Hello there everyone. I've noticed some other authors that I have read on here who like go give a little commentary on the story/chapter before it begins. I though that this might help shed some light on things as I have noticed that the chapters that seem to be skipped the most frequently are some of the most important. I first want to say that everything you see posted here is still in draft form and that this is part I of a much larger story. Because this is a draft, there may be a few minor errors that aren't noticable when you first read them, but might cause slight confusion as the story progresses. I will try to clear these up as we go along. This story is based primarily on the novel by Gaston LeRoux and the entire first part is somewhat of a retelling with both original characters and original content. Again, this is only a temporary working title, so if you have any suggestions, I would be more than happy to hear them and graciously thank you for your assistance in the matter. Please enjoy the story and write me your reviews; I love to read them. :)
Chapter one: Numbers in Blood
Paris, France August the twenty-ninth, eighteen eighty-five was a stormy evening about eleven o'clock. The evening gala was being performed at the Palais Garnier. They were giving Faustthat night, as usual, but this was no usual Faust. Earlier that day, the house's usual prima donna, Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, had mysteriously taken ill. No one is quite sure as to the why, but when they heard of their diva's sudden illness, the soon-retiring managers chose the young soprano playing the role of Siebel to fill in as Marguerite.
"A bold move," said one critic, "for the newly retiring managers to choose an inexperienced soubrette to fill in for the popular Spanish diva as their last act in management of the opera."
When asked later as to why they took such a risk, the former managers stated, "She has always shown much potential. We felt that it would have been more of a risk to have to cancel the performance." However, they had seemed to show absolutely no interest in the unknown artist before. The young soprano's name was Christine Daaé.
Currently, throughout the theatre rang the divine cry of Marguerite's invocation to the angels in the final trio.
Holy angel in Heaven blessed,
My spirit longs with thee to rest.
Christine sang these words with a divine rapture unlike any other that anyone had ever heard before. Her arms were outstretched, her throught filled with song, and tears streamed from her crystalline eyes as she gave forth this superhuman cry:
Holy angel in Heaven blessed,
My spirit longs with thee to rest.
The audience burst into a thunderous applause and the overwhelmed Christine fainted into the arms of her fellow performers. No one had ever heard anything quite as exquisite.
The audience left, every one of them wondering why such a treasure had been kept unknown to them for so long. And why did she not have that same splendour about her whenever she sang as Siebel? It was all a great mystery to them and even to the diva herself.
Later that night, after she had recovered from her fainting fit, Christine Daaé entered her dressing-room, exhausted.
"What a night...," she murmured to herself, and sat down at the vanity. It was a simple dressing-room with a vanity, an inner-room for changing in with walls of curtains as a privacy aid, a gas lamp, a few cupboards and drawers, a small table with two chairs, a hat rack, and near the vanity, a large mirror which stood on the wall from the floor to the height of a man. On the vanity was a small mirror, a telephone, a hair brush, a powder rag, a pen and ink well, a few sheets of paper, a jewelry box, and a myriad of other odds and ends collected by the diva. Christine sighed and began to brush her long blonde curls. She hummed the tune to a song from her home land, which she probably learned when she was very young, and remained in this far-off dreamy state of mind until she was awakened by the sound of the telephone ringing. Jutting back into reality, she picked it up and answered.
"Hello," she said.
"Hello. Umm... who is this," came a woman's voice, which was unfamiliar.
"This is Christine Daaé speaking."
"You mean theChristine Daaé? The opera-singer? I am a great admirer of your work, Mademoiselle Daaé."
"Do excuse me, but may I ask to whom do I speak?"
"Oh! My name is Willhemina. Willhemina Harker, or 'Mina' for short. Please do forgive me for not stating so earlier, Mademoiselle Daaé."
"So, Madame Harker, how exactly did you get the number for the telephone in my dressing-room?"
"I didn't know that it was the number for your dressing-room, honestly!" stated the woman on the other end frantically, "I'm staying at the inn next-door to the opera house and on the dresser in my room, discovered a note, written in red ink, with a telephone number on it. I was curious, so I dialed the number and..."
"Wait a moment!" interrupted Christine, " Did you say that you found a note written in red ink?"
"Yes. And might I also say that whoever wrote it should really work on their penmanship. It looks as if it was written with used match-sticks."
"Very odd...," Christine murmured gloomily.
"Come again?"
"It is just strange. The manager have been receiving similar notes written in red ink and addressed to them by the Opera Ghost."
"The Opera Ghost?"
"Yes," said Christine, "There is a superstition that has been spread throughout the Opera of a ghost that haunts it. He frightens the dancers, blackmails the managers, and sits in box five at every performance. It seems a bit ridiculous though. A lot of nonsense if you ask me. I cannot believe how many people actually believe in that silly tale. It is just like the legend of Don Juan. Only made to frighten one."
"Legend or not, why would anyone want to leave me the number for the telephone in your dressing-room?"
"I do not know...," and she heaved a sad sigh, "Well, enough of this ghost business. Let us talk of something a bit more cheerful. Have you a lover?"
" I beg your pardon?"
"A lover."
"Oh! No, I haven't. And you?"
"Well... yes. In a way. We were childhood sweethearts. I am not quite sure if he remembers me though..."
"Oh, that's too bad... Hey! Wait a moment! What is that?"
"What is what?"
"There is a trap-door beneath the bed."
"A trap-door?"
"Yes. I wonder where it could lead to..."
"Wait! It would not be wise for one to go down on one's own."
"But who am I to go with?"
"I would volunteer."
"You would?"
"Yes. I am just as eager to find out who put that note in your room as you are. It is a very curious matter..."
"Very curious indeed."
"I will tell you what, I shall come to the inn tomorrow after rehearsal and we shall go down together. Is it a deal?"
"Deal. I guess I shall see you tomorrow. Good-night, Christine."
"Good-night, Mina."
At this, Christine hung up the telephone. She took a brief glance in the large mirror. Satisfied, she walked over to the hat rack and from it took a fur coat, which she put on over her dress. She walked over to the door of the dressing-room, put her hand on the knob, and blew out the lamp, causing the room to become flooded with darkness. She left after first saying these strange words which no one quite understood:
"Good-night, and thank-you, my dear Angel..."