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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- 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.

Chapter List
- 18
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Chapter 19:

A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews, they are wonderful, encouraging, and fabulous in every way imaginable! Now, this chapter is a little more violent in parts, as I am now starting to the take the story in the direction that I had originally planned it to go. This is mainly a relationship-centered piece, but there must be some twists and turns along the way to make things difficult for our favourite star-crossed lovers.

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The dark London night was alive with masculine shouts of victory and defeat as thick white cigar smoke drifted around the room. A lot of well-dressed, well-to-do gentlemen wafted through the thick haze of foggy air to watch their friends and foes suffer and cheer as fortunes were lost or gained with the unveiling of the cards.

A male right of passage was the game hall. A place where men could be men, free from the confines of polite society and their flitting, fawning wives and lovers. A place to loosen one’s cravat and inhale blue-tinged smoke with undisguised glee.

Glasses clinked, liquid was poured, fists hit tables, and guffaws emanated from a menagerie of red-faced aristocrats, all of whom sought to embellish upon their already substantial incomes by coyly and expertly wrangling money from their fellow gamblers.

Raoul had only partaken in gambling once before, when he was briefly a member of the French navy. He was not very good at it, but skill aside, had no real passion for cards. He grew bored rather quickly, always feeling impatient as the minutes turned to hours as the somber faces of his shipmates turned serious with worry. There was no greater time of overwhelming masculine presence then there was in the navy, but the refreshing, carefree nature of young and rambunctious Frenchman soon became too commonplace and painfully monotonous.

Besides, he would never have entered the navy to begin with had Philippe not forced it upon him in a futile attempt to harden him after years of living with his aunts. He claimed that a feminine upbringing made for an effeminate gentleman.

Raoul did not fear for his life upon boarding that large white vessel, but rather for the changes that would come to pass. Would he be able to prove to his brother that he could be a man? A strong, powerful presence taking the world by storm with a fist of steel and a will of the gods?

No, his experience did not lead to anything as dramatic as all that, but he found he did well for himself. A valiant knight or crusader he was not, but a man of moral integrity he was. Not that hellfire and brimstone kind of integrity though, he always found those types to be insufferable prigs.

His brother was prig, but not so insufferable.

“Enjoying yourself, boy?” Uncle Jean’s voice was a roar of drunken elation, his eyes brimming with smug satisfaction over the night’s shady victories.

“Yes. It’s wonderful here.” He hoped that he did not sound as sarcastic as he felt.

“All men learn to love the game rooms! They really are a home away from home!” His uncle threw one thick, hairy arm around his shoulders, nearly causing him to tumble to his knees with the unexpected weightiness.

“What would be your pleasure tonight?” Jean pressed his face close Raoul’s ear, his brandy-laced breath hot and vile.

“Pleasure?”

“Yes, our new Patron needs a little something to ease the pressure, does he not?” Raoul nearly winced at hearing the dreaded title proclaimed. He had stood within that opulent London opera house with his heart lurching in his chest as dark memories assaulted him mercilessly. He had claimed that never again would the dramatic splendor of the theatre make itself a nuisance in his quiet life. He had promised himself and Christine that his visit would be brief, now he knew that it would last a lifetime.

“I’m content, thank you.” Still that mammoth arm remained on his shoulders, he felt a horrid need to frantically wipe away the essence of the filthy lout off of his jacket.

“Raoul, you will exhaust yourself into an early grave!” Jean clipped him on the back before throwing open his arms in amused delight at the arrival of yet another mercenary aristocrat would had seen one too many winters with a brandy glass lodged in his fist.

Philippe stood against a far wall with crystal glass filled with scotch, his eyes dull and brows knitted together in a frown. An attractive young redhead with curly hair was chattering away at him rapidly, her thick black lashes batting together expertly. A cute display, but not an intriguing one.

“How long must we stay here?” Ignoring the young woman at his brother’s side Raoul stepped towards Philippe, his voice tired and toneless.

“However long it takes before Jean exhausts himself or goes bankrupt.”

