Her Innocence || Phantom of the Opera

Chapter Twelve

Christine POV:

I had to see Erik and to inform him of the news. After a long conversation with Meg about nothing specific, I excused myself from the room. Meg left also, and went to find her mother somewhere in the rather large apartment.

Raoul was in the library across the hall, reading the newspaper. I gracefully sat next to him on the leather couch and waited for him to finish the article he was looking over.

"Did you know," he asked a few seconds later, "that there are plans to build another opera house close by?" I looked across the room towards an open window before I answered.

"Yes, I heard the news from Meg." He nodded and before he could go back to reading, I added on, "Darling, I was wondering if I could go shopping later on for an evening dress?" He looked up and folded the paper across his lap.

"Why, of course! I'll have a carriage waiting for us by noon." I hesitated.

"Raoul, I was hoping I could go," I sighed, "by myself." He seemed like I had just lost my mind and crushed his eyebrows together in uncertainty.

"But, Christine," he started, "aren't you afraid of being-" I stopped him with my outreached hand.

"No, Raoul, I'm not scared of Paris. I wasn't hurt or anything when you couldn't find me, I just somehow lost track of time in the Opera House." I paused, hoping he didn't catch the lie. He didn't. He sighed and finally gave in to my request.

By noon, I was outside with the carriage-a new driver this time who had actually shown his face-and headed back towards town and the Opera Populaire. I first asked the driver to take me to a small marketplace; I hadn't lied to my husband when I told him I needed a new dress. After purchasing a red, elegant house dress for a few francs, I headed back outside.

I was prepared to get back into the carriage, but found it occupied by a completely different person. My last driver, a short and plump fellow, had been replaced with the tall, mysterious man from our first carriage ride. I hesitated, but eventually climbed back on. Under his huge, black cloak, I could sense a lingering familiarization. I asked the stranger to pull down the hood from his head.

Just as the horses crossed back into traffic and headed in the direction of the Opera House, he whispered in a deep voice, "I'd rather not, Mademoiselle." I left the subject alone until we reached the grand Populaire.

This was no stranger driving the cart, and I realized it as soon as it stopped across the street from the opera's front steps.

I had never instructed him to take me here.