Chapter Two: Enlightenment
Christine felt stifled as she stared out the window of the de Chagny country manor, her wedding ring digging into her ring finger with every clench and unclench of her hands. Although Raoul had not broached the topic of her humble origins and her changed status as Vicomtess de Chagny, she was not a simpleton. She had highly doubted that Raoul's peers would easily accept her as an aristocrat, and she had been right. A week had passed since the wedding, and the one encounter she had had was far from comforting.
"So, madamoiselle," the Vicomte Fournier said at the large dinner party Christine and Raoul were attending. Christine knew instinctively that he was using the title to perpetually keep her at a distance from the true aristocracy. "Where do you hail from? Paris herself? Cherbourg? Bordeaux?"
Christine swallowed, knowing she could not lie. "From a small town in Sweden."
The Vicomtess Morel's eyebrows shot upwards. "Sweden?" she shot at her. Christine caught the cold edge in her voice. "And what were your parents' occupations?"
The roast quail Christine was eating became lodged in her throat. She could choose not to answer, but that would be an admission of guilt in her fellow aristocrats' eyes. Making up answers would be useless; she was not a good liar. But if she answered truthfully, perhaps she could twist the odds in her favor.
"My mother was a dancer, and my father a violinist. They were very well known in Sweden, the most accomplished of their kind, many people said," she replied, allowing a faint note of pride to show in her voice.
"Indeed," the Vicomtess Fournier replied in the same tone as her husband, staring at Christine as if she could see the blood of a lowly second-class artist running through her veins. She turned to the Morels. "And how about you, Laetitia, Antoine? How does your ancestry fare?"
"High-born aristocrats all the way. Our combined family tree dates back to the 1500's," the Vicomte Morel said with relish.
"To the 1400's, actually. Four hundred years of pureblood aristocrats," the Vicomtess Morel corrected him, looking across the table at Christine with a small smirk on her face.
"Ah, I believe we are quite similar, our families," the Vicomte Fournier said. "Hundreds of years of Fourniers, all distinguished aristocrats."
All four of them looked condescendingly at Christine, who could only smile meekly and spear her fork with another bite of quail.
That had ended the conversation between them. Over dessert, Christine had feigned tiredness, asking to go home. She and Raoul had excused themselves from the dinner party much earlier than was generally acceptable, Christine trying to ignore the expressions of vicious triumph on the faces of her peers as she stepped out into the evening air.
Raoul did not know of his peers' treatment of Christine, having conversed merrily with other aristocrats the entire time, and Christine did not have the heart to tell him. She loved Raoul tremendously, but sometimes she wondered if marrying him was worth the never-ending mutters of disapproval and scorn for having come from a poor family unknown outside of Sweden.
Thick clouds covered the sun, reflecting her mood to the letter. Under the gilded ceiling of her bedroom and surrounded by richly-colored paintings, she felt like she was suffocating in all the signs of her newfound status. So much glamour, demanding reverence from the inferior commoners…she had no use for any of that. She wanted to be the person she once was, wandering under open skies, mingling with friends and neighbors…
So do it. What's stopping you?
Her mind was made up in an instant. Christine turned on her heel and left the room, making her way to Raoul's magnificent study down the hall. She knocked on the open door, lingering in the corridor.
Her husband emerged from his correspondence to look at her. "Ah, my sweet Little Lotte, come in," he said, smiling warmly at her.
Christine smiled back swiftly and stepped over the threshold onto the rich carpet of Raoul's cozy study.
"Little Lotte, you never see me in my study unless it's something important," he said, getting up and walking around his carved desk to draw her into his arms. "What is it, Christine?"
"I am going out for a ride. Alone, if that is possible," she said.
"Very well, I can summon the footmen to escort you in a moment."
"No, Raoul," she replied as firmly as possible. "I'd like to go completely alone, with no escorts."
"Completely alone?" Raoul exclaimed in a shocked voice, letting go of her. "No, Christine, I will not have that. You know it is not safe for a woman to go out by herself."
"No harm will come to me," Christine said, trying to coax him into acceptance. "I learned many things in the Opera Populaire, I am not entirely defenseless."
"I will not let you go off by yourself. I won't lose you," he said emphatically.
She knew that Raoul was referring to more than mere thieves and kidnappers. Vivid memories of the Phantom of the Opera haunted them both.
"Erik is gone, you know that. The police did not find anybody in the cellars. He has disappeared, and if he is the Erik I know, he has disappeared for good. He knows defeat when he sees it," Christine said. The last statement was a stretch, but all she wanted was to get out of the manor.
Raoul did not reply.
"Raoul, it is a dream to be waited on hand and foot, but I am not a child anymore. Please grant me this one wish. I will not take long and I promise you I shall return," Christine said steadily.