“I see.” Well, for once he and his brother shared common feelings. It would seem that under such duress as they were, it was difficult to attain the energy necessary to disagree with one’s only ally in a battlefield of alcohol-induced marches towards prosperity. Or pride.

“Look to that table,” Philippe nodded his head in the direction of a large, rectangular table that was surrounded by over a dozen men and ladies of questionable repute. The men sitting down were flanked by various onlookers and concerned peers, many of whom were bent over the unfolding activity with apprehensive looks screwed on their faces. Some were quiet, others rather loud. The flurry of black and brown suit jackets and satin dresses obscured the faces of the men sitting opposite Raoul.

“Yes?” There was nothing occurring of consequence.

“Do you see that strange man next to Jean? He has been staring at me for the past half-hour.” Philippe’s voice lowered to a whisper, his eyes narrowing with undisguised discomfort.

“So move and he won’t be able to look at you.” Raoul couldn’t actually see any strange man with prying eyes; there was far too much smoke and movement.

Philippe looked at Raoul blankly, annoyance creeping into his countenance.

“Something about him is bothersome, animal-like, don’t you see it?”

“I must confess to not knowing who you are speaking of, I see a lot of people with strange, animal-like eyes.”

“That one right there, you imbecile!” Philippe pointed towards a dark-haired man with an unusually large chin and a rather angular face.

“Oh.” His eyes were a little beady, similar to the tiny black eyes of a fish.

“He has not taken his eyes off of me once this evening.”

“How strange, perhaps you are just being paranoid.”

“I am not. Look for yourself, he’s staring right now.” Raoul met the eyes of the fish-like character for but a moment before the black eyes lowered and turned their gaze to the table.

Jean stood and began fumbling towards them, his brandy glass newly topped.

“Come into the other room, young gentleman, we have much to discuss!” He was hobbling now, his body shifting from side to side as he made his way towards the French doors that stood ajar at the far end of the smoky chamber.

The giggling redhead took one of Jean’s extended arms and the strange man with the fish-like eyes walked silently behind Raoul and Philippe as they shuffled through the crowd.

A hundred ‘pardon me,’ and ‘excuse me’s’ and gentle pushes against the shoulders of gregarious gentlemen hollering about wildly later, the four people stood inside a rather quiet sitting room. The walls were a cream colour and the white sofas were no-descript. A silent, calm room it was. A peaceful, clean space that one would go to for quiet conversation or frantic negotiation after a hard night with the cards.

No doubt this room had seen sorrow, rage, blood, sweat, and tears. It had seen loss, gain, and the darker side of man that emerges only when one’s fortune or reputation is threatened.

The cream walls had seen fear and pain. They had seen victory and defeat, hope and despair. Violence and threats.

“Gentleman,” Jean cleared his throat loudly, the mucousy sound nearly inducing sickness in all who heard, “I would like to introduce you to Gaston Duville and Claudette Cassell. Monsieur Duville shall be my personal accountant, and Claudette our featured diva.”

Such a revelation did not affect Raoul. All opera houses needed both accountants and divas. What bothered him most was the smug grin on Jean’s face.

He and Philippe nodded politely, shaking hands and kissing the gloved fist of the green-eyed soprano. Well, at least he had to assume that she was a soprano.

“Gaston shall keep the finances in order, Claudette will sing. Both will make me a rich man.” He drank to himself, his toast obnoxious and belligerent.

“Have no money of your own, Uncle Jean?” Philippe set down his scotch and folded his hands in his lap.

“Plenty, but I lost most of it in France back in 1850.” Uproarious laughter escaped his wide-set mouth. It was followed by a lilting, albeit forced giggle from Claudette.

“Such a humorous thing it is, bankruptcy.” Raoul’s sarcastic retort caused silence to briefly settle over the room.

“Boy, do not forget that you are not in a position to criticize. You hang on to your prosperity by a very thin thread, one that I could easily cut and have considered doing every time I look at your bitter, scowling little face.” Jean shook one thick, sausage finger in the air, his eyes wide with warning. It was a terribly annoying look, one that nearly compelled Raoul to wipe it off with a firm blow.

