Author's Note: Obviously, I don't own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. Not to say that I wouldn't like to own one. –cough cough- But anyhow, onward. I love reviews—oh, isn't that so ironic? There's a review button at the bottom of the page—and I would appreciate a few. Oh, just a few. Constructive criticism is great, so don't hesitate to list all of the things I've done wrong or could improve on. I hope you enjoy the first chapter. If enough of you have, who knows, I may just write a second. ^_~
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Christine gazed longingly at a diamond necklace that lay unavailable to her behind the glass of a Paris shop. Oh, how it glimmered! And yet she knew that she did not have enough money to buy it. Even if she did, what use would it be? Christine did not have fancy enough clothes for it, nor was she extremely beautiful like some of the women of Paris. A glamorous necklace like that one on such a drab, homely-looking girl... No, that necklace was not for her; yet still she memorized the gorgeous tear drop myriad that hung from the round, silver chain.
Christine sighed sadly. 'Perhaps one day I'll own nice things like jewelry and pretty dresses,' she thought, pulling her wool coat close about her shoulders. The November wind bit at her severely, and seeing that the sun had dipped considerably in the sky so that various hues of purple and orange occupied the normally clear blue canvas, she started for home.
Her heart was heavy. It had been years since her father's death--What, six, seven perhaps?--though she still thought of him regularly. The two had traveled villages, singing and laughing... At the end of the day, they would have only just enough food between them, yet this did not matter. Christine had a companion; she had a friend. She had a dream.
She remembered the old stories her father would tell her of the Angel of Music, how such an angel would bless the very fortunate souls with the ability to compose, or perhaps to sing. Of course, Christine had waited for the Angel all of her life, and still he had not come. Surely her father lied to her; surely it was one of the old wives' tales. Or mayhap she simply was not blessed by the Angel, and would never be.
The streets became more and more empty as she walked, with only a mere passer-by every now and then as the sky darkened until only the moon shone, round and glorious, abandoned by her smaller and more distant sisters. Despite the light provided from above, it was still a dark night, for the lamps upon the street of her home--or rather, a small cottage loaned to her by the only friend she had ever had since her father's death, whose name was Rachelle, and who also was laid to rest in her earthly grave--the lamps upon the street of her home were dull and distant, hardly lighting the path beneath her feet.
Christine was almost home, though all the same, an eerie chill crept over her body. It was cold; she was now alone; and she could have sworn that someone was watching her, if she had had the time to voice it. Instead, she felt something graze her shoulder. Christine hesitated. At first she did not know what to make of this. It felt just as if the wind had simply brushed past. However, there was no wind tonight. Christine felt her heart leap to her throat and begin beating rapidly. Something was behind her. No doubt it could not be a man--not a mere man! The touch, if that is what you would like to call it, could not have been made by any human, she was quite sure...
"I am sorry if I startled you," came a voice. Christine spun about lightly, her breathing a little further increased. She would have screamed, yet something stifled it within her throat, and pushed it back down. That something was astonishment, curiosity, and awe, all rivaling to take control of her soul simultaneously. The voice was so beautiful... A man's voice... However, she could not tell if this spectre was truly a man or not, for upon the whole of his face was a mask so black that she had trouble distinguishing it from the rest of his garments. They were nice clothes, undoubtedly expensive, and too, like the mask, were an obsidian colour, although not quite so dark... Not quite so ominous...
"I simply saw you passing by. Forgive me for easing my curiosity, Christine—what reason have you to be away from home in this hour of night? It is no place for such a healthy youth as yourself to be, out on the streets of a shadowed Paris."
Christine looked deep at the mask where two holes should have been cut for eyes. However, all was so dark... His clothing, the mask, the lamps, even nature itself... She could see no eyes belonging to a human, and could not even tell if there were places for them to show through, if they were there. Yet after hearing the stranger's voice a second time, this factor no longer seemed to bother her. In fact, she was so intent on listening, that she did not even catch him speak her name. She heard only the melody of his tone, and how his words, flawless, strung together in such harmony. If only he would speak again!
