As they neared the top, she glanced down, and with a strangled cry she recognized the horse and rider barreling through the crowds, the horseman bellowing in rage and beating a pathway through the unfortunate partiers with his whip. “Erik, Erik, there he is!” she wailed.
“Don’t worry,” he managed, breathing heavily, “we’re almost there.”
As he reached the top and deposited Christine onto a snow-laden part of the terrace, she heard a blood-curling roar from below as Raoul’s eyes locked on them.
“He’s seen us,” she whimpered to Erik, who was hoisting himself onto the rooftop.
The snow was falling so furiously that she couldn’t make it out well, but she saw that the vicomte was coming towards them. “He’s heading for the ladder!” she cried.
With a swift kick Erik sent the ladder flying away from the Garnier. As it crashed into the throng the wood exploded in a mass of splinters, and Raoul, with a snarl, disappeared from her line of sight.
The choking knot of strain in her chest slackened somewhat with the knowledge that they were just a few steps from safety. Erik reached to help her up. “Come, Christine, we’re almost there.”
She looked up into his eyes and a flood of love suddenly exploded in her heart—she flew to her feet and kissed him wildly, frantically, feeling all at once the passion, adoration, gratitude, and guilt that had plagued her all during her time in the Chagny mansion. “Erik, Erik,” she sobbed, clutching his shirt, “I love you, I love you, I love you!”
He stood, stunned, as the snow whipped around them, and she, clinging to him, could feel the cool logic war with a burst of raging wildfire in every muscle of his frozen body. “Christine, we need to get down to—”
“I know, I know, but I have to say it now! I love you so much!” She grabbed the porcelain mask that kept her from seeing his entire face, threw it into the snow, and she proceeded to kiss every inch of his face. “Oh Erik, I don’t understand how you can love me—I’m so stupid and selfish and I’ve been so horrible to you—”
“Christine, you haven’t—”
“I have, I have! I’ve been absolutely horrid! And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! You’re the most wonderful man imaginable,” she cried, her mind frantically jumping from focus to focus so fast that her mouth couldn’t keep up. “You’re so smart and so strong and so kind and so wonderful and I don’t deserve it but I love you so much! I love you, I love you, and I want to always be with you! I don’t have to be a diva, or famous, or rich, or anything! Please, please,” she cried, clinging to his shirt, “let me stay with you!”
She stopped talking long enough to kiss his mouth, wanting to show him how much she loved him, and his reserve exploded in a rush of raging fire. Christine's heart beat rapidly within her chest, a thundering of emotion coursed through her. The rapid rise and fall of Erik’s heart kept pace with her own. Christine enjoyed a brief moment of pure ecstasy. Their bodies seemed to breathe, to even live at the exact same rate.
Erik’s lips left hers, but she did not want it to stop. She would not let it stop. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again. The feel of his lips on hers, his skin beneath her fingers, the strength of his body as she pressed closer to him, took away all thought of fear and panic from her mind, and she forgot completely about everything else in the world—
An agonized yell filled the air, and the fiery Elysium ceased like a crack of thunder. They both whirled to see the Vicomte de Chagny standing at the top of the stairs, sword drawn and eyes like fire.
The gang of soldiers Raoul had secured on his way through the Garnier stared, aghast, at the dark specter next to Christine. It was impossible—there was no such thing as the Phantom! But there he was, clothed entirely in black, the infamous lasso at his side. He calmly met the vicomte’s hellish glare—eyes bright and burning like the fires of Hell—never breaking eye contact as he bent to retrieve his mask, covered in ice crystals, and press it to his face.
After a moment the vicomte came out of his stunned silence and yelled at them, “Well? What are you waiting for? Kill him!” He gestured sharply towards the Phantom with his rapier, eyes holding a glint of rage that bordered on insanity.
The soldiers automatically started forward, but a sardonic smile fleeted across their target’s face, and they both halted. It was not that they weren’t brave men—but there was something in his eyes, and in the way he held the strange lasso at his side, that made their blood freeze and their muscles cease to function.
The vicomte, becoming angrier by the minute, screamed, “KILL HIM! THAT’S AN ORDER, DAMN YOU!”
