Paris, 1919
The last breath of autumn was in the air. Leaves littered the streets, hurriedly making their way across the wind to wherever they would lay. Soon, winter would be here once more and the snow would invite the people of Paris to stay indoors whenever possible.
The day seemed cold, bleak almost. The lustre and desire for life seemed long since abandoned in this part of town. What was once a city of spectacle and wonder seemed almost grey as the years passed fleetingly, quicker each year it seemed.
She had missed the city. She had forgotten how beautiful it could be. Couples were walking arm in arm, enjoying the mild weather while they had a chance. The children ran along the streets, playing on the steps of buildings long since desirable.
Growing up it had been a rare luxury, visiting the city. Her small, seaside cottage and the town it was nestled in was the only life she had known for so long, her love for the streets of Paris seemed to grow with each visit. Even as she grew older, and need for the short carriage ride into town became more frequent, the wonder never ceased. She would come to town, collecting things for her brother and sister, for their children. Her father's old age required the most care in passing days, not that she begrudged it at all.
She had returned to town in need of running errands. With everyone frequenting the family home more and more in passing days to sit with their father, nobody sure of when the time might come for him to leave, she was more than happy to take a few hours and head into town, both for necessity and for a small reprieve.
The hems of her skirts collected dust as she walked the streets amongst the passersby. Motorcars were becoming more and more present in the streets. The very idea that horses were no longer needed was so strange yet mystifying, even after their first appearance.
Crossing the street, she noticed something, and paused. Gazing upon the decaying building in front of her; she hadn't even realized where her feet had taken her. Had she not known, she never would have recognised the one glorious building before her.
The Opera Populair.
Once the home of the greatest performances the world had ever seen, now noting but a hollow shell of past grandeur. Statues guarding the front steps were broken and missing limbs, while the lanterns lining the entry were cracked and broken, and those still standing looked as though they hadn't seen a light in many, many years. Every window had been boarded up and condemned.
It had been some decades since the opera house had been in full use. The great fire almost half a century earlier had scared most of the clientele away, and the final performance had how been ten years ago at least.
It was painful almost, to see such renowned beauty in complete disarray. She had seen the magnificence of years past, only once before, many years ago. It was a corner stone in the history of the city. Many stories had begun there; tales bearing happy memories and some that most would often fight to forget.
But most importantly, it was the setting for the greatest story ever told.
She smiled to herself, fabled words and whispers of a time since gone began swirling in her head. She knew the stories by heart, despite it being many years since anyone she knew having been anywhere near the building.
Just as she was about to make her way, something caught her eye; a banner on the front of the building, in dark, bold letters.
Public Auction Today.
Her curiosity seemed to be getting the better of her, a trait that she had inherited from her mother. She had time before her next appointment, and there was a voice inside telling her that she needed to see inside, at least once more. Without any further hesitation, she crossed the street, headed towards the dilapidated building, scaring a flock of pigeons as she crossed their path.
It was as though she was stepping into a dream. The once grand staircase was now a decaying home for dust and spiders webs, rather than the inviting illusion it had been in its prime. If she listened carefully, she could still hear the music playing, the sounds of conversation in the air, like the distant memory that they were.
As she made her way inside, she could hear the echoing voice of the auctioneer from deep within, guiding her towards the main auditorium. The heels of her boots click on the hallowed hall as she made her way inside. Seats what were once the richest of scarlet had been pulled and unbolted from the ground, tossed aside or piled against the wall. The peeling walls were aligned with scorch marks and burns of varying measure, though age had decayed them beyond repair.
"Sold... your number sir?"
There's a small crowd, roughly a dozen people or so gathered around the remains of the main stage. Most she could tell were there simply out of interest, perhaps hoping to find a good deal on a piece of history, or something that would get them a few extra francs before the winter.
As she made her way closer to the stage, weaving through the crowd to stand towards the front as the auctioneer began bids on a poster of the infamous La Carlotta. Looking around, she came across a familiar face on her right. The woman's eyes fell to hers, sending her an inquiring gaze. She merely smiled and shrugged nonchalant, leaving the silent conversation at that.
The bids continued for the item as her gaze once again shifted across the room. Everyone looked rather bored and uninterested, not that she could blame them entirely. Her eyes soon fell on an older gentleman seated in a wheelchair. He had aged since last she saw him, now an elderly man, but there was no denying who he was.
The Vicomte de Chagney raised his head slowly, his eyes looking from the stage around the room until at last they landed on her. They widened in slight disbelief at seeing her there after so many years. She smiled softly nodding her head in greeting, as he tipped his hat with a fragile hand. No words were exchanged. None were needed.
"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: A papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a Barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey, in Persian robes, playing the cymbals..."
Instantly, her head turned towards the stage, eyes wide with shock at the words just spoken. It couldn't be? So many years of hearing stories, of hearing the tune hummed as a lullaby. There was no way it could have survived.
"This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen." The auctioneer said as the porter walked out carrying the music box. She felt her breath leave her body as it was brought forward.
"Showing here."
All of a sudden, the monkey began to move, clapping it's cymbals ever so lightly as it's sweet yet haunting melody filled the room. She closed her eyes, the soft sound taking her back so many years. If only she could bring that back home with her. For him to see it on last time.
A collectors piece indeed. Every detail...exactly as they said.
"May I commence at fifteen francs?"
Immediately, she raises her hand, without fully realizing she had done so. But he knew she couldn't regret it.
"Fifteen, thank you Madame. Now...yes, twenty from you sir." Her eyes widened as she turned, following the Auctioneer's gaze, seeing the Vicomte's nurse lowering her hand. Her brow furrowed in confusion; what could he have wanted with that? There were so many other treasures, other memories...did it have to be that particular treasure?
"Twenty five." She said, loud enough to state her bid, though her eyes never left the old man in the wheelchair. She watched as he tugged at the nurse's sleeve, nodding his head for her to continue.
"Twenty five I am bid. Oh, thirty from you sir. Can we go as high as thirty five?" the man pressed, glancing between the two bidding for this seemingly worthless ornament.
She looked at him, his old, worn eyes boring into her own. He would have known what it meant to her, and yet he still wished to claim it as his own. Though in a moment, she looked at him, really looked at him. He was an old man, frail and resigned to a chair. She remembered him long ago, young and youthful, the same blue eyes that she knew from back then. Eyes that held a debt. Suddenly, she as overcome with sorrow, more at herself for wanting to be so greedy. She offered him a small smile and shook her head, bowing out of the bid with finality.
"Selling at thirty francs, then. Thirty once...twice..."
She sighed to herself and turned away just as the sound of the gavel filled the room. None of the other items interested her at all, so she knew she had best be on her way. Though something within herself stopped her, and she turned once more, just in time to see the porter handing the music box to the elderly man with great care. It was a slight comfort to know that the new owner cared for it just as much as she.
"Lot 666 then. A chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera; a mystery never fully explained."
The woman smirked to herself. The story was indeed legend. However, as was often the case with legends, the story that people believed, was not necessarily the story that actually occurred. The truth remained that nobody knew the tale of the Phantom of the Opera, not the whole story. The tale of course, happened before she was born. A time before fallen chandeliers and haunted halls and long before anyone had ever heard of Christine Daae.
Everyone in Paris knew the tale, or at least they believed they did. But the events that took place before, what caused such a tale to occur, happened many years before...