Is fate real? Are we in control of our own destiny, or is there some higher power that has our lives all planned out and there is nothing we can do to change it? If fate is real and we have no control, why must we make decisions if our lives are pre-determined to have a certain outcome? My mother always told me that we can control our own kismet, as she used to call it. I used to believe she was right. I used to believe I had met the love of my life at the age of fourteen.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't gone away to Spain with my brother for all those years. Would Christine and I still be together? Or would he still have come between us? Were we destined to be separated? So many times I tried to contact her over the years; her letters were always returned for unbeknownst to me, she had moved into the dormitories at the Paris Opera. Were her returned letters the first sign that we were not meant for each other? Or was it when I did not recognize her right away at the opera? Perhaps I should have known better than to fall in love with someone at such a young age. Who really finds their soul mate at the age of fourteen?
I pondered all of these questions as I made my way home from another humiliating encounter with the woman I thought was the love of my life, Christine Daaé. I angrily kicked a pile of snow before I proceeded to the front door of my home.
"Raoul! Where have you been?" Dorice, the head maid of the household, shouted at me. "Please do not tell me you were at the opera pestering that poor child. She is not worthy of your time. When will you see that?"
"Please, Dorice," I said irritably, "leave me. I wish nothing but to be alone right now."
"If that is what you would like," Dorice replied huffily, taking my hat and coat. She looked me over and gave me a disapproving nod before departing to her quarters.
After Dorice was gone, I threw myself onto the couch and stared up at the high beamed ceiling. I could only think of one person. Christine. Christine! She was the only one I had ever loved. Three months ago, I was bound and determined to have her as my wife. Now, I wanted to forget her existence. I wanted to wipe the memory of her from my mind forever.
So many questions ran through my head. I could not seem to find the answers to any of them. I got up, poured myself a rather large glass of brandy, and began pacing around the room.
"Why can't I just accept it?!" I yelled loudly, as I swatted a pillow from its resting place on a stiff armchair. I knew none of the staff would be able to hear me, so I kept ranting at the furniture. "She wasn't in love with me! Why did I kid myself for so long? How could I have thought that she would still love me after all these years?" It had been nearly three weeks since Christine had rejected me, but I still could not believe it. If only I had not run into her tonight…
I poured myself another glass of brandy, then another, and another still.
I resumed my pacing and went over the evening's encounter for the millionth time. I had seen her leaving her old flat. I wrongly assumed she had come to her senses and left Erik, and was shocked to find her wearing a wedding ring – his wedding ring. She informed me that they had wed just last weekend. She spoke to me as if I were a child…
Suddenly my head began to feel light, and I stumbled back over to the couch.
"She chose him…she chose him…she chose him…" I must have repeated the phrase over and over until I fell into a dreamless sleep.
My next coherent memory occurred the following morning. A bright ray of light caused me to wince in pain.
"What the bloody hell is going on here?" I shouted at the maidservant. "Haven't you got the decency to wait until I have awoken to open the blasted drapes?"
The petite blonde maid looked very frightened. She moved rapidly toward the drapes as though she were going to close them.
"It is all right," I said, trying to curb my anger. "You may leave them. I am sorry for my sudden outburst, mademoiselle. I was just startled by the sudden light." The truth is, my head was pounding and the light only made the pain more intense.
"It is all right, monsieur, you needn't apologize; it was my error. I didn't see you there," she said bashfully.
"Say, you're new here aren't you?" I asked, studying her quietly.
"Yes Monsieur de Chagny. I just started last week," she said, as though she was afraid I would snap at her again.
"Please, call me Raoul," I said gently, trying to show her that she needn't be afraid of me. "I have been very preoccupied this past week, and I have not been very observant. Forgive me for not introducing myself to you upon your arrival at the estate."
"It is all right, monsieur," she replied, loading my brandy glass from the night before onto a small serving tray.
She was fairly attractive, although it was hard to say for certain with her hair wound into a tight chignon and the dull maid's uniform hiding any figure she might have. She also was not very tall – she was much shorter than Christine. Christine! Why did she keep entering my thoughts?
"What is your name?" I asked, trying to forget Christine.
"Elise Verlinden."
"Elise…" I mused.
"It was my mother's name," she said, looking down at her starched white dress.
"Your mother?"
"Yes, my father named me in her honor. She died giving birth to me."
"I am sorry."
"My father said she was beautiful…" she replied wistfully.
"I am sure she was."
"I am sorry monsieur. I must get on with my duties. I am sorry to have detained you from any appointments you may have this morning," she said hastily, as though she did not wish to speak any further of her mother. She gave me a stiff smile, and quickly exited the room.
I looked down at my rumpled attire, and decided I'd feel a lot better after a hot bath and a change of clothes.