foolish to think she could be safe here. Of course the light would be noticed in the darkened hallway. Someone must have seen her – contacted Raoul.

The beating of her heart quickens as the door opens. A man ducks inside, his image blending quickly into the darkness . A click tells her the door has been locked behind him.

"Christine?" The voice is unmistakable.

"Angel?"