A/N—Dal Segno Al Fine (D.S al Fine) is a term used in music, meaning "to go back to the sign, and then play until the end." In other words, to return to the past and go forward.

In 1920 France, the widowed Christine de Chagny returns to Paris.

This is the first of what I think will be a 5-6 chapter sequel to the ALW musical story. It's an unusual POV, I know. Yes, you'll see another of our old friends.

Please read and review. :)

~Riene

Prelude

2017
Riene

The flowers glowed yellow against the snow in the last rays of the winter sunlight. Yellow flowers, always his favorites. Roses, jonquils, lilies…warm yellow, warm as his love had been.

She rose, kissing her fingertips and brushing them lightly across the stone. Raoul, Comte de Chagny, beloved husband and father. It was still so hard to imagine her Raoul, friend and lover, husband and companion of so many years, still and silent beneath the cold earth.

Behind her a slim form stepped forward, an arm slipped supportively through her own. "Come, Mother," a voice said gently.

She turned. Sophie's blue eyes regarded her with worry. Christine smiled and squeezed her daughter-in-law's fingers reassuringly. "Yes, It's getting chilly," she murmured. Stepping carefully over the rough patches of late-winter snow and ice, slowly the two made their way back toward the gates, giving one more farewell glance to a second stone. Etienne de Chagny, August 1892-April 1917. In Memorium. But unlike his father, Etienne did not rest here. He lay somewhere near the Aisne River, with his comrades. Etienne, their youngest son.

Deep purple shadows lay across the rutted road and over mounded earth, as they walked carefully among the silent stones of the parish graveyard, and together approached the waiting car and began the journey home. Home, to Chagny.

The vast, sprawling Chagny estate had somehow survived the Great War, though many of its occupants would never return to these peaceful golden fields and quiet lanes. Many of the men who had lived in the cottages and worked the land lay buried now in other fields, harvested by the great Reaper who took a generation of young men in their prime.

Among those men had been the youngest son of the family who had owned this small section of France for generations, Etienne, who had left his dreams and studies at university to join the War in the medical service. Philippe, the eldest, had returned from his command, an older, wiser, more somber man than he had left. Her beloved Raoul, deemed too old to serve, had taken a chill one winter night during his endless rounds of duties on the estate, a chill that developed into a virulent strain of pneumonia and taken his life. In a way the War had taken the daughters of the estate as well, for Genevieve had married a Canadian soldier and moved to Nova Scotia, and Adelle had married an American and now lived in Virginia. Both girls were settled and happy, and Phillipe's wife Sophie had since produced a son. If Christine read the signs adeptly, another child was on the way.

The Renault slid smoothly to a stop beneath the porte-cochère and the driver handed the ladies out. Christine patted the car on its shining fender as she waited for Sophie to alight, a habit she had long ago picked up from Raoul, who had loved their cars as he had loved their carriage horses.

Emile swung open the great door and stood, waiting as they passed. Christine folded her pale grey leather gloves neatly together and laid them on the console table, turning so the elderly servant could assist her in removing the heavy dark coat, then unwound the soft cashmere scarf and dropped it on the table as well. "Tea is ready in the parlor, Madame de Chagny," he informed her.

Crossing the entry hall and parlor, Christine held her hands out to the crackling blaze, enjoying its cheerful warmth. Behind her, Sophie came into the graceful room and sat wearily on the sofa, fanning herself slightly, despite the winter day. Christine smiled to herself, remembering her own exhaustion and being overly-warm while expecting. Moving to the sideboard, she lifted the heavy silver teapot with its family crest just as Philippe strode into the room.

"Tea, Philippe?"

"Yes, please. Sophie?" He glanced as his pale and perspiring wife with concern. She waved away the offer and he sat beside her, gently patting her hand. "Perhaps you should lie down?"

The tall young woman sat up straighter and tucked a wisp of pale brown bobbed hair back behind her ear. "I'm fine, Philippe. Don't fuss so."

Christine handed her eldest son a cup and lowered herself gracefully onto an end chair. "You might consider relaxing those stays, my dear." She smiled at her daughter-in-law over the rim of the cup, who blushed.

Philippe took a sip and balanced the saucer on his knee. "Mother, we really must talk. Are you still intending to go through with your plans to return to Paris?"

"Oh yes," Christine said calmly. "With the girls gone and you back and settled, it's time I stepped out of your way. Everything here is running smoothly, and I have friends in Paris; I shan't be lonely or bored there."

