• "What child is this who laid to rest..." sang the viscount himself, Raoul de Chagny. His wife, Christine, with a sigh, placed her hands on her growing baby in her womb. She felt her mind traveling along a familiar path, and softly surrendered to her thoughts.

    That night. Oh, how often she thought about that night. The night where she had pledged herself to Erik, the heinous man who kidnapped her to live with him under the Paris Opera House, how she promised that she would life with him as his wife. She could see the scene now. Her tears running down her face, his musky body pressed close to hers, begging for her forgiveness for making her cry. How he asked her to do something with him, now that they were married. Their bodies tangling in the bed, the sharp pain that followed, then the sweet bliss. Oh, how she loved the way it felt to have him be one with her, not two seperate beings.

    The next morning, Erik said she could go free. "You have given yourself to me in love, Christine. That is all I could ever hope for with a face like this. I will let you go and die a happy man. Please, Christine, don't cry for my sake. Live with the man you truly love." He let her go, and she obeyed his command. She had lived happily with her love, Raoul, for the past three months.

    Raoul saw the glazed look in her eyes and held her to his breast. "Christine," he murmured in her ear, "the baby will have you eyes. I can see it now."

    'Oh Raoul!' thought Christine. 'If you only knew! I know we've spent many nights together, but still...'

    'It's not "What child is this?" but "Whose?"'