Prologue
My Opera House. My Creation. My Music.
Being sold away like some sort of garment. Worthless and meaningless. Maybe it is all worthless, now Christine isn't here. Her loving husband is here but where is she? Of course, nobody ever tells me anything, not since the fire. Not now everyone thinks I'm dead. Maybe if anyone would bother to look into the legendary Box 5, they would see I am not dead. I expect more of Madame Giry and, although I hate to admit it, the Vicomte.
"Sold. Your number, Sir? Thank you." Of course, M. Reyer would never have left my Opera House. The place obviously meant a lot to him and he has come back to fulfill his duties by being the auctioneer.
"Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen: a poster for this house's production of Hannibal by Chalumeau." Ah, yes. The first time the world set eyes on Christine Daae and, indeed, heard her.
"Do I have ten francs? Five then. Five I am bid. Six, seven. Against you sir, seven. Eight. Eight once. Selling twice. Sold, to Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny." Well, it seems that the Vicomte has made his first purchase of the morning. What a sweet surprise!
"Lot 664: a wooden pistol and three human skulls, from the 1831 production of Robert le Diable by Meyerbeer. Ten francs for this. Ten, thank you. Ten francs still. Fifteen, thank you, sir. Fifteen I am bid. Going at fifteen. Your number, sir?"
"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen." This is the one I've been waiting for. Something is compelling me to buy it, but if I did, I would reveal that I am alive and maybe start another riot. "A papier-mache musical box, in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order." The porter proceeded to play the musical box. The box that I built with my own hands. The box that plays my beautiful melody. The box that is the last thing Christine saw.
"Sold for thirty francs to the Vicomte de Chagny. Thank you, Sir." I can see as he holds that box that it means everything to him to have it. A tear falls from his face. What has happened to Christine?
"A collector's piece indeed. Every detail exactly as she said." I can hear him mumbling to himself. As an old man, he has obviously gone senile. "She often spoke of you, my friend. Your velvet lining and your figurine of lead. Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?"
M. Reyer has come to the most important lot. The one that holds the history of my Opera house. "Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera: a mystery never fully explained. We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it and wired up parts of it for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of what it may look like when reassembled. Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen!"