The masked man watched her for a moment. Christine was not sure how she knew he was watching, though she knew. She felt his gaze boring past her awkward appearance, searching deep within her for something she could not name, something she did not even know existed, perhaps. She heard herself reply to him, although felt as if she had been plunged into some dream—everything was vague to her, almost controlled by some other, separate entity altogether.
"I was walking home. I live not far, you see. In fact, I only came into town to speak with the keepers of a theatre; I'm trying to get some role in an opera. I used to sing as a child, and I'm hoping that I can make a living by singing once again, if they will accept me."
"I know."
Somehow, Christine sensed that she should have been unnerved by his answer, yet the spectre's soft, unhurried demeanor convinced her that this was not so. No, of course it was not so! She did not question how he 'knew,' or even why she had told him about her evening. She simply looked at him, that hard mask that contained what she imagined to be a handsome, comprehensive face, and his gloved hands folded about one another atop what appeared to be a cane of some sort.
He spoke again.
"You must return home, Christine. It would be such a tragedy should anything happen to you this night." His voice floated upon the air softly, the epitome of persuasiveness in all its cunning glory. And in this, Christine was compelled to turn and flee that very moment, although found that she could not.
Dipping her head like a scolded child, Christine shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them once more, she had been filled with a desperate urge to know his name. She must know it! She had to inquire for it! She opened her mouth and looked back up, although before she had time to speak, she again was rendered speechless.
The masked spectre was no longer there.
...
Christine groaned sleepily, turning over beneath the comforter of her small mattress. She felt sunlight beat against her eyelids, therefore she opened them, and looked about the plain, almost completely unadorned room. Her body was wrought with weariness; why did she tire so? Normally she woke early, refreshed, and in a fairly good mood. Today, however, was different. There was something strange about today...
It was then that she recalled a man in black, who spoke to her in a dim, lonely street. It was so bizarre! 'It must have been a dream,' she thought, a small degree of uneasiness rising within her. 'Yes...all of it a dream.' Christine lay there upon her back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it all to return. It did not, and after a short span of time she got out of bed and readied for the day.
For most of the morning the dream was put out of her mind. She would have no truck with it. It was unimportant. Instead, she waited eagerly for word from the Paris Opera House; if all went well, Madame Giry—a woman she had met the day before, who she regarded quite highly—would be dropping by at noon with news that she had earned a place in Il Muto. It did not even have to be a very charming role; just something she could sing, something from which she could gradually earn a main lead one day.
The shock came somewhere around eleven o' clock. Christine turned on the radio, having nothing better to do, as the house was clean and lunch was made so that it would be ready upon Madame Giry's arrival.
"Last night—some time around half past nine o' clock—a body was found by a member of the Parisian police department on Rue Vignon, only a few streets away from the Paris Opera House. The man seems to have been stabbed once, although no evidence of the aggressor has been found. The identity of the man..."
"Oh, oh my God," Christine gasped, clutching the counter upon which the radio sat with one hand, trying to steady herself. Blackness was swimming in her mind. Eventually, after much gasping and pleading, Christine found that she was stable again, although quite clammy and with sweaty palms. "I was on Rue Vignon last night," she mumbled in a half-whisper, "and around nine o' clock, at that... Oh, my God! My God... So he was not a dream... He warned me... Or did he...? Is he real...? My God... My God..."
Christine heard no more of the radio—perhaps it was that she did not want to hear—and with a trembling hand turned it off, staggering to the kitchen table and slumping into one of the three wooden chairs. She coughed, gasped again, and regained her breath, still slightly shaken. So there had been a murder on Rue Vignon; the man in her dream—if it was a dream—had warned her to go home.
"You must return home, Christine. It would be a tragedy should anything happen to you this night. ..."
Christine did not notice that she was crying until a tear rolled off of her cheek, spilling onto one of her hands with a cold splash that made her start. Whether she might have been a random victim of the murderer, or if she was really being stalked by some insane psychopath, she knew that she was now a part of the case. And the masked man... How did he know beforehand of the crime? Was he a part of it? By now, it had worked into her mind that he had really stood before her and uttered that warning, "you must return home," on Rue Vignon. He must have. He was there. He was not a dream.
