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Do I Dream Again?	By : LaurieBaker Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 10050 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Walking along the graveyard in Perros-Guirec, Christine shivered in the brisk cold, clutching her long blue cape about her shoulders tightly. She had forgotten how chilly it could be in this place, even in the spring. It was always colder here than in Paris due to the wind blowing from the sea. As usual, she felt the familiar stirrings of her heart as she walked about the familiar scenery. Although finances would be tight, she could not forsake her visit to her father’s grave this year. Sending notes to all of her students, she impulsively made her trip to Perros earlier than she had expected to.

Was it the mournful strains of Mr. Tomkins’ violin that made her so melancholy, yearning for the ghosts of her past?

Falling onto her knees upon the damp grass, she knelt before the Daae family mausoleum, praying for her father’s voice...praying for her Angel’s voice...

“Angel of Music, hide no longer, come to me, Strange Angel,” she whispered, trying to will his presence to her.

But there was no sound, save the wind whistling at her ears...

Of course, her Angel would not magically appear before her this time. There was no Angel, merely a man. He was no ethereal friend and teacher, but a murderer buried in the catacombs of the Garnier Opera House with not even so much as an unmarked grave. Why could she not just accept that?

How much grief could the human heart survive, mourning for two men rather than just one? Perhaps she should no longer come here. Would her father forgive her? Would her Angel understand?

“I thought I might find you here...”

Christine whirled around in fright, startled at the voice which burst out from the eerie quiet.

Raoul de Chagny stood behind her by an oak tree, his horse waiting just outside of the cemetery. Dressed impeccably in a thick overcoat with leather boots, he was every bit the handsome savior as ever with his blond curls blowing all about in the gusty breezes.

“Raoul,” Christine nodded awkwardly, uncertain of what to say under these circumstances. She tried to hide her dismay at the sight of him. This meeting could come to nothing but discomfort for the both of them.

“I had hoped to find you here today...on the anniversary of your father’s death...”

Raoul smiled at her gently with such hope and a desperate attempt of understanding in his deep blue eyes. Even when she knew she did not want to be his wife, her heart still broke at the sight of him. She turned away from him abruptly, not wanting to hear his words of friendship and comfort, not wanting to face his look of remorse and accusation which would inevitably follow when she would tell him that nothing had changed. Funny how that girl who had fancied herself so in love with him ceased to exist any longer. Had grief really transformed her so much?

“Come back to me, Christine. Please...”

Christine shook her head sadly, steeling her resolve against him.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Raoul,” she said softly. “Please let us part with dignity. Do not force me to say things which will only hurt you. It is over between us.”

“Why?” he pleaded, his voice breaking as he whirled her about, gripping at her shoulders. “Why? Have I done something wrong? Whatever it is, please give me a chance...”

“It is not you, Raoul,” she interrupted, hoping that he would listen to her. “It is me. I am not a fit wife for you nor am I ready for marriage. Please understand that I gave my decision a lot of thought. I just feel that we are too different, that I am not the sort of woman you really need for a wife.”

“You are what I need!” he answered back. “You are the only woman for me! How can you possibly doubt that?”

“Raoul, what do we have in common besides our past?” she proclaimed sadly, trying to reason with him. “We were childhood friends. And we shall always have our beautiful memories of those days to look back on. But that is not enough to make a successful marriage. As you know, Raoul, my Catholic faith would never allow me to divorce. And I fear that if I married you, we might somehow grow disappointed in each other.”

“This is such nonsense!” he snapped, petulance seeping into his well-cultured voice. “There are very happy long-lived marriages between people far less suited than we are. And together we shall make new memories.”

Christine said nothing, resenting him for taking time away from her visit with her father, hating him for making her feel so guilty and uncomfortable. But most of all, she disliked how he seemed to not take her words seriously. Always, he treated her like a child, belittling her own judgments and feelings. Could she really live the rest of her life with such a man?

“You never talked this way before,” he continued. “Remember the days of our engagement? I do not recall your hesitation during those days. You were too busy dining with me in fine restaurants and dancing the night away. What happened to that fun-loving girl?”

“She grew up.”

Christine’s answer was entirely too simplistic for the complexity of her emotions during the turbulent months of their engagement. The fact of the matter was that no matter how many fine experiences she had with Raoul, she was always looking for a mask. She was always waiting to find a black-ribboned red rose strewn in her path. She always felt those pained eyes burning into her. And she yearned to see the masked man again, even when she knew that he had committed murder. And she knew that she was wrong to feel that way. She knew that she had to force her fallen Angel out of her memory and heart. And so she whirled about gaily with the Vicomte in ballrooms. She ate as much as she could in the fine restaurants. She smiled with pleasure as they rode about in Raoul’s carriage with the fine horses. And she relished the envious glances of the other women who peered her way while she held Raoul’s arm possessively. But how much of it was simply going through the motions, trying to convince herself that she was the luckiest woman alive? If she was happy, no ghost could haunt her.

“Running away on your own on a mad dash to God knows where is hardly a sign of maturity, Christine,” Raoul lectured. “And without so much as even a note saying goodbye. What a cowardly thing to do! You had me worried sick. Believe me, I combed Paris looking for you. I went to Mamma Valerius. I inquired everyone at the Paris Opera House. All to no avail! This was the very last hope I had...to find you here. And thank heaven that I did! You have been away for over two months now. Don’t you think it is time to come home now, my love?”

The thought of returning to Paris made her shiver with revulsion. True, her life in London was a hard and lonely one. Yet she could at least walk the streets without stares of pity and condemnation in strangers’ eyes. And she found that she quite enjoyed living life on her own terms for the first time. She did not need the approval of her father, Madame Giry, the Angel or Raoul. There was something splendidly freeing about it.

