La Nuit Porte Conseil | An Erotic Story of the Phantom of the Opera

PART ONE

It had been six days. Six days of freedom––days without the Opera, days without her tutor.

Six days without music.

The emptiness of her days maddened her––six long, meaningless days, punctuated by the hounding questions of incessant journalists upon the doorstep of the de Chagny city-house, the changed, watchful eye of M. Giry, and the simpering apologies of her managers. Richard and Moncharmin! Such fools they were, pandering to her Vicomte, with false entreaties for her quick return to the stage.

Worst of all was Raoul. Dear, simple, sweet Raoul; Christine tried to remain patient with him and his well-intentioned protectiveness. His constant assurances concerning her safety aggravated her as much as they had once soothed her––he knew, as she knew, that the rumors of the Phantom's death were false. Now Raoul concocted him in every shadow, as if he laid in wait for his next chance at claiming Christine. How many times had her fiancé drawn his ridiculous pistol to threaten a breeze-shivered curtain, or frozen in speech to demand she stood behind him?

She knew Erik still terrorized Raoul's sleep––the servants whispers told her as much, though he would never admit to such a thing––and often he awoke sweating and gasping for air, with his fingers about his throat, as he cried out to Christine, to his lost brother, and even to that Persian fellow––

But none of this he shared with Christine. She had tried to speak to him about Philippe one morning as they sat together at the breakfast table, but as soon as she'd said his name Raoul had lowered his elbows to the table and carefully placed his silver upon his still-full plate. For a moment he sat, rigid and silent as a statue with his eyes closed––then he passed a palm over his face, stood, and exited the room without another word.

When she saw him again later that morning, he maintained his usual gay manner and behaved as if nothing had transpired at all.

And Christine never mentioned Philippe again.

Now Raoul insisted on accompanying her everywhere she went, forbidding her return to the Opera, and marrying her as soon as possible in the intention of moving her out to Chateau de Chagny in the south. He would hear nothing of her protestations. All of this, he claimed, was done only for her own protection.

Yet Christine knew she needed none. Erik would not seek her now. His final actions toward her, just six days ago, had revealed him. She had chosen him––accepted him––and still he turned her away. Still he set her free. Even Raoul would have nothing to fear from him now. It was Christine who had freed them both, in the end. Erik could never have claimed her love by force––he knew he had no right to demand it––even if a moment of passionate madness, of cruel weakness, had prompted him to try. Returned to himself, humbled by her sacrifice, he accepted her choice was hers alone. He had lost all dominion over her. She saw it cast upon the ruin of his face, his horrible face––

Six days. Six days of only her own voice in her head. Her own thoughts, turning each moment, each word, each painful glance from those tormented eyes over and over, over and over. Should she have done differently? Could she have, that night, as all she had come to know crumbled around her, and so violently?

How dare he make such demands of her! How could he think she would have chosen him, truly chosen him, after such a display?

Oh, he had terrified her! To threaten the murder of hundreds for her unwilling hand––what a mad thing to say! But that was all it was, was it not––a threat. Why should it seem so clear to her that he had no intention of doing as he'd claimed? When surely Raoul had believed it of him, and even the Persian, who spoke so very curiously, as if Erik were his friend...