Let Despair Turn to Beauty
by Falling from Sin

Author's note: This comes from a VERY old conversation that took place on POL back in July 2006. I've been meaning to write it for ages. So here it is.

Grand Gala at the Académie Nationale de Musique

Featuring performances by La Carlotta, La Krauss and La Daaé

And music by Camille Saint-Saëns, Jules Massenet, Jean Baptiste Faure, Ernest Reyer and many others.

Saturday 25th June, 7:00pm

-Le Temps, published Saturday 11th June, 1881

Chapter One: Raoul

The brand new servant that my brother had hired the day before took one glance at me before she rushed out of my path. I had not had the fortune, or was it misfortune, of meeting her before, and I was certain that she would hand in her resignation at the end of the day. I mentally scolded myself as I walked down the hall away from my suite of rooms. Just because five maids had quit their rather high paying job because of the boss's brother did not mean that this young lady would. She might have better nerves than the others. Though considering how she had run from my sight, I was pretty sure it was just wishful thinking.

My older brother, Philippe, sat in the dining room; the newspaper, Le Temps, spread across the table as he ate a croissant for his morning meal. Had there been guests in the manor, he would never have cast himself in such an undignified light, but this morning there was only myself and the servants, so he was not as concerned. As I sat down at the table, most of the servants in the room scattered, all excusing themselves to do chores in other parts of the house. It was Madame Patrice, affectionately known as Cook, who brought in my breakfast of a jam filled croissant and black coffee. She patted my hand as she left the room and I smiled. At least one of the servants in this house was not afraid of me. Though if Cook had been scared of me, I would have questioned it. She had been with the family since before I had been born – since Philippe had been a young boy, actually. She had seen me grow up and knew me to be no monster, even if my face lied otherwise.

Philippe did not acknowledge my presence. He was too engrossed in his newspaper as he normally was. He knew I was there, however, and before I had to ask he shuffled the pages he had finished with across to me so that I could read of what had been happening in Paris.

The various newspapers that Philippe made it a habit to buy were my only contact with the outside world. I was the younger brother that everyone knew about but no one acknowledged, out of fear of putting the family into disrepute. I knew my sisters had even denied they had a younger brother. It was a fact that hurt, but something that I tried not to let on. Other than the newspapers, the only other time I was exposed to the outside world was my annual trip to Brittany that had become a ritual since I had been a young boy. My first trip to Lannion had been the most pleasant time I had ever had. My aunt who lived there had no children of her own, and so she lavished attention on even an unworthy child such as myself. And not only had there been her, but another who had put her fear behind herself and treated me with kindness. And since then, I had made the trip to Brittany every year, hoping to catch another glimpse of the kind soul. But unfortunately, I never had.

As usual, I devoured the newspaper, reading every article, even the ones that bordered more on the lines of gossip than news. I knew of most of the people that were featured – Philippe made sure I knew the names and stories of all his friends and acquaintances, even if I would never meet them under any circumstances. I knew my brother felt bad for my predicament and it was his mission to involve me in everything he did, even if it was only second-hand experiences.

It was this reason that a certain advertisement caught my attention. It was for a gala that was being hosted by l'Académie Nationale de Musique and that would take place in two weeks time. Philippe spent a lot of time at the Opera, though I knew it was not for the quality of the music. No, the fair Sorelli danced there, a lady who I had heard a lot about. My brother was enamoured with her, though he would never admit it. She was just a dancer whose company he enjoyed, he tried to convince me and others who happened to ask after her. Nothing more than that.

The name of La Carlotta was very familiar to me, as once again, I had heard an awful lot about her. Philippe called her a diva and said that she gave herself airs and graces to try and put herself far above all the other performers. Indeed, she liked to pretend that she was aristocracy and would often make demands on others as though she was a member of that prestigious few. The actual aristocracy would not take it, however, which did not surprise me. Why would the snobbish society open the fold to someone who was born to middle class, when they would not admit the son of one of the oldest families in France just because he was unsightly through no fault of his own?

I also knew the name of La Krauss, though perhaps not as well as La Carlotta. But I had never heard of La Daaé. The name sounded dreadfully familiar, however, and so I tore out the advertisement and took it with me to the library after I bid Philippe a good day.

It was the library where I spent most of my day. I tried to stay out of the way of the jittery maids and so I made sure that they would always know where I was so that they could avoid me. At least in the library I had access to the many books and papers that would allow me to pretend I was somewhere other than in a manor in Paris.

It was becoming a very bright and sunny day. The sunlight glinted off the lone window in the library, forcing it to catch the reflections of anything that was near it. As my own visage was imitated on the smooth glass, I felt the need to break the window, though I somehow managed to constrain my uncharacteristic burst of temper. There were no mirrors in our home for an extremely good reason, after all. The sight of the white mask that I wore at all times was enough to provoke me to violence.

My mother had died giving birth to me, and in my younger days, cruel servants had taunted that she had taken one look at my defected face and had died of fright. After my father had been informed of their teasing by Cook, he had dismissed quite a few, leaving the de Chagny household with much more loyal, albeit frightened, servants. Though their nasty words did still reach me – they were never told to my face anymore, but I heard things like "devil child" and "monster" all the time. They were a superstitious bunch which was something that made me sad, not only for myself but for them.

