Author's Note: My newest story about Erik and Christine. This story does not strictly follow any verse, but is influenced by all of them. It's NOT modern-day; my story takes place in the Mid 1800s. Within this story there will be elements of Phantom of the Opera, Beauty and the Beast, and Jane Eyre, but it is by no means a crossover. Visit my profile to read in-depth character profiles.

CHAPTER 7: After This Night

The following morning was a solemn one. It was filled with talk about the deceased ballerina who had once visited the château. Christine was deeply upset by the news and shaken by her guardian's reaction to it. Jeanne attempted to calm her and explain that despair can force a person to act in a way others cannot always understand. Though Jeanne had meant Sorelli, she realized the same went for her master.

When Christine's curiosity was satisfied, Jeanne suggested she should find something to occupy her time before lessons with Madame Giry. The girl wandered into the music room and ran scales for a few moments. She paused when she saw Monsieur Roinoir walking across the grass in his robe. He entered the gazebo and looked out toward the lake. As she looked on, he swayed and fell down on one knee.

Christine raced out the front door and around the house toward him. When she flew up the steps to the gazebo, he turned toward the sound.

"Monsieur, are you all right? I saw you fall. You should not be out of bed yet." She knelt beside him. One of her delicate hands grasped his shoulder and the other rested upon his wrist.

"I only needed fresh air, my cherub," he replied. He covered the small hand on his wrist with his own. "You won't tell Jeanne, will you?"

Christine shook her head.

"Perhaps we should sit on one of these fine benches, what do you think?"

Christine nodded.

In a swift motion, her guardian lifted her off of her feet and rested her on a bench. She remembered being lifted by him five years before, and told him so.

"You were as a feather then, and now you are the swan entire," he replied as he sat beside her.

Christine could not contain the great smile that spread across her face at these words.

"I must ask you to forgive my behaviour last night, I did not mean to frighten you. My spirits have been low and—"

Here Christine interrupted him. "Sorrow need not be forgiven."

"You are wise beyond your years, dear ward. It is true that I am grieved by this terrible event, and had half a mind to walk into that lake and never come back out again."

Christine gasped and threw her arms around the master of the house. "You mustn't say such terrible things," she cried. "Not after Sorelli, dear Sorelli. Promise me, monsieur, promise me."

The master drew her closer. "You will never hear such words fall from my lips again, my cherub. It was only grief tearing at my heart."

Christine's heart warmed and much of her sorrow was forgotten as her guardian held her. She did not remember her father, but she suspected he had held her in much the same manner. Her guardian had never understood the benefits of having a child, but the similar warmth that she caused inside him spurred an understanding of parenting.

"Madame Giry will be missing me," Christine whispered after a few moments had passed.

"Then you must learn your lessons," Monsieur Roinoir answered. Though he had not released her. When she shifted, he pulled away and motioned flippantly toward the château. "Off with you."

She rose and curtsied to her guardian. "Good day, monsieur."

Erik continued to stare out at the lake until Jeanne came calling for him hours later.

"Monsieur, I thought you had vanished," she scolded him as she approached the gazebo. The clearly exasperated housekeeper ascended the steps and stood before him.

"Did you think it or wish it, Jeanne?" He countered. Something like a smile appeared on his face, but was hidden beneath his bandages.

"You'll exhaust yourself and cause an infection." She leaned forward and lifted the bandage near what used to be his hairline. "It continues to bleed up here, you need to stay in bed until the flesh has closed."

"Tell me, Jeanne, did you expect to be my nurse as well as my housekeeper and nanny? Examining my bloody flesh and blisters?"

Jeanne withdrew from gazing at his wounds. "I am not prone to swooning, and your recently improved manner make it a considerably easier task. Also, after such news, you don't need me being stubborn."

Erik closed his eyes and moved his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose before he thought better of it.

"Perhaps we can compromise. If I bring you coffee in the library, would you come inside?"

Erik nodded, but said nothing. He followed Jeanne into the château and then found the softest chair in the library. While he waited for her, he stared at the immaculate state of the room. Each book was dusted and expertly stowed away. There wasn't a cobweb in the corner, nor a spot of soot on the fireplace rug.