Philippe remained silent, his face in his hands as he let out a harsh sigh of frustration.

“At least if I were to lose my fortune it would not be out of carelessness.”

“A man like you should not speak of carelessness, your precarious position is a result of carelessness.”

“I don’t follow you…” Raoul’s brows knitted together in confusion.

“All of your decisions have been careless, boy, that is why you are here with me right now, helping me earn back what I’ve lost over the years.”

Raoul knew he was a pawn, he had nearly come to accept it after he and Jean’s first meeting, but he hated to be reminded by the very man who enslaved him so methodically.

“Well, why not entrap the men whom you lost your fortune to?” Raoul hated to sound petulant, but selfishness overwhelmed nobility.

“Most of them are dead.”

A roaring silence descended over the room.

“Is that a threat?” Philippe rose to his feet then, his glass hitting the wooden table with a deafening thud. A challenge to a duel of wits, words, and wills.

“No, just the truth. The one chap who won most of it just happens to be dead. No, I did not kill him.” Jean mumbled under his breath before opening his large, cavernous mouth and swallowing the rest of the brandy. Several amber drops clung to his beard, but he did not seem to notice.

“Did you hire someone else to do the deed for you?” Raoul asked, his tone sharp and rough.

“Age and illness are not servants of my own heart, I’m afraid.” Raoul saw truth in the man’s eyes, he was not ordering out assassinations. He seemed content enough to extort finances through blackmail.

“Now, gentlemen, the true purpose for this little clandestine meeting is one neither of you shall like.” Jean cleared his throat once more.

“I will need you to each pay me 20 of your monthly salaries in order to keep this new opera house endeavor successful.”

Raoul felt himself gasp before words came to his lips.

“You do not need us to each give you 20, that is most ridiculous!” He knew one blow would level the old, fat drunk, but a deep trepidation warned him to keep his hands at his sides.

“My boy! I have debts to pay, games to play, and fine ladies of the night to screw, and you have not a pot to piss in should you defy me!”

Without warning a shot of black dress clothes fled across the room and landed a blurred, pale fist right across the fat man’s ruddy cheek. Raoul looked around him in stunned disbelief, his heart thundering in his chest as Philippe threw the drunkard to the ground, cursing in a voice filled with such potent rage that it nearly froze his blood.

All that could be heard was the sound of blows, muffled grunts, and meek protestations at the flurry of blows being rained mercilessly and wildly on the screaming, defenseless man. Jean curled himself into a fat ball of flesh and eveningwear as his exposed chin and chest were pummeled.

Philippe stood proudly with the fallen man cowering between his widespread thighs as he held Jean’s shirtsleeves in his fist and pushed his feebly flailing hands aside to tear into him like an uncaged tiger.

Other shrieks and protests were heard as Claudette released meek and terrified squeals at the untamed violence occurring but ten feet away from her silk-clad slippers. Shoes pounded the floor; bodies moved about, glasses rattled on trembling tables. Philippe was normally such a calm man, a brute in principle, but a gentleman in poise. He restrained his indignation expertly, his fiery and icy looks of contempt never turning into shouts or enraged punches. Until now.

Then glittering silver emerged from the shadows, the glare sharp and unmistakable. The cold, hard silver was gently, almost reverently placed against Philippe’s neck as surprising strong, vein-ridden, tanned hands pulled his head upwards by the hair.

“I recommend you cease your actions, good Monsieur.” Gaston spoke in hushed, dangerous tones as Philippe went stiff beneath his 10-inch blade.

Raoul lurched forward then, stopping just sort of his wildly supplicated brother whose harsh breaths were coming out in tortured gasps as he tried to pull away from the iron grip on his hair.

Jean remained on the floor, his beastly grunts becoming more deafening as he struggled to heave his fat body upwards, and failed. Blood poured from his nose and lip, and already his left eye was turning a horrid purple colour and rapidly swelling.