He looked at her for a very long time without answering. She kept her chin up and her eyes earnest, allowing him to see her honesty and a hint of her feminine stubbornness.
"All right," he finally said.
A spark of relief fluttered through Christine's blood. "Thank you," she said, pecking him on the cheek. "I will return to you safe and sound."
"If you don't, I'll have the police hunt you down in a heartbeat," he called after her as she turned around and headed towards the open door.
She laughed lightheartedly as she left the study, suddenly feeling like she could fly. Running back to her room, she knelt down and opened the small wooden chest by her bed where she kept a small stash of clothes from her days in the opera house. Changing out of her stately gown into a plain dress, she covered her hair with a thin scarf to obscure her from recognition in the streets. She switched her tailored shoes for soft slippers, enjoying the newfound freedom found in her more modest attire. Swinging around to face the full-length mirror, she smiled at her new appearance. This was the Christine she knew, the Christine that had grown up in Sweden with her dear father, lived in the Opera Populaire, fallen in love with—
She approached the mirror, pulled closer to the mysterious being just beyond, surrounded by swirling mist. His hand stretched out to her, promising a new world of music, passion, danger and velvet seduction…
She stepped closer, barely noticing the soft grating of the mirror as it slid back, only seeing her Angel of Music in all his glory and wanting to drown in his face, his touch, his music, everything he had to offer her…
She stumbled back, staring at the mirror, which now only offered her the image of a frightened Christine, gasping for breath at the shock and the memories. But when she closed her eyes, the image of Erik flashed again behind her eyelids.
"Erik is gone," she murmured frantically, hoping that the spoken words would fully cement the truth into her deluded mind. "Erik is gone."
Unable to look at the mirror, she half-fled her bedroom, her breathing rapid and shallow.
The earthy scent of the horses gently meandered into her brain as she entered the stable and allowed her to calm down. Running a hand through her hair, she whistled once. Chaser, a dark brown beauty of a mare and her favorite horse, trotted over to her. She reached behind her for her saddle and readied Chaser for their ride. Swinging up onto her back in a single movement, she nudged Chaser and she happily cantered out the stable doors onto the well-worn paths branching out from the de Chagny manor.
Clouds continued to roll over the sky as Christine sped Chaser up to a full gallop, heading for the small village some distance away from the manor. She had to get away from all this: the overly extravagant wardrobe, the opulent gatherings, the lack of acceptance…as far away as possible. She was going back to her roots.
She rode and rode, not caring to keep track of the dizzying emotions running through her mind as she sped through stretches of forest and open fields. Drifting through blissful nothingness…numb. If only she could stay in this state forever…Only when she drew up to the outskirts of the village was she able to remember everything that she was and what she was doing.
Tying Chaser to a tree, she headed towards the marketplace, the centerpiece of the village. She had known of its existence from long ago, but had never ventured inside it. Now, she was about to make her grand entrance—as a disguised aristocrat.
Despite its small size, the marketplace did not lack for constant business and flowing money. Drawing her scarf tighter around her, Christine made her way past scores of people, almost losing herself in the crowd. Vendors called out the virtues of their wares, each competing to see who could best advertise their things, as impatient women pushed through people to get to their desired stands and excited children pulled their mothers through the throng, calling out for candy and toys.
Caught up in the cacophony of voices, the very beginnings of lightheadedness began to manifest themselves in Christine's mind. She took a steadying breath and continued on, taking in the bustling sights and occasionally opening her reticule to deposit several francs into the hands of the beggars scattered around the marketplace humbly pleading for money.
A dull ache started pounding slowly in Christine's head. A mere ten minutes and the noise of the crowd was already giving her a headache…she shook her head, smiling at the unreasonableness of her own body. She spied the polished storefront for a fortuneteller and headed towards it, worming her way through several more people until she found herself at the threshold, peering into the dimly lighted interior, with elaborate displays of dreamcatchers, crystal balls and dozens of decks of tarot cards.
A wizened, aged woman wearing an excess of veils and scarves on her plump body looked up from her beadwork with a smile. "Ah, come in, mademoiselle, and take a break from the wild crowd outside. Would you like your fortune told today?" she asked, standing up from her stately wooden desk.
"I'd only like to sit down and rest for a while, if that is all right," Christine replied.
"Then please, by all means, do sit down," the woman said, swiftly clearing away her things and offering her seat to her. With a smile of thanks, Christine stepped into the quiet, dark shop and sat down, breathing a sigh of relief as her mind unlatched from the noise and bustle of the marketplace.
"May I offer you some tea?" the woman asked, gesturing towards the small stove in one corner
"Yes, please. Thank you," she said.
The woman poured some steaming tea from the whistling teapot into two porcelain cups. Despite her age, the woman was still full of energy, her silver hair in an elegant bun as she offered a cup to a grateful Christine. Drawing up another chair, the woman sat down across from her.
