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Forget Me Not	By : spikesbint Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > AU/AR Views: 12354 -:- 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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Chapter 2

As Erik gripped the handrail and stared out into the crisp night air of the New York spring. He watched the skyline disappear as the boat began its voyage back to France. He had not felt such tumultuous feelings since the night Christine had kissed him and he had released her to the Vicomte. Thirteen years was a long time. Maybe the past was better left in the past. However, it was too late for regrets now as the ship was bound for home and for the next six days, he had nothing to do, but think and remember…

The Phantom’s Lair, the night of Don Juan.

The music box played soothing his heartache…she was gone, his fate had indeed been sealed tonight, just as he had predicted. He smiled in his pain and took in a ragged breath of air. Erik looked up in surprise to see her there, watching him, her brown eyes full of pity as she looked down at him. He did not want her pity, what he wanted he could never have…her love.

Christine walked over to him. He watched as she slid the ring from her finger and placed it in his hand. It was the final goodbye and more painful than any words of parting that she could have uttered.

“Christine I love you,” he whispered.

She continued to look at him with her soulful eyes, a thousand emotions reflected in them. As he watched her leave, he let a tear slide down his face…the pain had been almost past bearing.

Erik was brought sharply back to the present by the rough blare of the ship’s horn. It still hurt even now, but what had once felt like a knife to the heart had dulled with the passing of time, to an uncomfortable ache in his chest. Passengers were coming out for moonlight walks along the promenade. It was his cue to return to his cabin. Those that he had worked with over the years had become accustomed to the outlandish sight of him in his mask. Strangers were often more curious and rude in their pointed stares.

His journey back across the Atlantic would be more opulent than his flight from France. On that journey, he had been unable to risk a conventional means of escape, but had instead bought himself passage to America on a merchant vessel. Erik knew if he had really wanted he could have remained in Paris, but it had been better this way. A clean break and distance between himself and Christine.

What exactly was he coming home to? For some reason that chilled him. Was she sick or dying or had that peacock squandered the family fortune at the tables and she needed him for monetary assistance? Would she even need him at all?

Erik felt the familiar tug of desire for Christine as his treacherous body hardened at the thought of her. The pain of losing her may have faded, but his need for her had not. His wealth had bought him company, but it had not bought him love. The empty liaisons he had had in the early days with women who were able to look past his deformity for a few dollars, had been a mockery of his love for Christine and only brought him more pain. Therefore, he had withdrawn that part of his nature preferring the solitude of his former years.

With the construction of the opera house, he had felt a fire and pride that he had not experienced since the first time he had heard Christine sing on stage to the wild cries of appreciation from the audience. The only thing that grated his nerves was the ugliness of the newly constructed opera house, but the business partners had been more interested in penny pinching than beauty. It had been the only way to be sure his design would be accepted.

Erik went back to his cabin, one of the best the ship had to offer. He gladly closed the door on the outside world. He walked over to his leather bound monogrammed luggage, taking out his violin from its case he began to play. The passengers that passed his door heard the lonely strains of music coming from his room, some wept at its magnificence and marvelled at the talent of the maker.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Six Days Later

Christine looked down at the pile of earth that was scattered with so many lilies and fleur-de-lis. Tears would not come; she had cried an ocean and could not find it in herself to shed anymore. She was aware of the presence of Madame Giry and Meg as they waited for her. The other mourners had long since left. Christine gave a quick glance at her father’s tomb, just a few feet away from where her husband lie.

The funeral had been postponed by almost a week as she had waited for his family to gather, most of them were strangers and of whom she was sure had cared nothing for Raoul except what he might have left them in his will. The reading of the will was another ordeal she had yet to get through. His relations would be gathered in his study like so many carrion waiting to feast over the bones of the estate.

It was her home and she would turn them all out as soon as it was over. She hated them all, with their faux tears and haughty stares as they summed up the ex-showgirl. Their glances were all too easily read, and one or two of them had actually voiced the opinion that she had tricked the Vicomte in to marrying her in the first place with her wiles. As far as they were concerned, she may as well still have the taint of greasepaint on her.

Christine felt the gentle touch of Mme Giry’s hand on her arm. She turned and smiled an empty smile at them as they led her to the waiting carriage.

The journey from the cemetery to the house was a short one and over all too soon. Raoul’s family had gathered in her husband’s study. She could tell by the accusatory glances that were passed her way that they had all been waiting for her. She was 29, too young to be a widow, she silently screamed inside. She took a seat in the front row and looked at the executor, Raoul’s closest friend in this world, Fabien Dubois. She took a few deep breaths and steeled herself as he began to read. Meg took a place by her side and held her hand. Christine was glad of the support and felt the better for it.

Most of what Raoul had to say was to do with certain pensions for this or that, member of his household. Most if it held little interest for her until there was mention of her name.

