Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (39 page)

Her areolas gathered tightly, ready, as he brushed over them. She closed her eyes and sighed as he moved his mouth from her lips to press kisses all along her throat, sending dusky shivers down to her belly. He kissed a nipple with the slow, sensual swirl of tongue and lips and gentle teeth, making her twist beneath him, pulling desire from deep inside her with great, moving tugs.

Christine sighed, her breath becoming uneven as the delicious build started. Her hands moved through his thick hair, brushed over the broad, strong width of his shoulders as he made her moan and need. Made all of the ugliness dissolve.

Then he moved, shifting under the bedclothes. His hard, muscled
legs, covered with a soft brush of hair, slid against hers as he lifted himself over her, raising his face to look down at hers. She gazed into the darkness, up into the shadow where his face was, and over the breadth of his shoulders to where the moon shone in. He touched her with long, confident fingers, and she was ready, swollen and wet.

His breath came out in a long warm gust, a homecoming sigh, as he spread her legs, shifting between them, and at last…

“Oh,” she cried softly as he eased in, rested his face against her cheek, head bowed and shoulders raised, and moved. Slowly, oh so slowly, as though to savor the moment, to permanently imprint it on his mind, to draw out every bit of beauty in their joining.

Christine gently rocked beneath him, her eyes closed again, her hands in his hair, her body as full as it could be. She brushed her hands over his chest, felt the warm hair, the unevenness of his muscles moving beneath, the square edges of his shoulders.

“Christine,” he cried low and deep in her ear as he came, his great body trembling against her. She quivered her own release beneath him, the flush and bloom spreading from her pip up through her chest and arms.

She drew him down onto her, taking his weight with pleasure, the heavy body warm and comforting there in the dark room.

After a long while, she spoke, loath to break the peace, but the question clear in her tone. “Raoul?”

“He’s confined to the carriage. They’ll find him in the morning, after we’re gone.”

“He’s…not hurt.”

“No. A bump on the head. He never meant you harm, Christine. He couldn’t help but love you. As I do. And will.”

She smiled against him, moved her fingers over the two parts of his beloved face. “You are the man I love. The only one.”

“I want only to be with you, Christine. It’s nearly time for us to leave.”

She glanced toward the window. “The sun will be up soon.”

“I know. Our life together will begin in the sunlight, Christine. I’ll not hide in darkness again.”

“My angel.”

T
he Comte de Chagny was found in his private chambers four days after the great fire at the Paris Opera House. The cause of death was uncertain, but he was discovered in a most lewd position, his unclothed body spread-eagled from the waist down on an unusual-looking piece of furniture.

His bright red, well-used cock was erect; his body showed signs of whip marks and restraints, even a dark red line around his throat. But he had a lascivious smile frozen on his face, and although common rumor had it that he’d died a happy man, the official word put out by the Chagny family was that he drowned in a tragic accident.

Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, disappeared from the family château, never to be seen again. The story the servants told was that he and the beautiful Christine Daaé had run off to marry, against the
wishes of the
comte
, and they were bound for his ship to take to the sea.

La Carlotta, the prima donna of the Opera House, and Madame Maude Giry, the mistress of the ballet corps, created a strange alliance, and opened what became one of the most celebrated brothels in turn-of-the-century Paris. Their girls were known far and wide as the most beautiful, most accommodating, and most talented prostitutes in Europe, rivaling even those of Marcel Jamet’s establishment at 122 rue de Provence. Some of their most frequent visitors included Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, who, after the fire, gave up on opera theater and went back to their original, lucrative business of trash disposal.

According to her journals, Christine and Erik used the funds he’d saved from his years of salary paid by the Opera House managers, and sailed for America. They lived happily in New York City, where Erik wrote music and Christine performed onstage with the likes of Sarah Bernhardt.

Those patrons of the theater and music in New York became familiar with the man who wore a cream-colored mask covering half his face with the same flair a pirate might wear his eye patch. The women found him mysterious and dangerous, and half the men wished they had an excuse to don such an intriguing article.

Eventually, Christine and Erik would move to a newly thriving city called Hollywood, where they would use their musical talent to work on some theatrical productions known as moving pictures. Erik and Christine became friends with a young man by the name of Lon Chaney, who would eventually star in a film called
The Phantom of the Opera.

But that is, perhaps, best saved for another volume.

Dear Reader,

Not long after I finished compiling the documentation that became
Unmasqued,
in which was revealed the true story of
The Phantom of the Opera,
I was fortunate enough to acquire some personal effects that shed new light on another familiar tale: that of
The Count of Monte Cristo.

Alexandre Dumas’s novel of betrayal and revenge tells the story of the horribly wronged Edmond Dantès, and his bid for vengeance against the villains—his friends—who sent him to prison for fourteen years. The tale has been adapted for film and television, and has been translated and republished, abridged and dissected in numerous ways since its initial publication.

However, through my acquisition of the personal diaries and letters of one of the most pivotal players in the narrative, I’ve discovered that the story told by Dumas—along with its other adaptations—is incomplete and misleading.

I have had the pleasure of studying and organizing into a fleshed-out, chronological tale the journals of Mercédès Herrera, the first and true love of Edmond Dantès, who is as much a
victim of the events told by Dumas as Dantès was. Perhaps even more so.

Her diaries and personal letters bring to light a much different and more accurate chronicle about what occurred during the years of Dantès’s imprisonment, and what really happened when he came back to Paris as the wealthy, learned, and powerful Count of Monte Cristo.

In addition, her story reveals that there is much more that came to pass in her life and that of her lover after the pages of Dumas’s book have run out.

Thus, my next project will be to make public the true story—with all its explicit details taken directly from her personal effects—of Edmond Dantès and Mercédès Herrera, a pair of lovers separated by greed, jealousy, tragedy, and revenge.

It is the story of
The Count of Monte Cristo
as it has never been told before.

—Colette Gale

August 2007

Colette Gale
is the pseudonym of a historical novelist. She lives in the Midwest with her family.