My family had protected me. It was this reason that I was not to venture outside when we were in Paris. They were afraid of the way people would treat me, though I knew my father's main concern had been the scandal that would befall the family if they knew the youngest son was a monster. When he died, however, my sisters made no secret to the fact that they blamed their lack of marriage offers on me. Philippe did not stand for it, though, and as soon as they both had offers, he married them off straight away. For some reason, he felt that it was his duty to shelter me from all that was horrible and mean in the world, and so I had remained cosseted from anyone who could insult or hurt me.

But I tried not to agonize over my cursed facade. I had more important things to think about, such as where I had heard the name, 'La Daaé' before. But try as I might, the connection was escaping me.

Aimlessly, I wandered over to a bookshelf in the library and plucked out a book at random. It was a geography book and written in English, so it was sure to keep me occupied for a little while. I had not been learning the language for very long, but I was hoping to be able to speak it fluently by the end of the year, like I could French and Italian. I had so much time to myself that I made it my mission to learn as much as I could. Perhaps if I was extremely knowledgeable, the public might accept me for who I was. It was a child's dream, but a dream I clung to nonetheless.

The geography book's talk of Brittany made me think, once again, of the charming town of Lannion. The one summer where I had met little Christine had been very lovely indeed. She had been frightened of me at first – who wouldn't be, in all truth – but she had learnt not to judge me because of my face.

She had a beautiful voice, and as I remembered it, I found myself longing to hear it again. She had sung as her father played the violin, and the love that they had for each other was very apparent in every melody of the song. Just like every day since I last saw her, I wondered where little Christine Daaé was now.

Daaé. Was it possible that the little angel with the flaxen curls was the La Daaé who had been advertised by the Opera House that very morning? She had certainly been a nice singer then, and I was certain that she could easily have become an opera singer with training.

I wanted to see her. I wanted to know if it was her with such an overwhelming intensity that I was afraid of what I would do if I did not have the opportunity.

I placed the geography book on the table next to my big armchair haphazardly and went back over to one of the bookcases, searching for a book I knew was there. It was a rather old journal – something that Philippe had spent an awful lot of money to get for me – and it gave the plans for Garnier's Opera House in full. Certainly, things had probably been changed since then, both in construction and during renovations, but it could give me a reasonable idea of where things were and how to avoid people in the actual building.

I had a reasonable idea of the floor plans by the time Cook brought my lunch up to me. I knew exactly how I could get in and out without being seen, and I knew a few of the backstage passages that would allow me to see the stage and decide whether it was Christine Daaé singing in that gala. And a plan was forming in my head. I knew that Philippe would be extremely angry with me if he ever found out, but I would have to make sure that he did not.

Once I saw Christine Daaé, I would never leave the house again. But I had to see her, and the gala would be the perfect opportunity to do it.

It took all my determination not to let Philippe see my excitement about the gala. But even had I jumped from the roof and yelled out that I was attending, I don't think he would have noticed. He was in a surly mood all week, something that I attributed to the extra rehearsals that all cast members at the Opera would inevitably be experiencing. The charming Sorelli did not have time to see him at the moment and it was eating at him. Indeed, I would not have been surprised had his foul temper lasted the following week as well. But he was in a slightly better frame of mind the Saturday before the gala, due to a rehearsal he had been lucky enough to be privy to.

"Oh Raoul, it is indeed a pity that you can't attend the gala," he said late that evening when he got home. Most of the servants had retired for the night and so I was sitting in the sitting room, reading in an armchair by the window. He sat in the chair opposite mine, pouring brandy into two glasses and pushing one towards me. He downed his in one swallow, though I sipped mine carefully, fully aware of the mask that reached to my lip and made eating and drinking rather difficult.

"Why is it a pity?" I asked, arching an eyebrow under the mask. Not that there was an eyebrow there, or that Philippe could see the action. But it was a habit that had come from watching my brother do the same thing.

"You have never heard music such as they play at the Opera," he told me, playing with the empty glass absentmindedly. "La Carlotta has a perfect, lovely voice and La Krauss will never disappoint. But it is La Daaé who will steal the show next Saturday. She sings like an angel and is as ethereal as one as well."

"Tell me about La Daaé," I requested, trying to stay inconspicuous. "I've never heard of her before."

"Oh, she is indeed divine," he said with a grin on his face. "Blonde curly hair, petite, and she seems as pure as one of God's angels. She's maybe about as old as you, and she looks so fragile. And somehow, this amazing voice comes out of her. I don't know where she stores it." Philippe looked off into space, and I studied him, seeing the look in his eyes. They betrayed an emotion that was usually reserved for La Sorelli, and I felt a flash of jealousy. If this La Daaé was indeed Christine, I did not want Philippe to lay his hands on her. I felt strangely protective, as though I could not allow her to be sullied in any way. However, I was being idiotic. I did not know this La Daaé at all. And even if she was the Christine I had known, she would not want to be socialising with a monster. People changed, especially when confronted by something repulsive. I knew that extremely well.