Paranoia had settled over Christine, therefore when she heard the boisterous knock at the main door, she leaped to her feet, shuddering even more so than before. It did not occur to her that it could be anyone save the murderer or the masked man, and she did not wish to see either of them. Plain and poor though her life was, it was never disrupted nor unruly; she wished it to remain that way.
"Christine? Christine Daae? Goodness, girl, open up! I'm not going to wait all day, you know."
Both relief and panic took the place of Christine's paranoia. So it was Madame Giry! Thanks to the heavens above that it was not anyone from the police department, or possibly worse... However, this reaction was also countered with anxiety that Madame Giry would sense something was wrong. It was obvious that Christine did not look at all normal. Her usually bright cheeks were now utterly pale, and her eyes glittered with tears, some of them clinging to her long lashes.
'Oh, I have to let her in,' she thought. 'I can't simply let this go by! If I have any luck at all, then after today, I'll never hear about any of it again, and I can go on and be part of the Opera or maybe some other theatre and I can live happily and in peace...'
Christine stood, pushed in her chair, and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her off-white sweater. They still shone irregularly, although this could easily be excused with, "Oh, Madame, I'm just so terribly excited, and at the same time so worried!" As for her discolourment, well, perhaps Madame wouldn't notice. They had only met once, after all.
By the time she reached the door, Christine appeared almost entirely fine, and grinned as much as she could bear upon seeing the plump face of Madame Giry.
"Madame! Oh, I have so looked forward to this...!"
"Yes, yes, I know. The others have already talked everything over, my dear, although I'll hesitate to tell you right away. Speaking of telling, have you heard? It was on the radio all this morning; knowing that you didn't live too far, I was slightly worried for you. Are you alright?"
Christine felt fear bubbling within her soul. She showed in Madame as she spoke, and shut the door, swallowing a knot in her throat before replying, "Yes—yes, I'm fine." Of course she had heard. Of course she knew; she had known before anyone else! Everyone save the masked man, perhaps...
"Well, I just wanted to be sure. After all, it was only eight thirty that you left Palais, and I was a tad concerned."
Christine said nothing. Madame Giry walked with her to the kitchen where Christine fetched the tray upon which two cups of tea and cookies were placed, setting it on the kitchen table before her guest. She then sat down, although still could find nothing to say, and kept her eyes adverted away from Madame.
Apparently, the situation was awkward, and Madame Giry could do no more than find something else about which to speak. This was just as well, because Christine knew that she would have been unable to find words to say. Sure, she might have come up with something, yet it was easier for it to be as it was.
"Oh! Also, I am dreadfully surprised that it should be Philippe de Chagny who should be murdered. Didn't that just shock you so? My hand flew to my mouth, I dare say, because it came as such a surprise. Imagine that. Now, who would want to do away with monsieur Chagny?"
"Philippe? Oh, no, Madame—surely not!" Christine's voice was quiet, although partially stunned. The Count? Murdered? For some reason, an image of the masked spectre came back to her. Had he done this? If so, was she the only person who knew? Of course, she was not even entirely sure that the spectre was human at all... So if this was the case, what was truly going on? Christine shuddered, the confusion terribly overwhelming. She might have cried again were not Madame Giry sitting before her.
"Yes, my dear, it is so! Oh, now, don't quiver like that. I do not think you knew him personally. Yes, everyone knows him, but I think only one person has taken it terribly hard. That would be Raoul, the viscount. The poor dear! I saw him just this morning at Palais, and he was sobbing."
Christine looked up at Madame Giry, and the atmosphere between them became tense and melancholy. Neither of them dared venture so far as to say a word. In fact, the two felt the whole subject should be dropped, and for a long moment they remained silent as before.
"By the way, darling," Madame said gravely, "the others have debated and decided. You have earned a place in next month's performance of Il Muto."
...
Author's Note II: By the way, could any of you kind people tell me exactly what role Christine had in Il Muto? I'm not sure of the Leroux book or the Webber musical mentioned that little fact at all, but I would like to know just for authenticity. Thanks ahead of time if you're willing to answer my question; I'll adore you for so long as I shall write. Or at least so long as I'm writing this fanfiction.
~Miranda.