"But Mother, you don't have to do this," Philippe raked a hand through his dark hair, a gesture so similar to his father's that Christine inadvertently smiled.

"I know I don't, but I want to."

"You can take the car and drive down at any time. Even spend the night in the flat if you wish…but live there?"

Christine sighed. Even now, she could not explain that the immense stone house, a showplace in this region of France, had never really felt like home. For weeks after Raoul had brought her to the chateau, she had been convinced their marriage was a mistake, that she could never fulfill the role of mistress of this vast manor. She had learned to play the role admirably, but a role it had been. Only when alone with her husband and later on, their children, had she been able to feel that Christine Daae, the child who had wandered two countries with her father, the girl who had danced in the corps de ballet, the young woman who had once been praised for her golden voice and beauty, still existed.

"I shall be fine, Philippe," she said firmly and Philippe subsided, knowing that tone well.

"Stephan shall miss his grandmamma so," Sophie put in, undeterred, and Christine winced.

"And I shall miss him, but I am keeping my rooms here, and will return often to visit. Stephan will enjoy coming to see me in Paris, as well."

"But it is so dangerous! All those immigrants and refugees!"

"And I myself was once one," Christine said gently. "As you just said, don't fuss so. I will be fine."

Four days later, Christine shut the door behind her with a sigh, and taking two steps forward, spun around giddy with excitement. Philippe had watched his mother with amusement throughout dinner, her large blue eyes sparkling, watching everything, and leaned forward, squeezing her fingers. "You are enjoying this far too much, Mother," he smiled. "I can see you have been pining for Paris."

Now the long tan car, Philippe, Sophie, and an excited Stephan had departed back to the estate, and she was alone at last.

The flat consisted of several rooms, owned by the Chagny family for decades. They had been purchased for the family to utilize during their visits to the capital, for the elder Louis de Chagny had been involved in both politics and business, and his family had patronized the arts. Philippe and Raoul had both lived here as young men, and Christine herself briefly after her marriage. There was a local woman who came in for daily help with the cleaning, cooking, and shopping, and Philippe had sent staff two days prior to air out and prepare the rooms, to purchase food and coal, and bring up her trunks.

Christine threw open the windows and leaned out into the cold winter air. Below her the city buzzed, alive with theatres, dance halls, motion picture palaces, cafes, markets, department stores. A new radio had been installed, and a phonograph, a present from Philippe, awaited in the salon. Somewhere to the north was Le Bourget Airport, with its bright lights sweeping across the night sky. The Eiffel Tower, lit and lofty above the landscape, was just visible from the other windows.

Philippe would no doubt be horrified if she attended any event at the music halls, but there were more genteel forms of entertainment available. In the mean time, there was shopping to do and old friends to see. Some weeks back she had alerted friends of her impending move, and they had responded with invitations to tea, to dinner, to the ballet and opera. Christine clasped her hands tightly, feeling that surging course of adrenaline through her veins again. The Opera Garnier. She would simply have to find a schedule of the productions and attend one.

She bustled about the flat, settling personal items and unpacking the last few things from her trunks. Gowns and clothing hung in the wardrobes, the bed was freshly made up. Cook had sent a basket of bread, coffee, tea, and fruit for breakfast. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth, the latest newspapers awaited on the table. An invitation to attend a dress show and have coffee afterwards waited on the graceful correspondence desk. Christine smiled with pleasure. Paris alone was a new adventure, and if she tired of it, she could always return to Beauvais and the estate.

The noise of the street below woke Christine long before the sun, the sounds of a bustling city waking and going about its business, so different from the quiet countryside. Dressing quickly, she pinned up her long curls, breakfasted, and hastened out into the chilly streets. Within minutes a passing omnibus had taken her to her first destination.

At the end of the avenue the Opera rose against the grey sky, green dome and gilded statues, myriad windows, the stairs obscured by passing omnibuses and autos, the usual bustle of people walking by. Christine paused across from the great structure for only a moment, ducking into the small café opposite. The steamy interior smelled of newsprint and coffee, sweet buns and damp wool overcoats. Smiling, she ordered a café au lait and seated herself by the window.

Behind her two young girls were giggling and chattering, and in her nostalgia Christine was swept back in time, hearing again Meg's sweet voice. Dear Meg, always possessing the latest gossip, her long blond curls pulled up as befitting a young lady, the two young dancers wondering if either would ever become a coryphée, pooling their coins for a treat. Meg, who had achieved her dream of becoming a soloist, who had danced until she caught the eye of a visiting young Central European nobleman. It was still so hard to imagine her friend, the sprite who had danced upon her toes, as a grandmother. Christine sighed, for there had been no correspondence from the friend who had been close as a sister since before the War, and her heart ached to think she might never know their fate.

