The Treasure *Phantom of the Opera* (sequel to The Quest)

Chapter 36

A/N: I know I don't say it as often as I should- but a big thank you to those who have voted and otherwise shown interest in this story. It is much appreciated. :)

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***Chapter XXXVI***

The history of a people is found in its songs.
~George Jellinek

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The Vicomte's earlier warning did not prepare Meg for the horror she witnessed as he moved through the devastation, far from the quiet tenement. At a juncture where two streets met, he halted suddenly, issuing a tight curse under his breath, then pushed forward again.

"Why are we going further into it?" she accused, coughing from the sudden fumes. "Turn around! Go the other way!"

"This IS the other way."

Meg blinked, staring at his grim profile, before her head turned to take in the massive confusion, the endless horror, unable to break away from its ghastly pull.

Bodies lay scattered all around in twisted, macabre disorder. Along an opposite building near a destroyed barricade, crumpled forms covered the ground from one end of the wall to the other, clearly assassinated. Men, a few women—with horror, Meg even noticed the small hand of a child sticking out from beneath another lifeless form. Violent fires burned the sky amid a volley of shots fired in the distance. Raoul dodged a dark puddle, and Meg realized with a sickening lurch of her stomach that blood pooled on the ground, not water.

"Don't look, Meg," he whispered, and she turned her face into the warmth of his neck, clutching him tightly. Her damp lashes wet his skin as the tears she couldn't suppress leaked from her eyes in silent mourning for her fellow Parisians. Communards or not, no one deserved to die like this, least of all a child!

How long they traveled, how far they went, Meg didn't know, couldn't again bear to look except for brief snatches to hope it was all some horrendous dream of her dark imaginings – only to find that the grisly sights had not abated, and the wide street on which they traveled appeared as if heavy fighting had taken place there. In the glow of flames erupting from a shelled building, she glimpsed soldiers' uniforms on several of the corpses, though the plain, drab clothes of the Communards covered most of them.

She sensed Raoul move in another direction, down another street, and dared to look again. Here no hell fires burned, no twisted bodies lay riddled with mortar, but the heavy, dark oppression in the air was still profuse enough to choke her.

They had gone some distance before she noticed the rapid rise and fall of his chest had grown more pronounced and he struggled to breathe. Small beads of sweat had popped out on his face, as it did hers, but she didn't think his strain entirely due to the overwhelming heat of the fires they passed.

"I need to find a place to rest and determine our next course of action," he said, as if realizing her thoughts. "Somehow, I have to get you out of here!"

He did not explain, but had no need to. If the soldiers spotted them from a distance they might mistake them for Communards, and if they ran into Communards, they might think them deserters. Or worse, they might suspect the truth. The Vicomte no longer wore the coarse clothing of the working class that he'd donned as a disguise during his many searches. Below the silver chain of his onyx cross, his shirt felt soft, made of the finest linen, and his traveling cape was thick with satin lining. With his aristocratic features and solid bearing, he looked every inch a nobleman and an enemy of the Commune. And what soldier would cease firing long enough to discern a difference?