The room saw more violence tonight, but it was probably still rather mild compared to confrontations of past years.

“Are you ready to behave?” Gaston let his lips nearly caress Philippe’s ear as he finally pulled him to his feet, the blade never leaving its target should the restrained victim fail to cooperate.

Philippe did not answer, Raoul remained rooted to the spot. He looked around frantically for a weapon of sorts. A sword, a knife, a pistol, a fire poker, a ceramic statue of a naked Greek god. Anything would have done, but only crystal glasses and pristine white sofa cushions were available.

He thought of assaulting his brother’s captor with a glass, he was rather quick when involved in a battle, but a glass was small and would do little injury, and would guarantee Philippe’s swift slaughter. If a Champaign bottle were in the vicinity, he would not have hesitated to attack almost immediately. As it stood, the situation was far too precarious to use his fists.

“Monsieur?” Gaston tightened his grip and dug the blade in further, causing tiny rivulets of blood to escape the broken skin and coat the glistening silver with bright-red liquid. “Are you ready to behave yourself? It is rude not to answer when spoken to!”

“Yes…” Philippe struggled to draw breath into his lungs. Nothing was so shameful than being put into a place of submission by another man. Nothing.

“All right then.” Gaston released Philippe before rapidly spinning him around and leaving a bruising blow on his jaw line.

Raoul surged forward and was caught on the chin by an expert hit, one that left him in earth-shattering, eye-watering agony. Both men clutched at their throbbing faces, staring with wide-eyed horror at the silent, deadly, knife-wielding, fish-eyed warrior before them.

“Now boys,” Gaston took out a silky blue handkerchief and wiped the blood from the blade. “We shall never have to play rough again if you cooperate. And cooperate you will.”

“I…” Raoul was silenced with one glare.

“Now, you shall do as you’re told. If you do not, you will lose far more than your pocketbooks. In fact, at any time I could accost your young wife…” Gaston looked pointedly at Raoul whose eyes widened in shocked disbelief and unconcealed horror.

“Or your prima ballerina princess…” It was Philippe’s turn to stare in shock.

“Your business interests will be eradicated and your personal lives ruined should you refuse to accept calmly and without reservation. Gentlemen, I assure you that in time this little incident will be long forgotten and you will be quite content with the results of your involvement, but that is only if you act accordingly. A small thing to ask of you both, is it not?”

Both de Chagny’s conceded silently. A new business venture was upon them whether they liked it or not. Their acceptance of their fate was wise, as they did not meet with Gaston’s blade or fists again.

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Christine sat in Madame Giry’s tiny kitchen in tense silence. She had not wanted to make the visit; in fact, she had been quite content lying in bed with Erik.

They had not made love; they had not even touched, kissed, or caressed one another intimately. They laid together in comfortable serenity, listening intently to the wind hitting the window in a calm, musical rhythm. The night enveloped them in its peacefulness as their hearts slowed and their blood cooled.

Christine had watched the rise and fall of Erik’s chest as sleep began to take them both, calling them into a world of unconscious splendor.

She remembered placing one hand on his heart, marveling at the soft, warm skin pulsating beneath her palm. The fine hairs of his chest tickled her fingers as he ran his own through her heavy chestnut locks.

They could have laid like that forever, the world silent but for the calming sounds of night outside their window. In a world of their own, no one existed but them. There was no haunting past or far away husband. There were no lies or dark secrets. The only thing that existed was the beating of their hearts and their quiet, even breathing as they touched one another softly, as though one would fall away forever.

Now she sat in the kitchen and sipped a cup of tea, smiling as the steam rose and moistened her nose and cheeks.

Meg looked strange. She looked older, her eyes full of consternation and her lips pursed together tightly. In fact, she looked a lot like her mother, stoic and unyielding. Tired from years of making and receiving demands.