“The house, being entailed to the oldest and closest male heir is to be retained by my wife and our children. In the event of us having no children it is to revert to the ownership of my eldest cousin Rene De Chagny, the next and natural heir in line to the De Chagny fortunes and estate,”

Christine looked up at the sympathy she read in Fabien’s face as he delivered the last words. She watched as he folded up the last will and testament of her husband and rested his head on his hands.

“And that’s it?” screeched an elderly relative behind her.

Another more sardonic voice chimed in. “Well its hardly surprising Heloise. You were hardly the attentive aunt in life, so why would he remember you in death? At least she didn’t get anything either,”

Christine was confused, that will had to be years old. Not only was she to be husbandless, but she was to lose the place that she had called her home for the last thirteen years.

She looked at Fabien. “Is there nothing else?” she asked.

He shook his head sadly. “The will was made some time ago, but it will stand up in court Christine,”

“T-thank you,” she replied quietly and left the room wanting to be alone.

She made her way to the bedroom that had been hers and Raoul’s since the day of their marriage. She closed the door, muting out the sounds of his family as she walked over to the bed and sank down on it. She could still smell the spicy tang of his cologne in the room as she rested against the feather pillow and closed her eyes. The coolness it afforded went some way in diffusing the heat of her cheeks. She felt so old and tired…consciousness started to fade as she drifted off to sleep.

Christine was on her bed. The candlelight was low, giving the room a soft glow. She smiled as she saw a dark form in the shadows, advancing on her as she gave herself up to the wild passion that was coursing through her. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body. For some reason she could not see his face, it was partially obscured by the shadows, but she felt no fear. She only felt loved and cherished as the warm body enveloped her in his arms. She closed her eyes, surrendering to his touch.

He lowered his head to kiss her lips in a slow drugging kiss that that threatened to draw her soul from her body. His hand rested at her throat worked its way down her body to cup a breast. She moaned low in her throat. As he joined her on the bed and covered her body with his own, Christine could feel his hardness pressing against her, begging entrance to her body. She parted her legs willingly. As he took possession of her, it made her gasp out loud and her eyes snapped open, expecting to see Raoul’s eyes and shocked to see the stormy grey eyes of Erik. His smile turned into an ugly sneer as he thrust harder and harder…

Christine shot up in bed, perspiration dampened her clothing. Her hands flew to her cheeks. She felt the shame that burned on her face. Why had she dreamt of Erik tonight of all nights? She had not had dreams of that nature about him for a long time now. Christine remembered how he had invaded her dreams night after night at the opera house and they had not always been the kind of dreams a good Catholic girl should have about a man.

She got up from the bed, ignoring the unsated ache of her faithless body. She walked over to the washstand, took a cloth, and dipped it in the cold water, trying to soothe the heat of her skin. She met her eyes in the mirror and scowled at herself.

“Christine De Chagny, you are no better than a common whore,” she told herself aloud before throwing the cloth to the floor in frustration.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said a mocking voice, from behind her.

Christine spun around to face Raoul’s cousin Rene.

“What are you doing in my room?” she demanded.

“Just arrived. Sorry I missed the funeral and all, but I hear the reading of the will was interesting,”

“Come to gloat?” she asked, as he advanced on her.

She had never liked Rene, not from the day she had first laid eyes on him, on her wedding day. There was something about the way looked at her, almost if he knew what lie beneath her clothing. Christine backed away from him until she met the solid surface of the washstand. She held on to it with both hands as he stopped in front of her. He was so close that she could smell the stale smell of cigar smoke that hung on his clothing and the faint hint of whiskey as he breathed.

He was only a couple of years younger than Raoul, but due to his dissipated life, looked at least ten years older than he had. He was dark and already fine lines showed around his eyes, with the odd thread of silver dotted in his midnight black hair. She flinched as he rested a hand on her shoulder, stroking her long thick hair.

“No, I have come to take over all my cousins assets. All this is mine, the house the money. Become my mistress and you can keep it all. I want to taste what Raoul had. Must have been good at something to keep him interested for all those years,” he purred in her ear.

“You’re disgusting,”

He laughed. “You know you want it. Chorus girls are no better than…”

Christine slapped him hard across the cheek. Anger flared in his eyes for a moment, before a slow grin spread across his face. He repulsed her as she watched in horrified fascination as Rene leaned in for a kiss. Christine fought back the only way she could as she raised her knee and it connected with his groin.

She was satisfied as he reared away from her and bent himself double. Pain etched in every line of his face. “You bitch!”

Christine used the time to her advantage as she fled the room. She did not stop running until she reached Mme Giry’s suite. She pounded on the door urgently with her fists. A few seconds later Madame Giry emerged from the room bleary eyed. She noted the tears running down Christine’s face.

“What is it child?” she asked in concern.

“Can I sleep in your room tonight? I do not want to be alone,”

“Bad dreams?” Asked Mme Giry.

