You Alone

DISCLAIMER: See chapter 1.


CHAPTER 3 - Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again


The next morning, Comtess de Chagny woke up in her own bed, her son sleeping soundly next to her. She smiled gently at the child and caressed his curly hair, which was so much like hers. It did not take too long, though, before the memories of the night before came back to her. Had she really witnessed him talk with Erik? Had she really seen Erik on the balcony?


She got up, careful not to wake Philippe up, got dressed and went to the music room. Everything there was the same as it had been last night. The sheets on the piano were Mozart - the concerto she had played before going to sleep. She slowly went to the balcony, opening the doors. Morning air was as cold as it only could in early January. She shivered slightly. She could find no evidence from the balcony, either, on the visit of Erik. Apparently, it had been snowing the whole night. The sheet of new snow hid everything that might have proved her suspicions.


She went back inside and locked the door. For a while, she just stood there. Finally, she sighed and leaned her forehead against the cold glass. She was not sure if she was more relieved or disappointed. Had it been only a dream again? She closed her eyes, trying to remember what the figure had looked like. Dark, expensive-looking cloak, white mask that could only be described as elegant, eyes that seemed to glow in dark - it had to be Erik. It could be no one else. She would recognize that velvety voice anywhere - the voice that made angels weep.


She felt her lips curve up in a faint smile as she finally admitted to herself that she missed him. She missed her Angel. She missed her poor Erik. His name escaped her lips in form of a shaky whisper as if it was a prayer.


Please come back to me, Erik. Please be real, Angel. Please forgive me, Erik. Please do not leave me, Angel.


Sound of soft steps brought her back from her trance-like condition.
"Maman?" Philippe's voice asked.
"What is it, dear?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
"Are you angry at me because I came to sleep in your bed?"
She could hear that the boy was just a heartbeat from bursting in tears. She turned around and lifted the small child into her arms.
"Of course not, my dear. Why did you think so?"
"I woke up and I was all alone and -"
"It is all right, Philippe. Maman is not angry."
Her son flashed her a toothy grin and hugged her as tight as such a small child could.
"Promise me, Maman, that you shall never be angry with me."
"I promise, my dear."


When she was taking her son to bed a couple of nights later, a strange thought occurred her.
"May I ask you something, Philippe?"
"Of course you can, Maman," the child answered with a sleepy voice.
"Why did you come to sleep in my bed that night?"
He opened his eyes and frowned in a worried manner. "You told me that you were not angry with me because of it."
"Yes, dear, I know. I am not angry, I am just curious."
"Like I am?"
She laughed gently at that. "Yes, Philippe, curious like you are."
"Papa does not like it when I ask him all those questions."
She kissed the child's forehead. "It is only because he is worried that one day he might not know the answers for your questions."
"Would he still love me then?"
What a peculiar child her son was!
"Of course he would, silly. Your father loves you, no matter what."
"And will you love me too, no matter what?"
"Yes, dear. I will. Now, answer my question."


"I had a bad dream, Maman, a nightmare. I was afraid."
"You should have woken me up, darling."
"Why? I was not afraid at all when I got to your bed. Besides, your bed is softer than mine, is it not?"
"If you say so, dear." She caressed his cheek with her hand. "Were you not afraid to pass the hallway in dark?"
"A bit," the child confessed, his eyes fluttering closed. "But my angel told me that he would guard me through the hallway."
"Your angel is very nice. I wonder if he would like me as much as he likes you."
"I can assure you, Maman," a huge yawn interrupted the child, "that my angel likes you very, very, very much."
She kissed him goodnight. "Good night, Philippe."
"Good night, Maman."


About quarter of an hour later, she was on her way to her bedroom. As she was passing the door of her son's bedroom, she could have sworn to have heard something from the inside. She stopped and pressed her ear against the door but could not hear anything. With a slight shrug and a shake of her head, she went to her room.


Inside his room, young Philippe de Chagny was standing by the window, calling for his angel.
"Angel? Can you hear me?"
"Of course I can, my child," his melodic voice answered from the large mirror.
Philippe could feel a smile spread across his face. He liked his angel's voice. First, he had been a little afraid of it, though, but it was only when he was small and did not know, who was speaking. Now, he was already a big boy - his Papa had told him that - and his angel was his friend.
"What would you like me to do tonight, angel? Can we go to play again?"
"No, my child. I thought we could talk a little tonight."
"Will you tell me stories about the Shah?" he asked with an excited voice.
The stories about the Shah were the most exciting ones! Sometimes, they were a bit scary but he knew that they were only stories.
"We shall see that later," the angel told him, amused.


"Tell me, child, where your father is?"
Philippe frowned slightly. "He went somewhere because he had to do some important things there."
"Where did he go?" he could tell that the angel was smiling at his answer, even though he could not understand the reason.
"Umm... I - I think it was -"
"What have I told you about stammering?"
"I am sorry, angel. I think my Maman spoke about Marseille."
"Very well, my child. Have you been a good boy today?"
"I believe I have."
"Do you have any questions for me?"
"Yes, one."
"Please ask it."
"I know that my Maman loves me and that my Papa loves me but do you love me, angel?"


There was a long silence before his angel answered.
"Love is the strangest of things, Philippe, and you do not understand it completely. At least not yet."
"I do not understand what you mean," the child confessed.
"Never mind that."
"You did not answer my question yet, angel."
"Yes, I do love you, child. But Erik's love is different than the love of your father - it is more like your mothers."
"What do you mean?"
"Your father loves you because he believes he knows who you are. Your mother and I love you because we know who you are."
"You are really strange tonight, angel."
Philippe heard his angel chuckle. "Yes, I guess I am. You will understand my words one day."
"Is it before or after I can see you?"
"I think after - or at the same time."
"Another question, if I may?"
"If you ask so politely, go on ahead."
"Since Maman is my mother and Papa is my father, does that make you my Erik?"
Another moment of long silence. "Oui. I am your Erik."
"Great." He smiled as happily as he could. "Now, I would like my Erik to tell me a story about the Shah or Daroga."


Unfortunately, Philippe fell asleep before his Erik could finish the story.


That night, there was no sleep for Christine de Chagny, though. She would not fall asleep, no matter how hard she tried. She could not help hoping that her Angel would somehow come to her and sing her asleep. Not that sleeping would have been the first thing crossing her mind, though, should she happen to hear his voice. She had so much to tell him - about their son, how wonderful a child he was.
"Oh, Erik," she whispered as she turned to her other side, frustrated.


She was not how long she had lain there, in the darkness, trying to fall asleep, when she heard it. The voice was barely audible and she could not be exactly sure if she was only imagining it. Yet, the familiar words of the lullaby it sang made her fall asleep within seconds.


Outside, the cloaked man smiled gently. He had not been sure if his voice would still hold such a power over his little Angel.
"Do not worry, mon ange," he whispered aloud. "Soon, I will be there with you."


Soon, he would claim what was his.


Soon, he would have her.