The Colors of the Queen
By Angel of Iowa
Copyright 2016
"There is no Phantom of the Opera!" Raoul sang from behind her.
Christine stiffened and turned around. "How can you say that, Raoul? A man was hung onstage in front of your own eyes and those of the audience. How can you still insist that what I say is false?" She asked in disbelief.
"Christine, you are clearly unnerved and frightened. I agree, it was a tragedy, but it was an accident. He fell and must have somehow gotten the rope wrapped around his neck." He said, attempting to soothe the young woman standing before him.
"No Raoul…this was no accident…this was the work of a man…" She told him slowly. 'One that captivates my heart and mind with his music, until I cannot escape.'
"Christine, please! The catwalks are a dangerous place, I heard Madame Giry say so myself. It was a horrible accident." He came up behind her and turned her to face him, keeping his hands firmly on her shoulders. "I'll bring you home with me tonight, that way you can rest and calm your nerves without any other men trying to claim your attention and time. Perhaps we can…catch up on what we have missed in each other's lives over dinner?" he asked.
Christine stared at him in shock. 'Dinner? Go home with him? Any other men? Does he mean my Angel?' she wondered. "Raoul, I'd be honored, b-"
"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "I'll retrieve you from your dressing room a little while after the performance concludes, so you may have time to change and pack an overnight bag. Now, we must hurry; they'll be resuming the performance soon." He grabbed her arm and began to pull her towards the door they had come out through.
"Raoul, stop! Listen to me!" she pulled her arm back from his grip. He turned and looked at her questioningly. "Please, Raoul, I need a few moments alone to collect myself. You go back in, the managers will surely appreciate the help of a patron in reassuring the crowd. I'll be down in a minute." She said.
"Are you sure? You were rather unsettled by the accident." He asked.
She forced a smile, yet underneath she was seething. 'It wasn't an accident!' "Yes, Raoul, I'll be fine. There's no one but us up here."
Nodding his acquiescence, he left down the stairs, and Christine stood alone on the rooftop looking over the streets of Paris, under the starry winter night sky. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a breath of the crisp air, before calling, "I know you're there, Angel. Please, come to me. I want to speak with you."
For a few breathless moments, all was silent, and she wondered if she really sensed him, or if it was only wishful thinking. Then, the sound of snow crunching under boots was heard, and her Angel appeared from the back of the statue of Apollo's Lyre.
He came to stand before her, silent except for his footsteps, and the sight of him took her breath away. Tall and well-built, he seemed to be appropriately dressed for a night at the opera, the capelike style of his cloak presenting an image of a storybook king of old, rather than that of a dandy like many of the men she had seen wearing that style in the past.
"Yes?" his voice startled her out of her reverie. She blushed crimson, and looked down at the ground. The memory of what had occurred, what he had caused to occur not fifteen minutes ago sobered her, and the slight smile dropped from her face.
"What happened tonight wasn't an accident, was it?" she asked in resignation. He shook his head. "You killed him. You killed Joseph Buquet."
"I did. You knew this already, Christine. I heard you tell that boy so." He answered curtly.
"But why? Why would you kill him? I know that he has often told tales of you, to scare the dancers, but telling stories surely cannot be a crime. You-you don't even remotely match the description that he gives us in them! You clearly have a nose, and I have felt for myself that your skin bears no resemblance in either appearance or texture to yellow parchment! So why did he die?" she asked.
The Phantom sighed and stepped closer. Christine refused to back away, staring into his clear emerald eyes with an unexpected fierceness that both ignited his blood and made him want to turn away in shame. "Buquet…he was a drunken sot. As are many of the other stagehands, but him most of all. And the stories he spread about me nearly broke the rule of silence. But even if he had, none would have believed him; they would have thought it nothing more than drunken ramblings." He turned away, and walked to the edge of the rooftop, gazing out over the rooftops and quiet streets of Paris. "However, of late his actions became more and more suspicious, verging on dangerous. He managed to spot me on the ceiling tier by the chandelier, and followed me through the door. The door itself isn't secret, it's simply hidden in the pattern and used when the painting needs cleaning. But this time, he got too close, and almost managed to catch me."
"You killed him simply because he almost caught you? That isn't enough justification, Angel, and you know it, and so do I. So what is the real reason for his death, that you are so reluctant to tell me?" she questioned.
The Phantom sighed, and closed his eyes in pain. "Christine, please understand, I did not have any choice but to dispose of him, for the safety of all the women who work here, but also for your safety personally. Buquet…he was far too fond of girls, the younger ballet girls in particular. That's why I locked you in your dressing room last night; he had drilled a hole into the wall of your dressing room and I did not want to see what I knew he had planned. If he had gotten to you before I did, Christine, and had done what he had planned to do, I would have torn him limb from limb in vengeance, and none in this world, not even you, would be able to stop me." He broke off there, hoping that Christine would read between the lines of what was said and what was meant, and he would not be forced to say the dreadful words aloud.