"My name is Sylvie. I hope you do not mind that I take tea with you, business is slow this time of year," she said, swirling the fragrant drink around in its fine cup.
"That's perfectly all right," Christine said, thankful for her aristocrat's manners as she gingerly took a sip of the hot tea.
"So, what brings you here to our humble marketplace?" Sylvie asked, wrapping her hands around the teacup.
"Just a desire to take in the sights…mingle with others," Christine said casually, clandestinely making sure that the scarf around her head was still secure. The commoners were largely ignorant of prominent aristocrats, and were only aware of them as a vague, driving force in society. Still, it would not do to have someone recognize her as Christine Daaé, the object of the Phantom's love and obsession. Gossip ran strong through the marketplace like wildfire and she was not in the mood for intrusive questions.
Indeed, she was not even in the mood for fleeting thoughts pertaining to Erik.
"Ah, yes, that can be an impulsive wish sometimes," Sylvie replied, smiling kindly at her. "Perhaps the pressures of society were too much for you today?"
Alarmed, Christine looked at her, fearing she may have guessed the truth, but Sylvie's eyes were honest, innocent, hiding nothing. She relaxed. "Yes," she said in assent, withdrawing into the partial privacy of her teacup as she took another sip of tea.
"I understand," Sylvie said, touching Christine's hand briefly. "Society can be quite overwhelming at times, always expecting you to do this or that." She took a sip of her tea. "About twenty-five years ago, I was married to a rich man. He had his money, but he did not have kindness. He constantly carried anger in his heart, and was jealous of my psychic abilities. So many times I went to sleep furious at him, hurting, smarting from the things he dared to say to me. A number of times I swore to pack my things and leave, but I never found the strength to. Then one night, he struck me hard across the face. That night I'd had enough, and so I left him. You can imagine what a scandal it caused here in the village. 'No decent woman would leave her husband! Absolutely unheard of! A curse upon you and your worthless family!' his mother shouted at me when she found out. Ah, I wondered so many times if I had made the right choice leaving him. But when my former husband was found to be chronically abusive and a womanizer, I was left in peace. Here, I make a modest living, and I am happy." She peered at Christine. "I hope you can say the same for yourself, dear."
Christine swallowed, thinking about Erik and how he made her feel alive, about Raoul and his sweetness, and how Erik had disappeared, a broken man, never to be seen again…
"Yes," she replied, the lie coming out much more smoothly than she had imagined. "Yes, I am quite happy where I am in life."
"Love is a strange and terrible thing at best," Sylvie said, running a fingertip along the sweeping rim of her teacup. "And people do strange and terrible things in the name of it. Have you heard of that mysterious affair with the Phantom of the Opera and how he went mad for that young woman, Christine Daaé? He even tried to kill her fiancé …"
Christine froze, terrified, all her veins turned to ice. In that comfortable way of older women, Sylvie took her silence for assent.
"Well, word has it that he fled that opera house as it burned and that he was captured by the police," she said, rearranging one of her scarves.
"Captured?" Christine exclaimed, unable to withold herself. Shock poured through her body, constricting her until she felt she was going to choke. She slid her hands into her lap, willing them to stop shaking.
"Yes, captured," Sylvie said. She took another sip of her tea, heightening Christine's nerves with the borrowed time. Setting the cup down with a soft clink, she continued. "If the rumors are true, he is now imprisoned and awaits trial for his crimes against humanity. I almost pity him…the members of the Parisian court are said to be conservative and highly corrupt…no doubt they will eagerly sentence him to execution…"
"That is…that is…" A thread of truth lodged itself in Christine's mind. The last thing she wanted was for people to recognize her for who she was. Therefore, she could not be compassionate. She had to be brutal. Clearing her throat, she spoke. "That is justice in itself." Her voice rang out strongly in the empty shop.
One of Sylvie's eyebrows arched. "You think so?"
"Oh, yes," Christine said as dispassionately as she could through her suppressed terror and shock. "He killed so many people and he tried to force Christine to marry him against her will. He is a living sin against humanity. He must hang for his crimes." Pain lanced through Christine for daring to say these things against Erik, but she could not be the voice of compassion when the commoners were still panting like dogs over the bizarre story of the Phantom and Christine.
Sylvie continued gazing at her steadily. Feeling her façade starting to break down, Christine stood up and gathered her things.
"I must go, I am expected back home. Thank you very much for the tea, Sylvie."
"Not at all," Sylvie responded, still looking at Christine carefully.
It was all Christine could do not to run from the shop and head home at a breakneck gallop. Forcing the inner tremblings of her heart to still, she gracefully excused herself and left, the wind chime tinkling merrily as the door slid back into its frame. As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.