“My dear, why are you smiling so?” Antoinette sat down across from Christine and caught the young girls chocolate-brown eyes with her own. There was a lightness in her gaze, something calm. It was a remarkable difference from their last confrontation. The stormy depths that marred her countenance before were replaced by tranquility.

“Oh, I did not realize that I was smiling.” Christine stirred her tea mindlessly, her smile never dissipating. Her mood could not even be blackened by Meg’s stern silence.

“I am going to mail some letters, I will be back in a little while.” Antoinette rose from her seat and walked to the door. It was a lovely day; she would not need her cloak.

The prospect of walk in the hot sun and fresh air was most pleasing to her. Beautiful days left time for reflection, and she had much to reflect upon. Her mind was filled with questions and a menagerie of various feelings. Relief and fear chiefly. Christine seemed unharmed and rather content, but her contentment was cause for concern. She looked like a woman pleased. A woman whose mind was drifting carelessly in a sea of pleasant memories and physical delight. A worrisome prospect indeed.

Meg looked at her smiling friend with annoyance.

“You’re with him, aren’t you?” The question was clipped and harsh. Christine looked up suddenly, her spoon clinking against the ceramic cup as she lowered it to its saucer.

“Who?”

“Him.”

“Who is ‘him’?”
”I don’t believe he has a name.”

“Meg…” Christine’s heart began beating wildly in her chest as she felt a shameful rush of heat under her skin. Did Madame Giry tell her? Perhaps she did. Christine did not know if that enraged or relieved her.

“Christine…do you remember Francine?”

Christine was mildly taken aback; it seemed an odd query at such a time.

“The dancer? Yes, how could I forget?” It was a story not easily forgotten. Most stories that ended in tragedy remained at the forefront of the cynical and fearful human mind.

“Do you remember how badly she wanted to marry that Duke? God, what was his name…”

“Nicholas Stone.” An unforgettable ass in the unforgettable tale of tragedy. Francine was a beautiful young ballet rat who managed to fall under the seductive spell of a handsome English Duke.

He sought her out after a performance of Faust and swept her off of her tiny little ballerina feet with roses, jewelry, Champaign, gowns, and petal-covered silk bed sheets. He attended every performance and brought her to every ball in France, making her look like royalty as she walked with her arm in his.

She had expected him to propose at any moment, as she said their love grew more and more with each sunrise, and even the most cynical of workers and performers began to believe in their romance. He was, after all, quite devout in his attentions.

However, one day the Duke stopped appearing and Francine spent more nights locked into her room, sobbing silently, never speaking to anyone.

A newspaper arrived one day with the Duke’s handsome faced splashed across the cover, his matronly wife of a decade clinging tightly to his arm. It came as a shock to the entire opera house that Lord Stone was a married man, and it shed a powerful light on the cause of little Francine’s suffering.

Had the love affair ended in a betrayal such as that, the tale would not have been nearly so tragic. The denouement came when little Jammes began screaming and crying wildly one day while tearing through the corridors like a woman possessed.

It was so difficult to understand what she was trying to say, her sobs and gasps turning her words into frantic, hysterical murmurs. The tears fiercer than ever, the traumatized child led Madame Giry to Francine’s room. Her door had been unlocked, which was a rather strange occurrence, as Francine rarely emerged from the confines of her dorm and seldom allowed another soul to enter.

Madame Giry described the sight before her as horror beyond her imagination. Little Francine had been found submerged in her bathtub in a day dress that had been dyed red from her blood. In fact, the water spilling over the tub and onto the floor was the most horrid shade of crimson.

Francine had slit her pale wrists with a shard of a broken mirror. She had been with child at the time of her suicide.

It was a terrible, horrific ending for someone so young and hopeful, all residents of the opera house were shaken to the core. All girls were warned to be exceedingly weary of noble gentlemen seeking them out from then on.

“What moral are you preaching to me, Meg?”

“You were so very fortunate, Christine! Do you not see it?” Meg was nearly screaming now, her voice hoarse with emotion.

“What are you talking about?” Christine let her voice fall to a whisper as she gently fingered the ceramic cup.