“Paris is no longer my home, Raoul. I am sorry that you are hurt, but my mind is made up.”

“Of course, Paris is your home,” he said, ignoring her protests. “Where else would you go? How else will you live?”

Remembering the large amount of money in her possession, courtesy of Lucille de Chagny, Christine knew that she would not inform Raoul of his sister’s duplicitous actions. She did not desire to cause animosity within his family. She just wished that he would leave her alone and in peace.

“You need a woman with a title,” she said, remembering all too well the smug look on Lucille’s face as she blithely handed her a cheque, enabling her escape. “Someone that your family will not be ashamed of.”

“I do not give a damn what my family thinks of you!”

“Well, I do, Raoul! I do not want them all polite and smiling at me in your presence, only to have them glare at me accusingly when you are gone. If we were to have offspring, I would not want my children to witness their mother being held in such disrespect by their own blood relatives. True, I never had much in a way of a family as I grew up. Yet my father and Mamma Valerius always loved me...”

“I love you, Christine,” Raoul insisted. “Is that what this has all been about? I shall talk to them.”

“It wouldn’t matter,” she answered. “Always they would think me unworthy of you. They would never think on me as the Vicomtess de Chagny, but as that chorus girl of the Opera Populaire who was promoted to an opera star by way of the Phantom of the Opera. That is what they will always whisper when they see me, Raoul. And that is indeed who I am.”

The silence between them was dark and imposing.

“At last, we get to the truth of the matter,” he said coldly, all sweetness now having dissolved from his voice. “I was wondering how long it would take before we would get to the real issue at hand. This is his doing, isn’t it You’re with him again, aren’t you? Is he here now waiting to attack me?”

Looking about, Raoul reached for his sword, obviously preparing for yet another fight.

“Don’t be a fool, Raoul!” Christine shouted at him angrily. “He is dead! Let him at least rest in peace with some dignity, please!”

“Does a murdering creature like that deserve dignity, Christine? Did Joseph Buquet die with dignity, being hung from the catwalk at the opera for all of Paris to see? Did Piangi die with dignity by merely doing his job and being at the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“No, of course not,” she answered. “Of course they died horribly. Do you think a day does not go by that I do not grieve for them and their fate, knowing I was indirectly responsible?”

“You were not responsible at all, Christine!” Raoul raged. “He was! That Phantom or Angel or whatever he was...that man...Erik...”

“True, but he had suffered so. You know that, Raoul. All of his life was suffering.”

“Suffering is no excuse to murder!” Raoul’s face turned red with suppressed hatred of his nemesis. “Why do you always make excuses for him? Why do you take on the burden of his own crimes upon yourself? If I didn’t know better, I’d think that maybe you...”

Then Raoul’s grew silent and pale as the realization struck. As he looked at her incredulously, he must have read the truth in her eyes. His eyes darkened with misery and pain.

“Did you ever care for me, Christine?” he asked quietly, barely able to hold back the tears in his voice. “Or was I just a convenient escape hatch? I thought I was rescuing you from a cravenly beast who had forced his unwanted attentions upon you. But now I wonder! Perhaps you really loved him all along but were too much of a coward to face it!”

Christine did not know if what he said was accurate, but she could not deny his statements either. He took her silence for agreement.

“Yes, you cared about that poor creature all along, didn’t you?” he raved. “And more than just as a teacher or a friend. After all, why did you want to keep our engagement a secret? You were afraid of what he would think! You were of afraid what he would do! And in his final living moments, when you chose to be his wife...Oh, trussed up and trapped as I was, do not think for one moment that I was blind to the way that you so passionately kissed him! That was no kiss of an unwilling woman, resigned to face her doom with a blackmailing monster. That was the kiss of an eager bride if ever there was one! Will you deny that, Christine? Will you?”

Again, Christine said nothing, merely bowing her head sadly. She would be damned if she would expose the secrets of her soul to him, even if his accusations were true.

“You could have been a Vicomtess!” he cursed furiously. “You could have been my wife! Yet you choose to spurn me for your ghostly killer. It doesn’t even matter if he is alive or not. Even from the grave, he owns you. I suppose my family was right all along. You are...unworthy of me...”

Christine flinched as his words struck at her like stones, leaving her wounded and bloodied. And yet, she felt glad to hear them for somehow she knew that they had been there underneath the surface. She knew that Raoul was lashing out at her in pain, but she could not help but think that her Angel had never said anything as cruel as that to her. The masked man had only wanted to help her find the best in herself. Never had he insulted her for who she was. Never had he made her ashamed of her birthright. Indeed, he was if anything an affirmation of her own heritage, sharing with her the passions that she had loved since she was a little girl.

Tears rolled down her eyes as she heard Raoul turn from her and walk away, climbing onto his horse to gallop away from her as fast as he could. But she did not think she was crying for her former fiancé. She was crying for the past...for having her eyes opened too late...much too late...

Was he right? Had she really loved Erik all along?

The tears turned to sobs. What did it matter now?

Having completely lost whatever sense of comfort she was hoping to find in Perros-Guirec, Christine resolved to her new home in London.

“Goodbye, Father,” she whispered, kissing her fingers and placing them upon the cold stone of the mausoleum. “I love you and you are always in my heart.”

And then she closed her eyes, picturing the masked face of the man that haunted her dreams and nightmares.

“Wherever you are,” she whispered. “Goodbye, Erik...”

The unfamiliar name felt strange upon Christine’s lips as she bid her ghost farewell...
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Do I Dream Again?