Matter of Honour

Summary: Erik takes a different approach to get rid of his rival and win Christine's hand in marriage. One that involves a very high risk. Leroux-based AU.

Comte Phillippe de Chagny sat in his study and read his newspaper as he did every morning. He was angry for the newspaper announced the engagement of Raoul Vicomte de Chagny and Christine Daae, primadonna of the Opera Populaire. He decided to write a letter to his lawyer, he would sue the newspapers for publishing such audacious defamation. Even if there had been any eEngagement, he was sure his brother would at least have the decency to keep it secret.

Once his brother would have had enough of the singer, he could always pay the wreath money and send her away - if she found any way to prove that she had been a virgin when they became engaged, which the Comte highly doubted. A young singer who was notorious for dissappearing every so often with a mysterious singing teacher would surely have much trouble to covince the court that she had been of indisputable reputation. The Comte de Chagny remembered having to face trial in his youth - and it had been his father who had just bought a compromise agreement as was custom if there was no real evidence on both sides and he was a gentleman after all and wouldn't leave her without any means to support herself. As far as he knew that girl had bought a little inn and married her chef. What a pity, she had been a circus rider.

It was almost laughable that Phillippe and his brother Raoul both favored Show girls - the older one preferring girls with perfect bodies, mainly dancers, and the younger one preferring singers. Sometimes Comte de Chagny wondered if he had been giving his brother a bad example for he had an on-going affair with the primaballerina for years quite openly. It was nothing shameful for any aristocrat to have one or more mistresses - but to marry one of them? No! He couldn't allow that.

What good would it be to sue the gutter press, if his brother would really go through with it and marry that singer? He sighed and looked out - it was a foggy, rainy day, rather cold. No one would go out today if it wasn't necessary.

Phillippe rang his servant. The manservant came dutifully. "Where is my brother?" Phillippe asked.

"He went to the opera," the manservant replied and waited to be dismissed to continue with whatever he had been doing. Phillippe waived his hand absently and the servant left with a bow.

This was certainly not good. He had hoped to give Raoul a piece of his mind this morning but the little coward had already left. This wouldn't spare him. Phillippe was bound and determined to bring his lovesick brother back to reason - and if he had to send him far away from Paris to some remote estate.

A knock at the door startled him. "Yes?"

"Excuse me, sir, there is a man who insists to talk to you," the manservant informed him, "He says it is a private matter concerning your brother. Shall I send him away?"

"Who is he?" Phillippe asked. He remembered all too well his own youth where his father had to deal with some men who came to complain that the young Phillippe de Chagny was flirting with their daughters or riding through the streets recklessly causing damage to some street sellers. Now he was in the position to deal with his brother's behavior and secretly smiled at the irony of history repeating itself. His younger brother made him pay for all the hard times he had given his father.

"He refused to tell his name and - forgive my frankness - he is creepy."

"Creepy?" This rang a bell. Phillippe thought about what his brother had told him about the mysterious rival of his, this man called "Erik" who was Christine's secret singing teacher and Raoul's rival. This Erik was, according to what Christine had told Raoul and Raoul had told his brother, skelettaly thin and horribly deformed. He'd look like a corpse. So if the manservant called the visitor 'creepy', could he be that mysterious 'Erik'?

"Looks like he's seriously ill," the manservant answered, "But his eyes - they really give me the creeps. He looks at you unblinking like a hunting wolf at his prey. Shall I turn him down?"

"No. Please show him to my study. I'll talk to him."

Count Phillippe took his place behind his desk, carefully placing the newspaper before him, open on the page with the headline "Vicomte and Primadonna" - as if it was a fairy tale. Surely such lies was exactly what poor girls with romantic fantasies wanted to read.

The door opened and a man entered. Comte de Chagny took in a sharp breath at the sight. The man who stood in the door was tall, not so tall he would be outstanding in any crowd, but certainly above average height. He was slim, so slim in fact, he looked like his clothes were hanging on a skeleton. The man was dressed in black, wearing a black suit, a black cloak, black scarf and black gloves. The dark clothing had clearly been made for a heavier man.

As the man took off his black fedora hat, he revealed a nearly bald head with only few strands of brown hair, his face was pale, nearly yellow. Phillippe had seen that sickly color in some men who never saw the sun or suffered from some severe illness. The cheeks were sunken in, the flesh so thin, one thought to be able to see the unusually large teeth through the skin of the cheeks, the malformed lips just barely hidden behind a black moustache. The eyes were deep in the sockets and dark circles under the eyes. Now the Comte understood why his servant had been scared - the light greenish-brown eyes staring at Phillippe from their deep sockets, the head of the stranger sligthly bend forward, he really gave the impression of a wolf on the hunt and his eyes stated as clearly as if it had been spoken: 'You are my next prey.'

Phillippe barely repressed a shudder. He suddenly felt cold, but refused to make a gaffe and insult his dark guest. So he got up and offered a seat before asking if the stranger wanted something to drink.