Coffee finished, Christine gathered gloves and hat and marched up the stairs of the Palais Garnier. As always, the opulent grand staircase took her breath away, though they had attended many performances over the years. In the subscriber's office, she was introduced to Jacques Rouché, the new Director.

"Madame de Chagny and her husband were long-time subscribers and Patrons of the Opera," the manager hastened to explain, and M Rouché turned to her with a smile.

"Perhaps I could suggest to you a behind-the-scenes tour of the Opera?" he offered.

With a bemused smile, Christine took his arm, accepting the offer for what it was. For three quarters of an hour M Rouché escorted her about the back stairs and passages, and even across the great stage. Familiar aromas of greasepaint, plaster, wood, canvas, and rope assailed her senses, and for a few wistful minutes Christine watched the corps de ballet in their daily practice. Not once did she note a familiar face or voice. M Rouché proved to be a delightful guide, dispensing anecdotes and humorous stories, facts, and history as they walked the seemingly endless corridors, even once passing a familiar hallway. The old dressing room at the corner was now a storeroom, she noted sadly, but said nothing as they passed it. Did anyone even know its secrets and stories now?

"I hope you enjoyed the tour, Madame de Chagny," he said once they had reached the end of the Grand Foyer. "Shall we be seeing you and M de Chagny in attendance this spring?" Unaware of his faux pas, he beamed hopefully at her.

"My husband passed on some years ago," she corrected him kindly, then patted his arm reassuringly. "but I myself would enjoy attending the ballet and opera again."

M Rouché bowed over her hand. "Please forgive me. I hope I have not caused you any distress."

Christine gently freed her hand and smiled again. "No offense was taken, M Rouché; you had no way of knowing. Now, shall we see if our old box seats might still be available?"

Tickets purchased for the upcoming ballet and symphony, Christine stepped aboard another omnibus. St. Thomas Church was located in one of the older sections of town. A smaller, parish church, it had been where Dr. and Mama Valerius had attended, and later she had continued visiting sporadically throughout her years at the Opera. Though the Chagny family had pew space at one of the larger cathedrals, the small welcoming building was still her choice during the rare times when Christine had found herself alone on a Sunday in Paris.

Minutes later she was sitting in the rector's office, refusing a cup of tea and handing him the sealed envelope of transference from the church back at the estate. The priest, middle-aged thin man with a stoop, pushed glasses down his nose and skimmed the letter. "…member in good standing, I see," he smiled. "Welcome back, Madame de Chagny." He clasped her fingers warmly. "I hope we shall see you this and every Sunday." He glanced down at the letter again and tapped it with a long finger. "I see you were a member of the choir at your old parish. Would you have any interest in continuing here? I know the Director is down a voice or two and has been searching for new blood."

Christine took a deep breath. "I'd be delighted to audition," she said warmly. "As you know, I once sang in the Opera, and though I'm hardly stage quality any more, I do so still love it."

"Merely having someone who can read music and sing on pitch will be a blessing, I'm sure," the priest smiled. "I shall introduce you to M Canton. He can give you far more information than I."

They discussed the other workings of the parish and her tithe, before taking a brief walk around the building. The stone church had suffered during the war, for though it had never taken a direct strike, buildings nearby had. Slates on the roof had been destroyed, and once exploding debris and shock from a nearby bomb had taken down a wall. Several Parisians sheltering from the raid had been injured or killed that day, she remembered sadly.

"We have many needs about the parish, Madame de Chagny," Father Montserrat sighed. "I hope we may count on your support."

"Of course. I'll see you on Sunday." Christine nodded pleasantly and departed.

All in all, it had been, she reflected, a good day. Luncheon on her own, then a meeting with friends for a dress show, which turned into a dinner invitation as well. Jeanette and Henri Sellens were long time friends of Raoul's, as Henri was an investment partner, and it had been pleasant to see them again. Afterwards, Christine had spent the evening with a glass of wine, listening to a radio programme, feet propped up before a small and cheerful blaze. She'd written a short note to reassure Sophie and Philippe, then settled into bed. Her last thoughts, before drifting to sleep, were that Raoul would be proud of her.

It's different, I know. What do you think?

~R