Part I

"Look! Mama, that face is so weird!" the little child pointed at the disembodied head suspended in the jar. "Who could ever live with such a face like that?!"

"Why, Philippe, that is the head of the supposed Phantom of the Opera," she replied. The tiny placard, written in English, contained just a few simple words.

This here is the head of the feared Phantom of the Opera, in truth the head of a nameless stranger who committed acts of violence and bestowed terror upon the Opera Populaire from 1870 to 1880. He was executed in 1881 by guillotine, and his head was given to this museum by the Surete of Paris.

"This certainly brings back memories, does it Christine?" Raoul placed his hand on Christine's shoulder lovingly. "Thank goodness that the monster is dead, thank goodness he no longer haunts us."

"What do you mean by that, papa?" Philippe turned his head around to face Raoul. "Did this monster play a part of you and mama's lives?"

Christine's face darkened. "Of course it did. It bewitched me with its luring voice. It was a siren at its greatest power. It destroyed the chandelier at the opera house and caused thousands of francs of damage. It killed men without thought. It tried to make me its wife." She turned back to Raoul, eyes shining. "Thank goodness your father was there to save me."

Raoul smiled. "It was nothing, dear. He was no match against me, of all people."

"Oh, Raoul, it was certainly a match against you. You came back so bruised and cut up. It blackened both of your eyes…"

Philippe turned back to the head. It was barren of any hair, and its face looked as if someone had taken a knife and carved large amounts of flesh from it, revealing mostly bone and several remaining amounts of muscle. There was no nose, but rather a gaping socket where the nose was supposed to be. The lips were nonexistent. The blue eyes rested deep in the eye sockets and its teeth was permanently locked in a snarl.

"Mama, what did you mean by, 'saved me'?"

"Why, ma cherie, I was kidnapped by that monster. It wanted me to love it for who it was. Me? Love it?" Her face showed evident signs of disgust. "Why in the world would I love a face like that? It wanted me imprisoned, to be its little songbird forever."

"You're still a singer now," Philippe pointed out.

"Why, that's because your father let me!" She once again looked at him affectionately. "Normally, I, a young chorus dancer-turned diva would not have been able to sing after marrying into nobility, but your father fought tooth-and-nail with your grandfather to let me continue my career."

"That was nothing, dear. Your voice deserves more than to be trained for nothing. You sing so beautifully. Like an angel."

She looked at the head again and shivered. "Let's get out of here, Raoul. That head is making me nauseous."

"What? But mama…"

"Listen to your mother, Philippe. I think we've seen enough of this museum anyway." Raoul looked away from the head uncomfortably. "I am feeling a little queasy myself…"

"Aww, please, papa?" Philippe's eyes pleaded.

"No. That is final. Come, Philippe, we leave now."

"But papa…"

"NOW."