(( Hello! Welcome to the world of the 1910's! I don't know if this has ever been done before, so maybe I'm coining the phrase…but this is Historical FANfiction. And a bit of a crossover. 1914-1918 the world was at war. The year now is 1919. We join our heroes not in France, but in the French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana. The new French Opera House, or Théâtre de l'Opéra, as it was called, was built the previous year. The main events surrounding and leading up to the fire are true, including the Provence, France earthquake, the war history, and the post-war cleanup, as well as the galas, names of the dancehalls, locations, etc. The fire itself that took the Opera House is true as well, and mimics so closely the mysterious demise of the original French Opera House where the Le Fantôme de l'Opéra story was written from, I couldn't resist taking the opportunity for something like a crossover. This work will probably be pretty extensive…though not too long. Hopefully it lives up to the expectations I have, and you have! Reviews and critiques are always welcome and appreciated! 8) Please enjoy, Crescent City Secrets! [P.S. New Orleans is also called the Crescent City] ))
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July, 1919
"Chat!? Chat Noir! Chat, c-can you hear me!?"
Ladybug's frantic voice buzzed from somewhere.
"Ladybug!"
Chat tried to call out, but he felt strangled.
There was sobbing from somewhere.
A shot blasted through the air.
"NO!" Two heroes shot up in their separate beds, halfway across the world from one another, drenched in a cold sweat.
August, 1919
French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana
Adrien Agreste stood looking up at the Paris Opera House, his unkempt hair and rolled up sleeves betraying his age, but also hiding his standing in society. He enjoyed looking the part of a "plebian", as his father would say, rather than being seen as a "refined" gentleman of wealth. His newsboy hat, while not as fashionable as a homburg or a boater, fit his person and personality well; it laid backwards on his slicked back, golden blond hair, casual, easy. As he looked across the steamy street, he pulled his too-hot suit coat over his shoulder.
The building was magnificent. At the behest of his father, Adrien had moved to New Orleans to take over the responsibility of patron to the theater. When he had seen their latest show, Les Huguenots, he had fallen in love. Th performance, in his eyes, had been flawless, the performers having delivered something that bordered on "magical". It was the start of something wonderful to the culture here in New Orleans, having a well-bred Opera. Adrien was not only a proud benefactor, but a proud Louisianian. Now the sight of the building, while beautiful, added something more to him than simply being an awe-inspiring vision; it became his theater, his obligation changing immediately from apathetic sponsorship to a personal devotion.
The summer months always brought an onslaught of other activities to the Opera House for and from the high society of the native populace. Balls and extravagant parties raved if not every night, than every other night. The corner of Toulouse and Bourbon street was a hub of activity in the muggy evenings into the early hours of the mornings. Adrien loved everything about it, except for being a part of the socializing himself. Today, however, he looked forward to the festivities of the evening. Since the beginning of the war, the US had been sadly deprived of a true French opera troupe. Just in the last year an opera company by the name of the Chicago Opera Association rose to something of great prestige in America, the first of its kind, but now that the war was over, Adrien wanted to bring the authenticity of French opera back to the States. Now, as he himself stood at the corner of Toulouse and Bourbon, looking across at the grand façade of the Roman-revival designed building, Adrien waited somewhat impatiently for the arrival of the cast who would fulfill some of his dreams for the furthering of the opera culture here in New Orleans. It was a worthy endeavor. At least, that is what he constantly reminded himself.
"Sure are taking their time, aren't they," a raspy voice drawled out from his jacket pocket. It wasn't a question, only a bored statement meant to irk his Chosen.
"I'm sure they'll be here any minute," Adrien replied, trying to convince himself more than the small black Kwami, choosing to ignore the little cat's antagonistic tone.
"You're awfully excited."
"I am."
"Hoping to see someone special?"
Adrien huffed at this. "Hopefully not. I don't know who I would recognize. Anyway, it would completely off-put my plan to run away from all of France."
"Makes sense," Plagg purred. "That explains why you decided to invite half of France here, to the French Quarter, to perform a French opera in the French Opera House."
Adrien sideways scowled with every emphasized muttering from Plagg. He had a point, but Adrien wasn't prepared to address the question hidden in the cat-fairy's statement just now.
Adrien shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fighting the urge to check his watch again. His enduring edginess was rewarded a moment later when a trolley bustled into the busy street, stopping nearby. As a large group consisting of mostly young ladies began to exit the trolley car, Adrien jogged over, trying to subdue the spring in his step. They were all smiling broadly, first at each other, then at the buildings around them. Adrien smiled himself when they all stopped gazing around, allowing their awed eyes to fix onto the place where they would be daily for the foreseeable future: the French Opera House.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Adrien spoke up loudly, coming to the edge of the large group. The trolley pulled away, leaving in its wake a suddenly chittering cluster of French natives, all eyes fixed on him. No one answered for a moment, so he started again, this time in his first language of French. "The Opera Theater, its beautiful, isn't it? I am Adrien Agreste, and I assume you are the Parisians I ordered?" he grinned at his own witticism, the smile widening as the group giggled collectively. "Shall we proceed?" With this, he gestured across the street to the large white building. Sounds of affirmation reached his ears and he gestured again, allowing the multitude of ladies and few gentlemen to proceed first. As the sea of faces strode past, Adrien watched the street traffic, making sure the swarm of Frenchmen and women made it from one corner to the other in safety. When he thought they had all past, he stepped forward to follow –
- and ran smack into a small, lagging girl.