However unwillingly, the soldiers obeyed. Swords drawn, they strode towards Erik, who stepped in front of Christine and lifted the lasso, coolly assessing their movements. One of the soldiers hefted his sword and lunged. The lasso was around his neck in the space of an instant.
Erik held the rope taut as he picked up the man’s sword, expecting the other soldiers to attack. As a blade flashed through the air, Erik parried it and immediately launched a counter-attack. His movements were heavily restricted by the first soldier, who was clawing at the rope that was squeezing the life out of him. Erik jerked the rope up, and the man lost consciousness. He had no time to retrieve the lasso, however, and continued to fight the remaining men with only sword in hand.
While he was fighting, Raoul slipped around them and grabbed Christine’s wrists. “What do you think you’re accomplishing?” he demanded harshly.
Struggling to be free of him, she cried, “Let go of me! Erik! Erik, help me!” She was still weak, however, and Raoul easily held on to her.
The soldier leapt forward, the tip of his blade aimed for Erik’s heart. However, he had not reckoned on the slick ice covering the rooftop; he lost his footing and fell with a loud thud. Erik kicked the sword out of his hand before rendering him unconscious with the pommel of his own. After that he quickly dispatched the remaining soldiers, a whirlwind of steel, not pausing to consider tactics or execute any fancy moves.
His breathing, harsh and ragged after his race through Paris, lightened a little as he unwound his lasso from a soldier’s neck, not taking his eyes off of the vicomte. “You’re quite a man, vicomte,” he said condescendingly, “to hide behind borrowed soldiers and allow them do the fighting for you.”
Raoul, mad to the point of speechlessness, seemed at a loss for a reply, because all he said was, “How dare you kidnap my darling Christine, monster!”
“I’m not ‘your Christine!’” she screamed, trying unsuccessfully to force him to release her with much kicking and scratching. “You lied and cheated and tried to kill me! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy every moment of my attention,” breathed the vicomte, with a sick, twisted smile that bordered on insanity.
Then her fingernails cut through the skin of his lower arm, and he withdrew sharply, inadvertently releasing her. She stumbled back. “You’re horrible!” she cried. “I thought you were a gentleman! I thought you wanted to marry me!”
Raoul tried forcibly to silence her, and she began screeching again. He found himself forced to tighten his grip to keep her from escaping. He was so preoccupied with this task that he was taken completely unaware when a rope flew through the air and tightened about his neck. With a cry, he released the girl and clawed at the lasso.
Erik pulled the rope towards him, dragging the vicomte away from Christine. He wasn’t worried in the least; in a moment the vicomte would run out of air, and he could throw the body off the roof and claim it was suicide.
Suddenly the rope came away in his hand; it had been rendered useless by the rough cut of a blade. The vicomte regained his feet and stumbled away, stowing the offending dagger roughly in its sheath and drawing his rapier. When he was a safe distance away, he glared at Erik through narrowed eyes and assumed an en garde stance. A trickle of blood stained the formerly immaculate collar of his shirt, where the blade had unintentionally grazed skin.<
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Oddly, his expression was not one of fear or hatred, but a kind of maniacal gratification at finally being able to face the creature that had hounded his thoughts for so long. “She agreed to be my mistress, monster—she stayed at my mansion and enjoyed every minute of it and my attentions, now what does that tell you?”
Christine blushed and looked away, but Erik did not so much as flinch. “If you’ll notice,” he replied calmly, “she ran away from you, despite all your luxuries and titles, vicomte—what does that tell you?”
Raoul’s lip curled in loathing, but he had no reply. Instead, he lunged, rapier raised to attack. Erik, who had cast aside the useless lasso and drawn his own weapon, easily parried it, following with a vicious attack of his own that forced the vicomte to retreat.
The snow was still falling, but the cheery hubbub of the festivities—which, through all the horror, had not registered in Christine’s ears—was drowned out the harsh clang of blades. It formed a sort of chilling beat, erratic and piercing, with a speed and ferocity that even their racing hearts could not keep up with. The lights of the city lit up the roof, illuminating their bodies and creating the feel of a divine battle. The steel of their blades reflected the light without reservation, and the brilliance was almost blinding.
