A/N: Special thanks to Gondolier for her beta services.

Memoirs of a Vicomtesse

By: Elektra

My beloved husband suggested I write these memoirs should my memory ever fail me, for I am a woman in her late forties now, my golden hair slowly turning to grey. No one knows how much longer they have, and though we are both in fair health, the future remains uncertain.

But where to begin? Ah, that is the question. Perhaps I should start with the most memorable year of my life, that being eighteen-hundred and eighty-one.

I was but a lowly chorus girl of eighteen at the Paris Opera House. Oh yes, I often received respectable roles, but I was not Carlotta, the Prima Donna. She had a wonderful talent and was loved by many, save for one.

His name was Erik.

He taught me much, Erik. And I loved him. Yes, I will admit that. I did love him.

But my love for Erik was not what Erik wished it to be. He wanted the love of a wife, and I could only give him the love of a pupil; that of a child. For I did, at one time, consider Erik fatherly. I believed my dearly departed father had sent him to me – an angel of music – to take care of me, as he could no longer do so himself.

And that is how I loved Erik. So very different than the love I had – still have – for my dear sweet Vicomte de Chagny.

Oh sensitive, gentle Raoul - the man who gave up his family and privileges to take me for his wife. The man who risked his life to find me when Erik brought me beneath the Opera House that fateful day.

My first love, my last love.

My only love.

And to think there was a time where I did not believe it could be.

Erik once had me make a choice. An ugly choice. The scorpion or the grasshopper: imprisonment as his wife, or the lives of thousands of people. Such a choice!

It was Raoul who helped me to make the decision. He, who shouted at me to turn the scorpion. He was thinking of others, even as he suffered in Erik's torture chamber with a kindly Persian man.

And so I turned the scorpion and promised Erik to be his living wife. Yes, those were the words I used – living wife. I assured him I would not kill myself. I would stay with him as I promised. It was the decision I had to make for Raoul's life, for the Persian's life, and for the lives of those above ground.

Then I allowed the poor man to kiss me upon the forehead. Something so simple, something which everyone takes for granted; and something Erik had been denied for fifty years.

At least, that is how old I imagined him to be. He never truly told me, and with such a face as his, it was hard to tell age. All I knew were the few strands of grey clinging to his skull.

But then the most remarkable thing happened - like a father giving his daughter away, Erik placed a gold ring in my palm and told me to leave with my young man.

Poor, unhappy Erik. He had been alone for so many years, and now he was dooming himself to loneliness once more – for me. A bittersweet sacrifice indeed.

I worried for him even as I left with Raoul. I thought, 'I must go visit him after I wed. I must give the poor man some company.'

Even before I shared that aloud, I knew it would not be wise. Erik might take my pure intentions for something else.

And so I consoled myself with the thought of that kind Persian man. He knew Erik, from what I gathered. I am sure he would visit Erik on occasion. I would write the Persian and ask that he look after Erik; give him my well wishes and bring him news of the latest happenings in my life (though I would ask him not to speak of where I was living, of course).

That compromise comforted me. I wanted Erik to know I still cared, and that I forgave him for what he had put my beloved and I through.

I owed Erik that much, at least.

Though often hiding in the shadows, Erik was still there for me when I needed an angel to guide me. And though our relationship ended horribly, I refused to throw away all that had passed before.

However, only three weeks later, the Epoque published the following: Erik is dead. Thus, I returned to the cellars of the opera house and placed the gold ring on his dead finger. I then sang a requiem and allowed myself to weep for the pitiful opera ghost – my fallen angel.

To think, with another's face, a genius like his would have been much revered in this world. A shame. Such a shame.

I left Erik to rest in peace beneath the opera house (for I had no doubt that was where he would wish to remain), but I made certain he would not be found for a long time, leaving naught but a skeleton in his wake.

Raoul and I married the next day and left France for my homeland of Sweden. We were to begin anew.

We made our home on a lovely little farm on the southwest coast of the Kulla Peninsula in northwest Skåne.

Raoul learned from the kind local farmers how to till the fields and grow useful crops. And my, what a striking figure he made in his shirt-sleeves as he worked.

Alas, we did not have much money - his family disinherited him for his marriage to me - but he had saved enough to allow us some comfort as we started out. Sadly, with Philippe dead, he no longer had an ally amongst the de Chagny family.

Despite our happiness, I still felt horribly guilty that the Vicomte de Chagny had been reduced to such menial labour. My beloved always tried to ease such concerns. He was – is – so very good at making me feel better.

So our simple lives continued. We sold what crops we could and I took to singing at the opera house. This allowed us a decent living.

Raoul knew how much I loved the stage and would never deny me that, for he understood it would be like cutting out my heart. Besides, he enjoyed watching me perform. It was what I was born to do, he would say. And he would proudly strike up a conversation with other patrons, subtly mentioning that he was my husband, that the lovely diva shining on stage was his darling Christine.

Raoul was so well-educated, yet so kind and soft spoken. People automatically flocked to him. He did not make anyone feel as if they were less than he was. In my beloved's eyes, everyone was equal. Else how could he have married me?

I realized he never truly felt comfortable amongst the aristocracy. He was far too gentle for their harsh politics, and far too sensitive to marry whom his family commanded when he had given his heart to me. I was all he wanted, he said, and if his family did not approve, so be it.

And so I became his wife, his best friend, and his lover. He claimed I made him whole. He still claims that, to this day.

We have been content for these many years. We are happy simply to be in each other's company. We know each other so very well that we find we can sit comfortably in the same room and not share a word – I, knitting in the sun coming through the window; he, reading quietly beside me. Now and then, we smile at each other, grasp the other's hand, and look out the window. We look upon our farm – all our hard work, years of blood sweat and tears, this place we created together.

When we were younger and far more energetic, our eyes would meet, and we would spend the next few hours in one another's arms (though that is not to say we do not do such things now) and such moments led to the birth of four beautiful children: two girls, two boys. Raoul allowed me to name the children as I wished, but insisted on naming our first son for his dearly departed brother.

Thus, our children's names are as follows: Philippe and Erika are our oldest, and our twins are Charles and Marguerite.

As I write, Raoul is now sitting in the parlour with these children - Philippe and Erika having also brought their spouses and our young grandchildren. They are awaiting my company, for tonight we are going to celebrate Charles' engagement.

He is to marry our neighbour's daughter, and we could not be happier. I remember they would often play together as children. It makes me laugh to recall how Little Annika would constantly challenge him to tree climbing contests.

Though these are things that girls do not normally do, in this darling farming community, no one worries about proper stations. It is one of the reasons I love it so.

My hand is aching from all of this writing. I have developed a bit of arthritis in the wrist. It has not hampered my current profession, however, for I now teach children how to train their voices for the stage. My sweet Marguerite plays the piano for us. She has been doing it since she was a child.

Raoul still tends the farm now and then, but he is often stricken with pain in his knees. We have hired young strong boys to help us, and our sons guide them – for our sons are still young and strong themselves.

They are calling for me now, and I must stop writing. I must add one last thing before I close this book though: May God never let my children know a moment's sadness, may He bless them as He has blessed us.

And may God bless my angel of music, my poor unhappy Erik, wherever his tortured soul may be.

Christine de Chagny
The Farmer's Wife