1

"Do you see what we have here?" Monsieur Firmin asked his associate.

Monsieur Andre dropped the papers he was holding on the desk. "We have a mess, Firmin. We have bought a cursed opera house from that schemer Lefevre. There have been ten deaths in this building going back ten years. They always happen in October and it is now late August."

"Why can't you see that this is just publicity?" Firmin pushed. "All this is is a good case of propaganda to bring more people into the Opera Populaire. "

"I looked into it," Andre retorted. "All of the men who died had worked for this opera house and they all died within these walls."

"Doctored paper work," Firmin said dismissively. "We can't worry about theatre superstitions when we have a gala to plan. Besides, what would the Vicomte think of all this nonsense?"

"He wouldn't like it," Andre agreed. "Best to keep him in the dark about it. We want him to be completely happy here. Oh, speaking of, do you remember when he was at the rehearsal the other day?"

"I remember," Firmin replied.

"Well, he was quite taken with one of the chorus girls… Christine Daaé, yes! That was her name. We should make her available to him, don't you think?"

"If she agrees," Firmin replied. "I'll not have this opera's reputation tarnished with accusations of loose women or forced...

"No one has to know," Andre said. "And no one will make Miss Daaé do anything she does not consent to. Now, back to this matter of a cursed building."


Christine your voice is lovely.

"Thank you, Angel." The young chorus girl beamed. "It's all because of your help."

No Christine. The voice that spoke to her filled her dressing room, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The greatest teacher can do nothing with a student that lacks potential and drive. I have been able to help you because you want this.

"More than anything," she replied.

Then you will sing at the gala. It is time you took your rightful place as the diva.

"But Carlotta…"

That old sow is past her prime, the voice angrily. She has been washed up four years. It's time for your triumph.

"Our triumph, you mean."

We will speak later. Little Giry is coming.

Christine was suddenly alone. The powerful force that was her Angel just disappeared. Sadness washed over the young woman as it did every time her secret friend left her. It was hard to explain, but when he was around she felt safe and protected.

A knock on the door preceded Meg's voice. "Christine? Christine, can I come in?"

"Of course."

The blond daughter of the ballet mistress flounced into the room. She was sixteen, about two and half years younger than Christine's nineteen years. But Meg had a rare innocence about her that made the girl seem younger. Or maybe it was because Christine had been forced to grow up at a young age. She had been orphaned at eight.

"I'm so excited about the gala, Christine," Meg beamed. "New managers and a new patron, it's all so exciting."

"I can't wait either," Christine replied.

"I heard you're going to audition for 'Faust'," Meg said.

Christine nodded. "I am. I want to try for a better role. I think I'm ready."

Meg looked confused. "But… you haven't said anything about it to anyone other than my mother. Have you been taking lessons?"

Christine glanced around the room. "Yes, I have."

"But surely not here," Meg said. "If it was someone here everyone would know. Oh! You got a private tutor so Carlotta wouldn't find out."

"Something like that," Christine said. "Meg… can you keep a secret?"

"Of course Christine," she replied. She straightened into a formal dancer's pose and steeled her features. "You can tell me anyrhing."

"Do you remember the bedtime stories I used to tell when we were younger? About the Angel of Music?"

"Yes."

"He came to me," Christine whispered. "He teaches me to sing. My father sent me an Angel and now… Now I'm going to be a famous Prima Donna. I can hardly believe it. It's like a dream."

"An angel, Christine?" Meg was hesitant. "Have you ever seen him?"

"I've only heard his voice and felt his presence."

"An angel?"

"What else could he be?" Christine snapped. She softened. "I'm sorry. I just thought you of all people would understand. After all, you're obsessed with the thought of an Opera Ghost…"

"Mother has talked to him."

"And you haven't seen this ghost but you believe in him. How is it any different?"

Meg went to reply, but thought better of it. "I guess it isn't any different."