“A rich nobleman came for you, did he not? A rich nobleman confessed his love for you, he rescued you from a murderer, and he married you. How dare you throw away that luck for that monster! How dare you!” Meg pushed away from the table so abruptly that her chair went crashing to the floor.

“Meg!” Christine stood up swiftly, her face burning with indignation and shame.

“Do you know how many girls would have given everything to be you? All that men wanted them for was their bodies, but you; you had a dashing young Vicomte who wanted you for your heart! He nearly died trying to save you from the man who are living happily with right now!”

“You wouldn’t understand…”

“No, I don’t Christine! Make me understand, please, god, I beg of you, make me understand!”

“I’m falling in love with him!” The words came as a horrid shock, an earth shattering, jarring revelation.

“You are not. You are falling madly in lust with him.”

“I wish that were true, and at one point, it was, but I see in him something so beautiful that has so long been buried…”

“And what of your husband?”

Christine stopped. What of Raoul? She still loved him; he was her rock, her support, and her greatest ally in the world.

“I don’t know, Meg.”

“Christine. He almost died trying to protect you, and this is how you thank him? By giving yourself to his nemesis?”

“I know that it’s wrong Meg. Everything that I have been feeling is so very, very wrong. But I can’t stop it; I don’t want to stop it. I can’t think of anything but him now. Can a woman love two men so much in two very different ways?”

“Do not try and justify this sham!”

“I am not trying to justify anything. I am only trying to understand my own heart!” She hated how much her voice shook. Her entire body trembled.

“Your heart is a selfish one because you believe you are entitled to the world.” Meg’s eyes turned cold.

“What?” The harsh, bitter retort nearly caused tears to spring to Christine’s eyes.

“You lost your father and the world coddled you. An angel taught you to sing, my mother raised you as her own, I thought you a sister, and a Vicomte made you his bride. You think all people who have happened upon tragedy are rewarded as you were?”

“Meg, my life has never been perfect...”

“No, it has not, but Christine, I lost a father as well, and no strapping young nobleman snapped me up from the clutches of a tortured genius!”

Christine had often heard that envy was a great form of flattery, but this was not envy, this was something deeper.

“I’m sorry that you and I are so different.”

“I am not jealous of you, Christine. I am aghast that you would throw away such good fortune for the promise of tangling some sheets with a madman.” So Meg thought her a whore.

“If that is what you think of me, we have nothing more to discuss.” Christine grabbed her reticule and shoved her chair into the table harshly, nearly splintering the wood. Her body was on fire, burning with a rage and pain so astute that it was difficult to breathe.

“I saw you that night on stage. I saw how he held you, how you melted into his arms. I also saw him cut down a chandelier that injured countless people and destroyed the only home you and I ever knew!”

Flashes of that night came uninvited. There were so many screams, so many tears, so much hatred and pain.

“Men don’t change, Christine. Now if you please leave I would appreciate it. I’ll tell mother you had a headache.” Meg’s face crumbled. Her request left her hurt and vulnerable, but it hurt more to stare into the eyes of the woman across from her. The woman had become a complete stranger ever since she pried information about Christine’s mysterious disappearance from her house a week ago from her mother.

Christine Daae was gone, and in her place was a selfish, naïve, inconsiderate, wanton little harlot. One with an obvious taste for the obscene who enjoyed being bedded by disfigured murderers.

“Someday Meg, someday you might understand.” Christine opened the door and walked silently into the hallway, her heart heavy as she fought to control the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks.

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“Men don’t change…”

Meg’s cryptic warning followed her down the stairs and out into the bright Parisian streets.

Meg was right. Erik was a murderer. He was a liar. He was conceited, arrogant, and had no regard for anyone but himself. Yet he was passionate, tortured, and in his soul was the potential for blinding beauty. He was a beaten boy and broken man who wanted love and who loved with all of his heart.

Could a man change?

Could Erik really, truly change?

“God, please, let this journey end in triumph…”

She silently prayed over and over again.
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Black Angels