Raoul tried to ignore Christine’s screams and concentrate wholly on the duel. He was used to fighting other French noblemen, who observed all the rules and had been schooled in the same method of fencing that he had. But the Phantom’s style was unlike any he’d ever seen—it was mostly French, but it took pieces of Italian, Spanish, and something he couldn’t identify. It seemed Middle-Eastern and was impossible to anticipate. The Phantom would begin with an ordinary French pattern, and then throw something odd into it, like a roversi cut—something used with a scimitar, never a rapier! But again and again, the vicomte found himself surprised by these unexpected breaches of European style and was hard-pressed to block them all.
He was constantly retreating, frantically trying to assess the Monster’s style and find a weakness. There didn’t seem to be one. It made him furious—you used jabs and thrusts in fencing, never cuts; no one had for two hundred years! It was ridiculous and out-of-date. But, somehow, it was working. As if that was not bad enough, the roof was precariously slippery from the snowfall, and the vicomte’s fashionable boots were unable to get any sort of grip on its surface.
Erik pressed the attack, his deadly blade flashing through the air, mercilessly hammering the vicomte’s defenses. Its metallic surface reflected the light of the city without reserve, and it blinded Raoul as a burst of lightning would. As the edge of the roof got closer and closer, beads of sweat began to form on the vicomte’s brow. The Phantom raised his arm to make a mandritti cut, and suddenly, Raoul saw his chance—as was the peril with such a move, Erik allowed his left side to go unguarded for the space of a moment.
Raoul parried the cut and lunged forward, driving the tip of his blade at the exposed part of Erik’s chest. Erik leapt backward, but could not bring his blade around to block it in time. His shirt was ripped open, and the flesh beneath it was marred with a bloody gash. Christine screamed. As the blood soaked the ruffles of cotton and spread across his chest, Erik stumbled back and raised his blade.
The vicomte pressed his assault, using the L’Boessiere system of feints and attacks to force his opponent to retreat. Erik was forced to step back, but after only a moment switched to Thibault’s technique and ignored the vicomte’s feints, instead concentrating on parrying the real attacks and following them with brutal ripostes. It worked, and soon it was Raoul who was retreating. Thibault’s Spanish style complimented the use of cuts, and Erik was not forced to leave himself vulnerable again. Raoul wasn’t as surprised by these unheard-of maneuvers now, but they were still foreign enough that he hesitated a moment before blocking them.
But a moment was all it took. One of Erik’s attacks flashed forward, and Raoul could not block it in time; it sliced across his shoulder, cutting his arm to the bone. The vicomte cried out in pain and jerked back. There was a behemoth statue to the right of him, which he darted behind to catch his breath and ascertain the consequence of his wound.
Erik was taken by surprise when the vicomte disappeared from sight; he had not expected retreat from the nobleman. He quietly made his way around to the other side of the statue, where he could catch the vicomte off-guard, thinking the man was waiting to ambush him from the first side.
But Raoul was leaning against the other side of the marble statue—not waiting to attack, as Erik had thought. In that critical instant when Erik came into view, Raoul’s eyes widened in surprise, and he lashed out at the Phantom with his rapier. Erik, also caught by surprise, dodged the blow. It grazed the side of his face and severed the cord that held his mask in place. The porcelain aegis fell to the ground with a resounding clatter that was not lessened by the fallen snow.
The vicomte’s lip twitched into an expression of disgust as he viewed the face of the creature that had stolen Christine from him. His fury flared as he stared at the Phantom’s disfigured features, and determination redoubled to rid the world of such a disgusting monster. He leapt forward with a yell to strike a killing blow, but Erik evaded his strike.
Then Erik attacked, and Raoul quickly parried and leapt away from the statue. They fought on, the vicomte’s face grew more contorted with rage, and his blows became more brutal and erratic. Erik had been forcing him to retreat to the edge of the roof, but, no more than a hands-width from the precipice, the vicomte’s furious attacks began to turn the tide.
Christine, who had until this point been watching the battle from the safety of the far wall, ran forward. She grabbed hold of Raoul’s arm, shrieking, “Leave us alone, you monster!”