Eventually, Jeanne returned with the a tray of coffee. She set it at the table beside him and sat in the nearest chair. It was clear her master did not want to speak, and that did not bother her in the slightest.

"You're a fine housekeeper," he finally whispered. "You do your work well."

Jeanne smiled. "I appreciate that, Erik."

"I'm trying to figure out what it is you are thinking. I know that you are not a stupid woman, and there must be something on your mind."

She paused and set down her cup before she began, "I have wondered if your burns and Sorelli's death are coincidental. I believe she set fire to you with that lamp and has taken her own life in penance and regret. The only thing I can't understand is why someone so sweet would do something so horrible."

Thinking quickly, Erik responded, "I ended our dalliances the day it happened. That night I awoke to the sound of shattering glass. I felt the heat on my skin and smelled the burning hair and flesh."

A rasping sigh escaped him and his fingers absently drifted across his bandages.

"I heard my own screams through the flames and I did what I could to put them out in my hysterical state." He paused and stared beyond Jeanne with shining eyes. "I believe Sorelli put out the flames and left me there. My screams alerted concerned neighbors and I was discovered unconscious on the floor soon afterward."

His eyes met with Jeanne's and her gaze was serious, almost harsh. He could not let on that there was more, some truth needed to remain obscured.

"She could have let me die…" Erik spoke almost wistfully.

"Though she didn't." Jeanne firmly grasped his hand. "I am glad for it. There is some great transformation working inside of you. It is true this tragedy will not disappear, but it does not mean you can't be a better man following it."

Erik scoffed and shook his head. "I don't believe I could ever be a good man."

Jeanne squeezed his hand. "Don't be ridiculous, I said 'a better man'."

Despite the severity of the situation, they both let a laugh burst forth.

"I think I shall retire until dinner is served. I would like to join you downstairs tonight." He stood hastily.

"Shall I have anything in particular prepared?"

He thought and gestured absently with his arms. "Whatever my ward prefers. I care for her to be happy, if it is only in some small way."

As he departed, Jeanne's lips slowly formed into an unexpected smile.

When dinner was about to be served, the master of the house descended the stairs in a fine suit. His face was freshly bandaged and his pain was manageable.

At the bottom stair, he heard the door knocker being struck. Firmin swept across the foyer and opened the large wooden door. A man he vaguely recognized waited outside, a grand horse was held by a groom behind him.

"Comte de Chagny, it is a pleasant surprise—" Firmin began.

"Though I regret to inform you, the household is about to take dinner," Erik interrupted.

A dispirited expression appeared on the Comte's face when he saw Monsieur Roinoir approaching the door. The Comte's eyes darted toward and away from the bandages and he bowed his head.

"As a neighbor, I only thought it attentive to offer my condolences and future assistance during this difficult time, Monsieur Roinoir. My physician is at your service."

"The news of my misfortune has spread, I see," Erik muttered.

"It was mentioned in the Paris newspaper the following day, monsieur." The Comte spoke almost sheepishly to him, which he considered strange. Phillipe de Chagny was his superior in all ways, and yet, he stumbled on his words. When the Comte's eyes shifted away, Erik turned.

Jeanne and Christine made their way down the steps. The same dispirited expression came over Jeanne's face when she saw the Comte at the door.

Christine, however, was filled with youthful elation.

"Philippe!" Christine cheered as she ran down the remaining stairs and leapt into the Comte's waiting arms.

"Dear, little Lotte, you've grown taller!" He exclaimed and patted the top of her head.

"You must come in for dinner! We're having apple tart for dessert. Jeanne made it just the way we like, with apples she picked this afternoon."

He sighed. "I must return home. I have only come to speak shortly with Monsieur Roinoir, and now I must be off."

Erik noticed that Jeanne had not moved since she saw the Comte.

"You must come again, later this week. Wednesday evening, perhaps? It would be an honor to be your host, but we have only a small meal prepared tonight. " Erik offered.

The Comte stole a glance at Jeanne, and nodded. "I thank you for your offer and accept the invitation, monsieur. This Wednesday evening."

Erik gave a limp wave as the Comte rode off, then forcefully slammed the door.

Jeanne was quiet during dinner, which gave Erik time to speak with an excited Christine.

