A/N: This is not your usual mamby-pamby, "Vent all of my sexual frustrations and bitterness in the form of fan fiction" story. I'm doing this story as an exercise for my real writing work. There will be no song-lyrics in this; I trust most of you already know the words to "El Tango de Roxanne", so why the hell should I do the usual sue-stuff? Anyway, this is NOT a Raoul-bashing session, I happen to like Raoul and think he was the sensible choice; any dislike expressed for him is sheerly characterization.
Christine circled around her, shrewdly evaluating the woman's every feature. Their likeness to one another was disturbing.
The woman stood before Christine, her curly brown hair subdued by pins and a rose. Her black corseted torso leaned against the frame of her door. Dark green eyes stared back at Christine with boredom.
"This is Roxanne De Winter, one of our most well-trained female counterparts," Monsieur Montague declared proudly, "She shall take your part in Don Juan, tonight."
Raoul stood in the corner, "My God, Lotte, you never told me you had a twin!" He smiled, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle De Winter." He kissed her hand suavely.
Roxanne smiled tightly, "Thank you, Viscount."
Christine bit her lip nervously. This wasn't going to work. The Phantom had spent months studying everything about her, how could this woman (though the resemblance, once under stage make-up, would indeed be frightening) deceive her Angel? Though she was consciously aware of his humanity; the childish part of her still wanted to believe him to be the god he had once been to her. "This is madness," She muttered.
Raoul turned around, he smiled gently and came to Christine's side, "Don't worry, ma cherie, everything shall be fine. The Phantom shall be too intoxicated with the idea of being near his victim. He won't notice."
Christine visibly flinched at the word 'victim', she crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against wall, her eyes were unfocused, withdrawn.
Monsieur Montague and the Viscount noted how even Christine and Roxanne stood alike. Both leaning against the wall, arms crossed, drawn inward.
"Trust me, love, everything shall go as planned," Raoul rubbed her arms reassuringly.
Christine smiled weakly, "Things never go as planned."
Raoul did not know how to respond to this, he mirrored her smile before pulling her into an embrace. "Everything is going to be all right, cherie."
Christine buried her face into the lapel of his coat.
Roxanne watched the scene detachedly, "I need to be onstage in one half of an hour, if you gentleman would be so kind…"
"Of course, Mademoiselle," Raoul tipped his felt top hat, "Monsieur Montague." The two left, leaving Christine and Roxanne alone in awkward silence.
Roxanne seated herself familiarly at Christine's vanity and began to smear on thick base onto her face. She seemed impervious to Christine.
Christine seated herself in a chair near Roxanne, wringing her hands in her lap. Clearing her throat, she asked quietly, "Do you know all of your lines?"
Roxanne nodded, "Yes. Wasn't too difficult, but the notes, mon dieu, you've got to have an amazing vocal range."
She looked down at the floor, a smile gracing her features, "Thank you."
Roxanne dipped brush into a cup of ochre; she rubbed the color into her cheeks. She dipped her finger into a pot of lip-paint, applying it to her face with ease, her face stoic.
"How did you become a…" Christine struggled to find the word to describe Roxanne's job description.
"Just call me a double," Roxanne supplied, "It was either this or the dungeons. I was a prostitute who knew too much about one of my well-to-do customers, but the gendarmes needed me."
Christine disguised her surprise, "Ah," Several minutes of silence passed, "Alto or soprano?"
"Pardon? Oh, yes, alto," Roxanne said, "Lucky for you, I used to sing in taverns when I was younger."
"Yes, lucky…" Christine said half-heartedly, staring into space.
"Does Monsieur Le Fantôme have any particular ways he…recognizes you? A secret word or gesture, perhaps?" Roxanne asked, lining her eyes with kohl in the mirror.
"What? Oh, er, no; I don't think, anyway. My angel—I mean, Monsieur Le Fantôme, has spent all of my life looking after me, I suppose he would be able to recognize me through my mannerisms, and of course, my voice," she sighed, "Which is why I am going to be behind stage throwing my voice…"
Roxanne nodded and continued to apply kohl onto her eyes; once finished, she surveyed her work in the mirror, "Ugh, you stage actors, the stuff you put on your faces is obscene."
"I recommend you remove it immediately after your…performance," Christine said, she looked at the clock on the wall, "Oh, my, you had better hurry."
Roxanne cursed under her breath and rose from the settee, "Merci." She pulled a robe on over her Don Juan costume and darted out of the dressing room.
XXX
The Phantom leaned over the rail in the chandelier dome, inspecting the crowd that seethed through the theatre beneath him.
Wealthy aristocrats dressed in proper Opera-attire chattered beneath him.
He was in a foul mood; he always became short-tempered when he was anxious.
He wondered if any of the fools beneath him had any clue of the passion he had poured into this opera, it was his very soul. And how casual they were! They chatted of horse raced statistics, what Madame Such-and-such was wearing, how to find good hired help.
He recalled what Christine had told him once, it seemed befitting, "Tonight, I gave you my soul and I am dead." His soul was about to be served up to these fools, these blissfully ignorant fools.
But, the evening would not be unfruitful—No, not by a long shot. His Christine would be near him once more.
Christine, oh, Gods above, Christine, his beautiful, darling Christine; the name was like honey to his lips. Tonight, after many long tortuous years, she was to be his.
Yes, at first, she would be angry, but every fiber of his being knew that eventually she would come to remember her love for him. She would forget about the young Viscomte.
At the thought of the Viscomte De Changy, his leather-gloved grip upon the rail tightened.
The young, impetuous fool, with his dark blue eyes and blond hair, he had stolen Christine. What did he know of his ingénue? Nothing! Christine was to be nothing but another possession to him.
"Let the games begin," The Phantom muttered, spinning on his heel and disappearing through the door.