Something in Raoul snapped. With a snarl of fury, he wrenched his arm free and backhanded her across the rooftop. Eyes blazing red with hellish vehemence, he swung his rapier in a wide arc, attempting a coup de Jarnac.
Erik, who had been anticipating this famous French maneuver since the battle began, parried with such force that it knocked the rapier out of the vicomte’s hand. Raoul was thrown back, and he fell to the cold, snowy surface of the roof, not a foot away from the edge. Erik stood over him, breathing hard, making no move to dispatch his fallen opponent. Raoul glared back, knowing there was no chance that he would leave the roof alive.
Christine, thinking that the fight was over, rushed to the safety of Erik’s arms. In that moment of distraction, Raoul leapt up, drew his dagger, and flew at Erik.
Erik quickly turned so that Christine would be protected and grabbed the vicomte’s wrist. The vicomte poured all his strength into that arm, forcing the blade closer to Erik’s heart. Erik shoved his arm back, ignoring Christine’s frenzied screams.
Raoul was thrown off-balance, and his boots lost their footing on the icy roof. Erik, startled, released his grip on the vicomte’s wrist. Raoul grasped frantically for something to hold on to, but to no avail. A frozen expression of shock contorted his face as he tumbled over the edge and plummeted to the ground below.
It felt like an eternity before the sickening thud resounded in the frigid air, and cries went sounded throughout the crowd in a ripple effect as they caught sight of the body.
Erik overcame his stunned, immobile state and glanced over the edge. The body was spread-eagle across the steps of the front entrance, blood tainting the snow around it. Christine, still clutching the front of his shirt, started to look as well, but Erik pulled her back. There was no need for her to witness such a horrible sight.
They stood there for a few moments, the knowledge of what had just occurred sinking in. The uproar of the crowd grew louder the soldiers emerged from the opera house and demanded an explanation, but as Christine began to cry into Erik’s already-stained shirt, she couldn’t hear anything but his heartbeat, fast but steady and comforting. He held her to his chest, kissing her disheveled hair and whispering words of comfort.
When
Christine’s weeping had lessened, becoming only the occasional sob, her tear-filled eyes turned to look into his emerald-green ones. Softly she asked, “What will happen now?”
Erik brushed a chocolate curl from her face. “The authorities will declare it a suicide.”
Christine looked away for a moment, absorbing this information, and her forehead suddenly creased in worry. “And what about his soldiers?” She pointed with her free hand towards where the men lay motionless. “We can’t just leave them up here, can we?”
“I’ll take care of them, Christine. I’ll take care of everything.” He wasn’t sure what he would do yet, but, looking down into Christine’s eyes, he decided that it could wait for a few moments. Carefully, almost hesitantly, Erik placed his gloved hand upon Christine’s creamy cheek, a smile on his disfigured face. The lights below lit his eyes, which glistened with sudden emotion.
“You have no idea, Christine—”
His resistance fell and a single tear rolled down his smooth cheek, which Christine wiped away. Her hand rested on his cheek and she smiled. Her voice was quiet when she said, “You will never have to wait again.”
Chapitre Trente-Six: Ensemble à la Fin
Christine entered her dressing room silently, removing her black mourning veil and draping it over the back of a chair. A few candles sat lifeless in a soft, golden glow of the gas lamps, and she struck a flame to light them. She then sat down in front of her vanity and began inspecting her makeup. It had been ruined by the wiping away of a few isolated tears. The tears themselves were completely gone, but the damage to her eye-liner was absolutely horrific. She frowned and set to removing the trails of mascara that marred her cheeks.
Sitting in front of the mirror, hearing the creak of the stool as she shifted her weight, she was taken back to the night she had sobbed in front of her dressing table, heartbroken and alone, and had prayed for the Angel to come to her. So much had changed since then that, as she looked into the mirror, she felt as if she were staring at a completely different person than the one that had stared back at her on that night—a less conceited person, who didn’t lie or steal costumes, a better singer, who was complete and so happy in her life that even now, just come from a funeral, she couldn’t help but smile as she thought about the new course her life had taken.
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 40