"No, thank you," the wiry man answered and took off his gloves, revealing bony fingers and hands with protruding veins. The hands looked disgusting enough without the makabre face, but as the man offered his right hand the Comte didn't refuse, so they shook hands and Phillippe was surprised by the strength in those cold, wiry fingers. It was like shaking hands with a bench vise.

"Please have a seat," Phillippe offered, still staring in those unblinking eyes, fighting the urge to look away. It was a childish game of stares but he refused to show any weakness.

"Thank you," the wiry man sat down with a graceful movement and placed his hat on his lap, the gloves in his hat. Phillippe wondered about the voice. He had never heard a more melodious voice, even those few words left no doubt that this was a wonderful voice.

"We haven't been formally introduced," the Comte began, leaning back in his chair, trying to get the upper hand in their staring contest.

"As if anyone in Paris wouldn't know you, Monsieur de Chagny," the other man replied with a sneer.

"I presume you might be Mademoiselle Daae's singing teacher and mysterious admirer?" Phillippe answered, trying to match the other one's haughtiness.

"Indeed."

"My brother told me your name was Erik?"

"My name is of no relevance in this. I came here to discuss the privte matter of your brother and my fiancee."

"Your fiancee?" Phillippe was taken aback. He had never thought his brother would propose to a woman who already was promised to somebody else.

"Yes, my fiancee Christine Daae," the creepy visitor replied, "And the outrageous behavior of your brother which damages her reputation."

"You want compensation? How much?"

Erik chuckled. "Money I do have aplenty," he answered, "This is a matter of honour."

Phillippe took in a sharp breath and got up. He went to the window, staring into the garden. What game was this strange man playing? What were the stakes? Phillippe turned round and faced Erik again, who sat in his chair absolutely calm and relaxed.

The Comte decided to start with a formal answer. "As you might know, duels are forbidden by law. And if they weren't my brother is the Vicomte de Chagny, he won't soil his sword on you."

The laugh that erupted from Erik's throat caused Phillippe to shudder in spite of himself. It was a low, quite laugh as if that man was just now watching him walk directly into his trap. Erik got up and stepped up in Phillippe's face, looking slightly down. Phillippe recoiled from the horrible face coming so close to his - and now he could clearly see that the other man's nose was just paper mache and the moustache was a false one. Phillippe involuntarily put a hand over his mouth and nose, fighting a wave of nausea that hit him with Erik's bad breath.

"What have you and your dear little brother ever done to rightfully earn whatever title and honour you claim to have?" Erik's voice was threathening and full of contempt, "You were just fortunate enough to be born. What great and honorable deed that is!"

"I won't suffer being insulted in my own home!" Phillippe snapped, but it would have sounded more convincing hadn't his voice been that high with fear. He could not bring hinself to be angry now, he was intimidated and scared, but did not dare shame himself and showing any weakness calling for help.

"As I would in mine," Erik answered softly and retreated a few steps, carefully watching the Comte who gasped of relief when the other's unbearable presence wasn't looming over him, "Which is precisely why I am here."

"If you want to challenge my brother - the answer has to be no for my brother won't lower himself to duel with you!"

"Your brother is the Vicomte de Chagny by luck of his birth. I am equal to an archduke, I earned rank and title in Persia with nothing but the power of my mind - the Shah of Persia raised me to the rank equal to an archduke when I singlehandedly defeated a rebellion - I faced them alone and they sank to their knees before the hooves of my horse. I risked my own life and rightfully earned rank and title. It is I who should not lower myself to duel with your brother!" Erik spat, breathing heavily in the effort to contain his rage, "But nevertheless I am willing to bear the shame and challenge him to a duel to defend Mademoiselle Daae's honour." This was not entirely true and both men knew it. Erik wanted to win Christine's hand in marriage and remove his rival, honour meant nothing at all to him, but right now it served him well that the Shah had raised him in rank just to annoy his court.

Phillippe gave it some thought. If this was true, this man had a much higher aristocratic rank than a comte, an archduke was such a high title he would be able to marry a princess of a royal dynasty. If this was true. But could that strange man who hadn't even told him his name be trusted in any way? Raoul had described his rival as a madman, a criminal, a ruthless kidnapper and liar. "Do you..." Phillippe cleared his throat and began the sentence anew: "Do you have any proof for your statement?" The Comte de Chagny was sure that the other man would never be able to bring any evidence for his too-fantastic-to-be-true story.

"Of course," Erik answered, "But you have to understand that I have been betrayed and sentenced to death for crimes I did not commit and the Shah of Persia thinks me dead. It would be very... unpleasant if the Persian embassy knew that I am still alive." Erik stopped to carefully study Phillippe's reaction and secretly admired the Comte's unmoving game face. "Sentenced to death - not stripped of title and honour!" he added, just to make sure the other man wouldn't misunderstand.

Erik secretly admired Phillippe's self-control. He had used much pressure and the man hadn't cracked, hadn't fallen out of his role as gentleman. Of course Erik had not missed how the other one paled and shuddered, how his hair stood on end, but Phillippe had not committed any incivility.

"There is a man who can verify my story without endangering anyone," Erik went on, "He is a prince of Persia, member of the royal dynasty, so you can be sure you won't speak with any man unworthy of your precious attention."