"We must make the tart again this Wednesday. Philippe must have a fresh apple tart, and duck with orange sauce. Soup and custard, of course," Christine hesitated at her caretaker's wry grin. "Philippe is a favorite of ours, monsieur. He is like an uncle."

"I am pleased to hear my ward has an admirer with such a lofty situation," though he spoke to Christine, his eyes fixed on Jeanne.

"As I have told you before, he is a lovely man," Jeanne offered.

Jeanne prepared herself for a cutting remark from her master, but it never arrived.

Instead he informed Christine of his plans to take over her tutelage.

Christine was ecstatic at the news.

"You'll stay with us?" She exclaimed.

"That is my intention, dear ward. If it would please you."

Christine smiled and nodded her head vigorously. "Of course it should, monsieur."

Erik glanced at Jeanne, who appeared more sullen with each passing moment. When dinner was adjourned, each member of the household departed to their private rooms.

Jeanne awoke to her servant's bell being pulled. It remained dark outside and she quickly lit a lamp. Christine did not awaken as she stole through her room.

A maid intercepted her outside the door.

"Jeanne, there's something wrong in the master's room. It sounds like there's a war on in there—"

As the maid spoke, Jeanne heard a thundering crash from the direction of Erik's room. She raced to the room, and rapped sternly at the door.

The crashing sounds from inside ceased, but she could hear a sonorous gasping for breath from the master of the house.

"Monsieur Roinoir, please grant me entrance," she said calmly, and tried not to be flustered by the retinue of staff that had gathered down the hall. When he said nothing she repeated her self.

Once more, the master did not respond. Jeanne turned her back to the staff and tried again.

"Erik, open this door now. Christine has gone half mad with worry and she would like to know that her caretaker has not injured himself," she lied.

A moment later, Jeanne heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back. She cautiously entered the room and even in low light could see that Erik had set about destroying each piece of furniture in the room.

He had retreated to the far corner with a hatchet in his hand.

Jeanne closed the door softly. "Well, this is a grand mess that you've made. I truly look forward to cleaning it up in the morning." She shook a torn bed sheet from the bottom of her slipper and waited for Erik to respond.

"I had that bedstead carved and then sent to the château from Persia. Not a single craftsmen in Europe would create it for me, due to its nature. What do you think of that?" He challenged her.

Jeanne surveyed the naked bodies in devious positions that had once been carefully carved and were now hacked to bits.

"I should think any self-respecting craftsmen would refuse such a perverted demand," Jeanne reasoned.

The headboard and posts against the far wall remained, and Erik ran his hand over the post nearest to him.

"Perverted… yes." He nodded. "Sketches from my own mind. Depraved and immoral and wicked." As he spoke he flicked the hatchet toward the remaining section of the bedstead and it stuck fast in the wood.

When the weapon had left his hand, Jeanne rushed toward him and grasped his shoulders.

"Do you have a fever, monsieur?" She place her hand on his forehead, and checked beneath his bandages. He put up no resistance.

"I need to destroy them, dear Jeanne," he told her very seriously.

While Jeanne's eyes went wide, his remained pensive.

"Destroy whom?" She wondered.

"My wicked thoughts, and the places they have manifested. I must rid myself of them, and it has to be this way. It must be violence that drives them from my head and my life. From our lives." He looked toward the door and she knew he thought Christine was outside.

"You are talking pure madness, Erik. You've woken the entire household and they do not know what to think," her voice was firm, but she did not wish to upset him further.

"With each cleave, I am more at ease. My demons leave me, Jeanne. It is not lunacy, it is only release. This is my sorrow leaving me."

He leaned toward her and with a jerk, the hatchet came free.

A latent fear crept through Jeanne, and she thought that perhaps he believed his "wicked thoughts" manifested in her.

"Take it in your hand, dear Jeanne," he instructed and forced her to take it. "Now look at this post." He turned her toward the remains of the bed, then knelt down. He ran his fingers over an indentation and scarring in the wood.

She recognized the deep scratches immediately.