Apparently, in her remarkable innocence, she could not. "Angel, I don't understand. You locked me in? Why? Buquet was simply a harmless annoyance, too drunk to be dangerous."
"He was more of a monster than I am, Christine! His wife – now his widow – has been seen to walk about the city with bruises and scrapes all over her face, and more than one ballet girl has had to leave this place for her own protection, because he forced himself on her." He paused, and turned around to look at her. "Do you remember Jeanette Binet?"
"Somewhat. I was only twelve when she left. But nothing happened to her, she got married and left to live in Italy with her husband – Pierre, I think his name was." She answered in confusion.
The Phantom shook his head. "No. That's what I instructed Madame Giry to tell all of you, to prevent fear from spreading through the ranks of the dancers to you, and rendering your naïveté. Joseph Buquet forced himself on Jeanette, but this time, it didn't stop there – he got her with child. This is a man's world, my dear; he claimed he hadn't ever touched her, so he hadn't touched her. She was sent away in disgrace, and I don't know what happened to her." He said.
Christine's eyes widened and her hand came up to cover her face. 'Dear god. He-he would have done that to me. Oh god…' she sank to her knees, light-headed as the blood drained away from her face. She gulped. "I see. So-so you did…this to protect me? Why?" as he turned away from her, more and more questions sprang into her head. "Who are you, and what am I to you, that you would do this dreadful deed for me? What do you wish of me? From me?" she pleaded, standing up.
The Phantom's lithe form abruptly tensed. "You must return. You are needed to perform as The Countess, and even my influence cannot excuse you from being more than a few minutes late. Return to your dressing room. Go." He commanded, ignoring her questions.
"I will not return to my dressing room without answers! Please, Angel, I need to know. Why will you not tell me?" she asked once more, coming closer with each word that left her mouth.
At the light touch of her hand on his shoulder, The Phantom turned around and gripped her by the wrist, hard. "Get back to your dressing room, you foolish child! I cannot answer your questions, not now, perhaps not ever. Now go!" he roared, releasing her with an angry flourish, his eyes having turned from their normal dark, mysterious green to a hard, furious grey, glinting like flint in the moonlight.
Christine released a cry of fear, and raced to the door, throwing it open. Just before she could go through, and reenter the world below, she looked back at The Phantom, who faced away from her, arms crossed and shoulders rigid. "I'm sorry, Angel." She whispered, knowing he would not hear, that the snow would catch the sound before it reached him. Then she turned and closed the door behind her, descending the stairs into the opera house.
Once she had left, the tension in The Phantom's shoulders disappeared, and he let out a sigh of relief. 'That was too close. She cannot ever know all of your secrets. But why? If she is ever to consent to sharing her life with me, she'll need to know all of who I am. But too much can be just as destructive as too little; or have you forgotten what happened?'At this he cringed, thinking back to that horrid day. 'As if I could ever forget! You're right, I can't tell her, for her sake. I can't let that happen to her. And it won't, so long as she doesn't know. But you must go back now, or you shall miss her performance, and you may be needed once again to protect her from the boy. Yes, master.'
As he descended the hidden stairs, he heard the music for the opera start up again. 'Light comedic trash. This is not what keeps a theatre running! So what are you going to do about it, hmm? You, and you alone have the power to change what music plays in your kingdom. I cannot do anything, these managers will not obey me! They think I am but theatre superstition! If fear cannot motivate them, greed can. You've seen the way they look at the girls, at Christine; they are here for a fortune, for the fame owning an opera house will give them. They are not artists; they will run this theatre into the ground if you do not interfere. But what can I do? I have no better option for them. So create one. Create an opera so dark, so dramatic, so perfect that they cannot help but perform it. You will captivate their minds, their hearts, their very souls with your music. But what good will it do, if they don't know who the composer is? Don't you see? That's the beauty of it: you reveal yourself as the composer at the end of the opera, and the audience will be so astounded, that they won't care about the mask. Not care about the mask…? How is such a thing possible? I have spent my whole life trying to avoid society, for it shunned me first. No! I will not do it, they do not deserve my genius. It will be wasted on them, and so will the truth. Perhaps the truth will, but not the music. Not your genius. They will accept you for it…love you…and so will Christine. You can finally have what you have always dreamed of, and all you need to grasp it is the perfect opera. And what do I call this perfect opera? Don…Juan…Triumphant.'
Christine drew in a ragged breath, a disbelieving smile on her face. Piangi turned to her and took her hand, a genuine, supportive smile on his face. He kissed the hand he held in his own, and they both took a final bow toward the audience as the curtains closed.
A gaggle of ballerinas and chorus members immediately surrounded Christine and Piangi, clamoring for their attention.
"Christine, you were positively fabulous!"
"Oh, please, do tell us who your teacher is? Please, Christine?"
"The managers simply must let you keep playing the Countess! Carlotta's far too old for the part, anyway."
Eventually, with the assistance of Madame Giry, Christine managed to break away from the crowd and escape to the peaceful quiet of her dressing room, the unsettling events of earlier blissfully forgotten in her joy for her most recent triumph. A tiny maid scurried in, holding a small pink bottle of liquid.
