Chapter Eleven

“Catherine.” She stirred, the voice warm and familiar melting her insides. “Catherine Giry.” The man standing over her stroked her brow lightly. “Catherine, I love you, but I need to know the truth. Catherine.” Her eyelashes fluttered against her pale skin, and he pressed a kiss to her lips. She turned her head, then her eyes blinked open and she found herself staring into the face of Richard Firmin.

“Say it again, Monsieur.”

“What?”

“My name, Monsiuer.” She smiled slightly, biting her lip.

“Catherine. I love you, Catherine.” The look she gave him was inviting, and he kissed her again. “I love you.”

“Oh!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his lips to hers. He pulled her to him, his hands supporting her head and back like she was a small child. She laid her head on his shoulder, a small sob choking out of her. “Monsieur, I don't know what happened in there! I don't even know this ghost. I swear my late husband is Meg's father. Please, Monsieur, say you believe me!”

“I do, Catherine,” he whispered into her hair. “I do now and I always will. Don't you hear? I love you!” She backed out of his arms, and he knelt, running a hand through his thick salt-and-pepper hair, his nerves raw as steel. “Catherine, I want you to marry me. Say you will.”

“I don't know how I could refuse you, Monsieur. I will.” She smiled, and he picked her up by the waist, and twirled her round and round, her giddy peals of sudden laughter (the first he'd ever heard from her) soaring like music throughout her bedchamber. He finally put her down to kiss her again, and she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back, the girl in her revived by his touch and his words.

Meanwhile, Meg wandered the streets of Paris, searching for an escape and finding none. She was so tired, her skirt was so heavy, and her stomach growled with hunger. She sat on a curb, holding her aching head in her hands, trying to sniff back her tears. She was so tired that she didn't hear the footsteps thudding heavily on the ground beside her.

“Mademoiselle?” She looked up in surprise at Andre.

“What?”

“You're upset over something, Mademoiselle,” he said, charm oozing from every pore on his body. He laid a hand on her back, and he was furiously trying to get it off when he commented, “You are a feisty little brat,” and dragged her into a nearby hut by her arms.

“Let go of me, you son of a...”

“Now, now, don't go bringing those masculine phrases down on me. I want feminine charm, not a hellcat!” He reached up to touch her face, then quickly drew his hand back, shaking it to get rid of the sting from Meg's slap.

“Don't touch me!” she cried. “I am not your whore to do with as you please! Get away from me!”

“Hold your tongue!” he whispered, fondling her hair. Outside the little place, a girl listened silently for the sound of his voice again, but it did not come. Instead, she heard an unmistakable cry for help before a loud slap and the bone-chilling sound of a corset tearing. She turned and ran for the nearest police station. One look at her flushed face and heaving sides told the officers all they needed to know. They each grabbed a gun and followed her back to the dwelling, where Andre was just coming out.

“Halt, you're under arrest!” one armed guard cried, aiming his gun at the man's stomach.

“For what?” he growled. “That girl is my property. I pay twenty-thousand francs a month to keep her nearby.”

“That's a lie!” the girl cried from inside. She emerged, wiping her bloody hands on her green gown. “I live at the Opera Populaire, and this man pays a salary of twenty-thousand francs to the Opera Ghost. It has nothing to do with Meg.”

“Come on,” the policeman snarled. Another slapped thick handcuffs on his still-twitching arms.
“Just you wait!” Andre cried to the girls furiously, “I'll get you for this!”

“Shut up!!” the officer roared. Andre ducked his head, and they led him away on the charges of accosting women.

In the hut Meg lay on the floor unconscious. Her dress lay torn and tattered on the floor. The ripped corset lay on top of it, and blood pooled on the floor from the place where her delicate virgin flesh had been torn to shreds. She had a hand-shaped slap mark across her face from where Andre had chastised her, and her breast and stomach were badly bruised. Her breathing seemed labored. The girl who had come to her aid knelt beside her, salty tears mixing with the freshwater that she was bathing Meg in.

Meg groaned and her eyes fluttered open. “Christine,” she moaned. “Where's Raoul?”

“Good god, Meg!” Christine cried, dropping the wet sponge. She bent over her friend, hugging her gently. “Meg, I was so scared!”

“You were scared, Christine? You didn't have that brute all over you!” Her voice was faint, and it frightened Christine.

“Oh, Meg, I'm so sorry! I wanted to try to help you!”

“You tried.” She took a deep, agonizing breath, wincing. “But who will help me now? I must get home – my mother will be terrified!” She grabbed Christine's hand and pulled herself up shakily, looking down at herself. “Oh, look at me!” she sobbed, running a hand over her bruised body. The strips of fabric that Christine had tried to cover her with were encrusted with blood. She swayed, moaning.

“No, Meg, you must stay awake!” Christine cried , catching her friend before she slipped to the cold wooden floor.

“The gypsies,” Meg whispered. “Find Tom.” Her eyes closed and Christine struggled under her weight. If the gypsies could help, then to the gypsies it would be. She laid Meg gently on the floor, covered her with the remains of her clothes, and ran out the door, just barely remembering to lock it behind her.