"I bound you like a prisoner, and laughed at your pain. I used your love for my ward as leverage for my disgusting intrigues. Tell me your heart isn't filled with hatred and that you wouldn't like to take a swing with that hatchet—"

As the words left his lips, the hatchet whistled down and severed the offending section of the bedstead clean off. Erik's fingers rested a hair's breadth from where the hatchet had sliced.

They stared at each other cautiously, and Jeanne slowly handed the hatchet back to the master of the house. He reached to the ground for a sheet and placed it in her hands once he reclaimed the hatchet. With the heel of the blade, he made a slit in the fabric.

"Tear it apart, Jeanne. Shred it in two, and then tell me that your soul doesn't feel more at peace," he ordered.

"It's barbarous… and I shouldn't have chopped so close to you hand," she replied, still holding the sheet.

"It's release."

She held his gaze as she gradually tore the sheet. He handed her another when she had finished, and then commenced the destruction of the bedstead himself. When Erik saw that she had finished ripping the second sheet, he produced a letter opener from his desk and threw a pillow at her.

"Shred it, shred all of it," he implored.

She glanced back at the door, knowing the staff was listening to the renewed commotion. Jeanne rested the pillow on the only table that could still stand and stepped out into the hall.

A dozen pairs of eyes followed her and waited for an answer.

"The master of the house is not harmed. The death of his very dear friend and his recent misfortune has upset him deeply. I would like to ask that you return to your rooms and allow Monsieur Roinoir to expel his grief in peace. We have all borne the loss of loved ones, and so I do not expect this reaction should appear to surprise anyone in this hall. I bid you a good night, and will expect a later rising from all tomorrow. Please stay abed for as long as you may need to reclaim the rest you have lost." Jeanne bowed her head regally and entered the master's room.

She took up the pillow and letter opener once more and slashed at it again and again, until feathers fluttered throughout the room.

Erik began hacking through another, and more feathers exploded into the air. They stuck in Jeanne's hair and the master's bandages.

"We should change your bandages now, if you've had enough destruction, monsieur," Jeanne laughed, and picked a few feathers from the linen wrapped around her master's head.

"Rebirth, Jeanne!" He proclaimed in an all-powerful manner she would expect from a stage-actor.

"Yes, yes," she agreed as she searched the sea of feathers for his dressings and ointment. She found the black bag trapped beneath a section of the fallen bed and was able to wrest it out with Erik's assistance.

They sat among the ruins as she removed his soiled bandages and began applying the ointment the doctor had left.

"The weeping wounds have all closed, I believe. I'm surprised you've torn nothing open with all this exertion. No more bandages in a few days."

"I think your calling in life is to be a mother, Jeanne," he remarked unexpectedly.

Jeanne leaned back and cocked her head as she continued applying the ointment. "What makes you say that, I wonder?"

"On one account, your patience—your understanding. The manner in which you've handled Christine. You would never raise a hand to her, would you? Even if she were your own."

Jeanne paused. "No, I would never strike her. I believe that cruelty only begets cruelty."

"And this." The master gestured to his burns. "You act as if the face you're staring at isn't a horror escaped from some damned nightmare. I have gazed at myself, despite the doctor's advice. I'm monstrous, Jeanne, and your eyes don't betray that when you look at me."

"You're scarred, you're not a monster," she reasoned and started redressing the wounds.

"I will wear the dressings after I'm healed. I cannot allow Christine to see this. The poor child would never sleep again. I must protect her."

"She will understand, Erik. There is nothing but kindness in her heart, and an altered face will do nothing to phase her." Jeanne smiled as she finished and tucked the end of the bandage into place.

Erik shook his head. "I won't take such a chance. I do not want my ward to fear me."

"As you wish," Jeanne assented. Her fingers groped in the black bag and she produced a vial of morphine.

Erik gathered his sleeve and prepared for the injection.

"After this night, the man I was will be gone. Tomorrow, I will do everything in my power to be an attentive caretaker of my ward and this home. I'll prove myself, I'll prove to you that it isn't some momentary mania."

Jeanne administered the morphine injection to Erik, and began tying a strip of torn bed sheet around her upper arm. She pulled back the plunger from the vial of morphine. She took in the wreckage around her and grinned at her master.

"It's as you said, 'after this night'."

Then Erik watched as Jeanne pressed down on the plunger and morphine filled her veins.