Whenever Raoul thought of the Old Count --his father, in actuality-- he got chills. He shouldn’t have, but he had to admit he was still half afraid of him. Not that he was a mean person; certainly he wouldn’t have been; Count Philibert raised three wonderful children who, in turn, raised Raoul. It was never stated -- the Count did not approve of words of endearment in his presence. Raoul, himself had mixed feelings on his father both alive as he was and dead as in the present. Was there love to be given from so emotionally cold a man?
His thoughts meandered in a clouded nostalgia of near-repressed emotions.
I wanted love. I never knew for sure if - if -- a quiet tear leaked out. Could he cry for this man? This man who he spent twelve years living with but never really knew! He had a father figure; in fact, he had two: Philippe and M. Daaé.
The Old Count actively avoided Raoul’s pursuits of knowledge and interest and dismissed words of affection. No pet names -- to hear the word “Father” from Raoul caused the man great pain. Raoul had a strong idea why -- but he had never said it aloud, not even to Philippe (though he assumed Philippe had a better picture of the exact reason, being twenty years older).
Was this what he felt he had to say? Why bother. But he had to let the words be free -- he had to -- as a last cutting remark? Maybe. To let the past finally go? Far more likely.
Once he had the words perfectly constructed in his mind, his mouth quivered. He couldn’t state it -- not in a way that he had planned. He wanted it to sting. He wanted to hurt a dead man who could hear nothing. At this he wondered if his own father had gone up above or had sunk to the depths below.
Instead, he phrased it as a question -- a demand, rather. A disrespectful, open-ended plea -
❝I reminded you so much of her -- and you loved her ... why didn’t you love me...?❞