Luckily for her, Adrien had quick reflexes. He caught her before she could tumble down, immediately beginning to spew out apologies, in French and in English. Then he looked into her face.
Marinette!
Adrien blinked slowly, matching her shocked look for a moment before sluggishly pulling her up. A hand still held hers, another one gripped securely around her back. Once upright, she smiled shyly, a very becoming blush spreading across the freckles that, not unlike his hat, betrayed her age. If Adrien could have thought straight, he would have let go of her. His brain, however, seemed to have found a sudden scratch on the record of his thoughts; he had completely skipped off his track.
"Uh…" she started. "Eets nice to meet you, Monsieur Agreste." She shook the hand that he still held, trying to save him and herself from further awkwardness. The motion rocked Adrien out of his temporary blankness. Her broken English was charming. As was the way she said his name. Adrien cleared his throat, pulling his hand back from around her waist with some nameless form of relunctance.
"Pardon, mademoiselle. Excusez-moi-" replied Adrien. Then, remembering she was trying to speak English, cleared his throat and finished in like manner. "Please."
Marinette smiled genuinely this time and Adrien relaxed instantly. This was Marinette, his schooldays friend, still shy, only older. Adrien took a deep breath.
"May I carry your suitcase for you?" he asked, pulling his hand away from hers at last. She gave him a slightly confused look. He smiled stretched wider and picked up her luggage that had spilled out of her hand when she fell. Wiggling it in the air slightly while pointing to himself, then pointing to the theater, he asked again, this time with his eyes. She laughed, then nodded. They fell into step with each other as they crossed the street.
Somewhere in the distance, Adrien could have sworn he heard thunder, though the sun shown bright.
And he was quite certain it wasn't the first time it had happened when he was around Marinette.
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Marinette stared in wonder as she entered the main doors of the Opera House. She had seen what they – the French – all termed as the "original", the Palais Garnier. And while that particular site could not be matched for beauty or majesty, The Théâtre de l'Opéra had something she could feel buried in its very essence that screamed adventure, character, and excitement.
A movement behind Marinette caused the heat to rush back into her cheeks. Her brown, banged-up suitcase dropped gently at her feet. When Marinette looked to see the person responsible, her eyes caught suddenly with Adrien Agreste's, and her heart quickened. When he stepped away to go to the front of the group, she realized with a sudden sense of loss that his hand had been on her back momentarily. If she had packed her fan with her, she would have been using it.
"So…" And there was Alya. "Monsieur Agreste is quite the charmer, non?"
Marinette released a breath and rolled her eyes. They should be listening to what the blond-haired man was saying, but Marinette knew Alya would never leave her be without more details about her most recent encounter.
"He's not like that," Marinette fervently whispered back. She had picked up her suitcase and continued to look around at her soon-to-be-familiar surroundings. The group began to shuffle forward en masse, Marinette and Alya following blindly as they delved deeper into their own conversation.
"How would you know?" Alya further questioned Marinette.
"I, uh, we knew each other as children. We both grew up in Provence together." She paused at the unwarranted images entering into her mind. "Well, as much growing up as you do before your 14th birthday."
"Is he really so young? Or is he older than you?"
"If he is older than me, it is not by more than a year. We went to the same primary school there. After the earthquake, he left, and I haven't seen him since."
"Well, you both seem to remember each other quite well." Alya giggled and Marinette couldn't help but join in.
The mention of Provence and the flood of memories that accompanied it stung Marinette's heart. She hadn't thought about her childhood home or the earthquake that had destroyed it in so long. There were more recollections associated with her 14 years in Provence than in the ten years that followed. It seemed like a lifetime ago when so many things came crashing down on her – some literally – and yet she could remember every detail as if she was forced to relive the same day over and over again. With how her dreams progressed, she had only Provence or war missions to build on; anything that came to her in the quiet minutes of nighttime was scarcely enjoyable.
A ripple of excitement abruptly broke over the small crowd, followed by clapping. Marinette was pulled from her musings and she quickly glanced around, taking in her surroundings. They had been left on the stage, a transitory pause while Adrien – Monsieur Agreste – had stepped out. He had returned, beaming, leading Agustarello Affre into the crowd. All of the French gathered there hovered over and around the famous tenor, the current leader of their troupe, trying to shake his hand, or mutter some type of mirth-filled compliment to the great master. Marinette, however, was not one for the crowds. She felt someone come up next to her, the space freed when Alya had left to join the throng. Marinette smiled shyly to herself, thinking – hoping – she knew who was standing there.
"I haven't seen you smile like that in quite some time," whispered a low, slightly raspy voice. Marinette's smile faltered and she felt her cheeks grow warm again. This time, however, the heat washed over her from the sheer desire to be anywhere but next to him, and having nowhere to run. She swallowed, and looked pointedly away from her new companion.
"Bonjour, Nathanaël."