"Do you need anything else Madame?" The aging maid handed Christine a pristine brown leather gloves.
"No, that is all. Thank you Sarah" she replies and steps out from the warm Vicomte de Chagny's mansion and out to the cool streets of Paris. The fresh fallen snow crunches in each footstep in the first day of December. The lively streets of Paris are filled with vendors and eager Parisians to celebrate the bright upcoming season. Christine carefully makes her way through the crowd while looking at the wide array of different items in different stalls.
"Authentic fur scarves here!"
"Chinese porcelain dolls! Perfect for a gift to a little wonderful girl"
"Madame, a beautiful Lady such as you must have a fine young lad to give a hand crafted smoking pipe from Congo," an old exuberant man shows her the intricate work carving of the artisan pipe. She politely rejects his endorsement and gestures away from the stall. She hates the smell of tobacco. It reminds her of the rare occasions when Raoul arrives home utterly drunk with the acrid stench of cigars and alcohol. At those nights, all she can do is worry about him. Raoul would never drink to that extent unless something is bothering him.
The noise of the market becomes a collective sound of people and yelling vendors where the shimmery glass of multiple bells permeates through the air. Christine pauses for a moment. The delicate melody uncovers the dark morose past. "'Masquerade~ paper faces on parade,'" The forgotten words reverberated once again from her lips after ten long years. She immediately looks around the dense market and navigates through narrow spaces to get a hold of the small trace of the years before. "It's..." Christine exasperates in disbelief. It is a replica of the music box with a Persian monkey holding a cymbal in each hand. It is propped up on the side of the booth playing the same festive yet ominous tune. She crouches down beside it and takes off her right glove. The monkey smoothly opens and closes the cymbals with the music. She caresses the monkey's soft brown fur carefully observing the fine details of the red Persian vest. The mesmerizing melody lures her back in time with every chime. Once again she is under the spell, "'masquerade~ hide your face so the world will never find you.'"
"It's quite a beauty ain't it?" An old Italian man approaches her. "I got it from the inventor himself," he proudly says with a thick italian accent. Christine is still entranced by the Persian music box, her eyes locked in the monkey's dark obsidian eyes. "Madame?" Christine blinks, suddenly she is back in the Paris air market. She looks at the man blankly.
"where did you get this?" she inquired.
"Ummmm...a man from Persia. That is all I know Madame," Taken aback by her sudden revival, he fumbles in his words.
"Is the creator here in Paris?"
"I am sorry madame. I saw the man in Germany," the man offers his hand to Christine. She takes it and stands up. "Do you know this man, Madame?" he asked curiously.
Absentmindedly, Christine's eyes drift towards the Persian monkey and her eyes glimmer like the snow. "'His voice filled my spirit with a strange sweet sound, and in that night there was music in my mind.'"