I hate writing from Christine's point of view, for two reasons: 1), that I have to leave out great little-known words and glorious descriptions, because she's too stupid to think that way, and 2), along the same lines, because she's so dense, it makes the story seem stupid because it's her telling it. But it has to be from her POV for the most part of the first dozen chapters or so, so please bear with me. It gets better.

Chapter Four:

Raoul de Chagny

Christine awoke to the sound of frantic voices. What was going on? She groaned, all the events of the night whirling in her head, a tumult of color and pain. At long last, opened her eyes, only to receive an even bigger shock. Raoul was here, bending over her, his face radiating anxiety and concern. No, not him! Not here! The Angel had not been pleased when he had learned that Christine's childhood sweetheart was the new patron of the Opera Populaire. 'If you must bestow your heart on earth,' the Voice had told her sadly, 'there is nothing for me to do but go back to Heaven.' It had never before occurred to her that the Voice was jealous. She had assured the Voice that she could never love Raoul, and commenced to avoid him whenever they happened to meet. She hadn't acknowledged Raoul's presence—and this was certainly not the time to do so.

"Monsieur," she whispered faintly, "who are you?" Would Raoul believe that she did not recognize him?

Raoul dropped to one knee and kissed her hand passionately. She inadvertently flinched, both embarrassed and touched by his gallantry. If only the Voice wasn't watching… "Mademoiselle," he said with a dashing smile, "I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf."

Christine winced inwardly; what if the Angel had heard that? Would she ever hear his voice again? She quickly decided that it was best to continue to feign indifference, and began to laugh, as did the doctor and the maid, who were standing there. Actually, she had forgotten about that scarf…

Raoul turned red and stood up. "I would like to have a private word with you, Christine."

"Aaahh… when I am better, do you mind?" she asked sweetly, her voice shaking. Couldn't he just get out? Raoul turned to leave. The hurt expression on his face pained her greatly; he did not deserve such an ill reception. But the Angel took precedence. Didn't he?

She dismissed the doctor and the maid, who were still hovering over her. Before the maid left, Christine gave her curt instructions that she was not—under any circumstances—to be disturbed. She had kept the Angel waiting long enough already.

And, seating herself in a comfortable armchair, she laid back and waited for him to appear.

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Raoul had positioned himself just outside the door. It was an ungentlemanly, despicable thing to do, he knew, waiting outside a lady's room; but it was obvious that Christine had forced them all out of the room so that she could talk to him alone. It was roundabout and somewhat insulting, the way she had gone about it, but fortunately he had seen through her feigned indifference. And, at any moment, she would open the door and they would be able to meet in private.

Oh, Christine! Such a beauty she had been as a child, and such a voice… But it was nothing—nothing—compared to her divine radiance now. She was a goddess, a paragon of splendorous glory and beauty beyond that of Helen, of Venus! Her hair, the gentle color of dark chocolate, dusted with sugar, soft and silken… Her skin, the flawless perfection of wintry cream, offsetting her glorious dark eyes, resplendent and dazzling… And her voice! God above! There was never an angel whose voice could compare. She was the Tabula Rasa of song, the quintessence of immortal splendor—

"Christine, you must love me!"

Raoul froze.

For it was not he who had spoken.

Who was this brazen invader? There was only one person who had the right to speak those words, and it was he, Raoul! The man's voice had been loving, demanding, and—though he hated to admit it—absolutely beautiful. If anything, it sounded like an angel.

Then he heard Christine's voice, cross and tired. ""How can you talk like that?" she demanded. Yes, Christine, he thought with a triumphant smile. Tell him how out of line he is, to stand in my way!

But Christine wasn't finished. "When I sing only for you!"

Raoul almost cried out in surprise. Whom would Christine sing for, if not her childhood sweetheart? He resisted the unwise impulse to break down the door and confront the man.

The man's reply sounded apologetic, and a little taken aback. It only made him sound sadder. "Are you very tired?"

"Tired?" said Christine with a giddy laugh. "Tonight I gave you my soul."

Raoul fought to keep silent, assiduously keeping his ear pressed to the door. How dare this man enter Christine's dressing room? How dare he command her to love him? How dare he ignore her suffering? But, as outraged as he was, the despicable audacity of this unknown suitor gave him comfort as well. He, Raoul, would never do any of these ungentlemanly things; surely Christine would see this, and then there would be nothing to stand between him and his beautiful love.

"Your soul is a beautiful thing, Christine, and I thank you—no emperor ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight."

Raoul rolled his eyes. What a ridiculous thing to say. Did this man think he was a god, speaking of receiving souls and weeping angels? There was no competition, he was certain. But still, Christine was locked in a room with this unknown dastard, and it was up to him to rescue her!

And with that, he broke down the door.

He drew his sword as he entered, ready to fight to the death, if need be. Christine stared at him, shocked beyond words; Raoul pulled her gently behind him, so the enemy would not harm her. There was only one problem.

There was no one else in the room.

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A/N: Yes, I actually did mean "dastard", not "bastard". Raoul is too cultured to use crude language like that.