“You could say that,” she replied as she followed her into the room and closed the door behind them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Cherbourg France-The same night.

The liner docked at Cherbourg and a carriage was waiting for him when he arrived on the dock. It was night and the hour was late, but Erik was glad of the cover of night. He did not want his return announced to the whole of France. Some people had long memories. He was tired. Most of his nights spent aboard the ship had been sleepless, as he had often succumbed to wild nightmares of which he had not had since a child.

Most of them had involved Christine and all manner of fates befalling her. If she were dying, he would not want to live himself. That Christine was in the world and living had been the only thing to spur him on to greater things. It had been in his fifth year of living in New York that he wanted her to be proud of the man he had become, and with it had come the realisation that she never would.

If he were not so tired, he would insist on completing his journey this very night. However, his tired body screamed for rest, which he hoped he would find. The carriage pulled into the courtyard of the inn, and Erik handed the driver a gold coin in payment for securing him the best room.

The man returned moments later, giving Erik a toothless grin. He opened the door and Erik alighted the carriage and walked into the tavern. It was relatively empty for due to the lateness of the hour. Most of the men that were there well into their cups and past caring if a travelling circus decided to inhabit the bar.

The proprietor bowed obsequiously at him, recognising money when he saw it. He was more than hopeful that he would get his hands on some of it if he treated the strange looking gent with enough reverence.

He showed Erik to his rooms and he was rewarded with a few francs. Erik was in no mood for grubby little men toadying for his favour. He closed the door in his face while he waited for his luggage to be brought up. The only thing he had brought with him from the carriage had been his violin. A Stradivarius was not to be trusted in the hands of any fool. He took the violin from its case and stroked the wood lovingly. He had paid a pretty penny for it, but when his bow made contact with the strings, it could produce sounds that would make the angels weep if they had a care to listen.

He gently laid it back in its velvet casing as someone knocked on the door. The man stood there with his luggage, Erik took it from the man and closed the door. He sat in a chair in the corner, removed his mask and took out a miniature of Christine, painted on enamel. He had had it commissioned, giving the artist his sketches of her to work from. It went everywhere with him.

He stared at the picture until his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

When he awoke the next morning, the sun was high in the sky and he growled in frustration as he pulled his gold fob watch from his waistcoat and saw that it was almost ten o’clock. He straightened his crumpled clothing and rang the bell. As the proprietor came to attend him, his greasy smile soon slipped from his face at Erik’s deep scowl.

“Have my carriage brought round immediately. I hope at least my food hamper has been prepared?” he drawled.

“Yes, my good lady wife saw to it herself this morning,”

Erik picked up his violin. “Have my things brought down immediately and there might be a few francs in it for you,” He brushed past the landlord and dismissed him from his mind as he made his way downstairs.

He sat back in the comfortable interior of the carriage, watching as unfamiliar landscapes passed him by. He was more used to the hustle and bustle of New York than the rural France he remembered. Apart from one change of horses at an inn, there had been no stops and as the night drew in, he reached the outskirts of Paris. He knew it would be wise to wait until the morning to announce himself at the De Chagny estate, but he could not go another minute without knowing what had caused Madame Giry to return the ring to him.

He took it from the pocket of his waistcoat and looked at it. A moonbeam caught the diamonds turning them to silver ice. He clasped it in his hand as he sat in an agony of waiting. The coach eventually came to a stop as the driver got out, opening the large gates to the estate. Erik sucked in a breath. This was it. Would she even be glad to see him? Maybe she was better off without, he was almost tempted to ask the driver to turn the carriage around, but he was no coward. He was here now and he would not leave without finding out what had befallen her.

For some reason the journey up the long drive seemed longer than the rest put together. The driver pulled in the reins and Erik could hear him as he got off the perch seat and came round to the side to open the carriage door.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Christine wandered the halls. She could not sleep. She was afraid that if she did, she would dream of Erik again and betray the memory of her husband. The fear that Rene would attempt to finish what he had started the previous evening weighed heavily on her mind too, she did not know why she had not confided in Mme Giry about what he had done.

As she walked through the darkened halls, she became aware of the sound of an approaching carriage. Who could it be at this late hour? Surely there were no more relatives to come out of the woodwork? The servants would all be abed and she was loathe to wake them as she made her way to the entrance hall, her one tiny candle to light her way.

The sound of the doorknocker echoed eerily through the cavernous hallway. Christine shivered, although not sure why as her slippered feet made their way silently across the marble floor.

“Who is it?” she asked. She opened the door a crack. The sight of a tall gentleman with his back to her, all dressed in black from the looks of him, stood on the doorstep. “May I help you monsieur?” she enquired.

The man turned to face her. She gasped and turned deathly pale. The candle and its holder clattered to the floor as she looked at the Phantom before sinking to the floor.

TBC
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Forget Me Not