"Here you are, Mademoiselle Daae." She squeaked, much like the mouse she somewhat resembled.
"I'm sorry, what is it?" she asked.
"Oh, sorry, Mademoiselle, I forgot that you're not used to the fancy trappins. It's to take your makeup off with, you put a bit in water and the stuff comes straight off. Do you need me to help you?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"Oh, could you? It would be a tremendous help." Christine sighed gratefully.
The small girl, no more than fourteen at the most, nodded and retrieved a cloth from the vanity. Wetting it and pouring a small bit of the solution onto it, she handed it to Christine and instructed her to just spread it over her face as best she could. She continued with setting up the remover in the water basin, and between the two of them, they eventually got all of the makeup off.
"There we are, good as new." She proclaimed, satisfied. "Will you be needing my help for anything else tonight, Mademoiselle?"
Christine smiled sheepishly, and asked, "Could you help me get this dress off? I can't possibly do it on my own."
The little maid nodded, and quickly set to work on the laces. Once Christine was freed from the tight corset, crinoline, and multiple layers of fabric the costume needed, the girl handed her the white robe she had worn the previous night. "There you are, Mademoiselle, all finished. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to be getting on with my other duties. Goodnight."
Christine smiled at her absently, then turned and called after her just as she was about to open the door. "Wait! I'm afraid I never caught your name, Mademoiselle."
She smiled uncertainly, startled. "Me? My name's Celestine, Mademoiselle."
Christine nodded. "Well, thank you for your help tonight, Celestine. I appreciate it very much."
Celestine looked down at the floor shyly. "Was no trouble, Mademoiselle. I was just doing my job. Now if you'll excuse me, I really must be going. Madame Beauchamp gets very cross if any of us are late for our duties. Goodnight, Mademoiselle." With that, she left in rather a hurry.
Christine picked up her hairbrush and started running it through her hair, wincing when it hit a snarl. She was nearly finished, and humming the overture to Il Muto under her breath, when the door opened and Raoul swept in, once again carrying a bouquet of flowers that were, in her opinion, rather gaudy and garish. "Raoul! What in the world are you doing here? Everyone else must have long since left by now." She exclaimed.
"Don't you remember, Christine? You said you would have dinner with me, and then spend the night at my home to rest away from the scene of that awful accident. Have you packed your bag yet? And of course, you must put on some warmer clothes, Christine, it's terribly cold out." He said.
Christine gawked at him, appalled that he would lie to her face about a promise she had clearly never made. 'And enter a lady's dressing room without permission, as well! I'm hardly decent, he should have known that was a possibility!' she thought to herself. "Raoul, what is this you speak of? I never told you I would accompany you to dinner, and I am certainly not going to go spend the night at your house without a chaperone! In fact, I am not going to leave this opera house this evening, sir! Now, I would appreciate it very much if you would leave me in peace, as I am exhausted from my performance, and wish nothing more than to sleep. In my bed, in the room I share with Meg." She declared.
Now it was Raoul's turn to stare in disbelief. "But, Christine, you told me earlier that you would be honored to accompany me to dinner! What is this game you play, Mademoiselle?" He questioned.
She thought back to the conversation on the roof, and sighed. "Raoul, you misunderstand." His expression perked up at that. "I did say I would be honored, true, but then you interrupted me and did not hear the rest of what I wished to say. What I was going to say was that I am honored by your invitation, but that I simply cannot accompany you. It is clear that you have hopes and desires for us, well, what us there is, that I simply do not share. I am devoted to my music, and my teacher does not wish me to entertain suitors, for fear that they shall distract me from my music." She explained gently.
A sudden, dark scowl suddenly appeared on Raoul's face. "Ah, yes, your teacher. You said last night that you were taught by the Angel of Music, Christine. And yet now you speak of this teacher of yours as if he were a living being, not a celestial one. Tell me, Christine, who is this mysterious teacher of yours really? Is he a man? A ghost? An angel?" he turned around and laughed disdainfully. "Or is he all of these things, and a King as well?" he asked sarcastically.
Christine blanched, then turned red in anger. "Leave, Raoul. I wish to go to bed, and I have no desire to carry this conversation any further. Go." She commanded, pointing towards the door.
Raoul sneered at her and made a low bow, before backing out and slamming the door behind him. Christine ran to the door and quickly locked it, before slumping against it in exhaustion. 'That was far too close. I must speak to Madame Giry about him in the morning, before this situation goes any further.' She thought, before stretching out on the chaise lounge and promptly falling asleep.
A/N: Hi everyone! This is the first chapter of my newest story, I hope you all enjoyed it. This story is by no means going to be easy on the characters, and will be quite angst-heavy as it goes on. It will also be quite heavy on symbolism and foreshadowing, so you will need to pay close attention, especially when Erik, Christine, Raoul, or Madame Giry is talking. If you ever have any questions, please feel free to ask, I'll do my best to answer without giving anything away. Please review!