March
The de Chagny Estate
In the furthest corner of the vast room that served as her bedchamber, the Countess Christine de Chagny sat in a straight-backed armchair, pink, staring out of the window. The scene outside was gloomy; dark, pounding rain with the occasional thunderclap pounded the earth, wind whipping any tree that remotely resembled a sapling to bend and sway to its whim. While the room itself was furnished ornately, decorated with everything from Persian carpets to faux Faberge eggs, and the weather outside was violently intriguing, nothing could shake the countess from her reverie, even after the house trembled with a massive thunderclap, she was so lost in thought.
Three years. It had been three years since she had married Raoul de Chagny, and she still wasn't certain why she had done so. As children, they had gotten along fairly well; they shared a love of hearing stories, and their opposing natures – Raoul's subtly domineering, Christine's need for direction – had complimented the other fairly well, especially before these characteristics had become concrete, as adults are. Her father had died, however, and Christine went to live in Paris as a ward of the opera house, while Raoul stayed behind. When Raoul reappeared ten years later, Christine managed to deny any contrary feelings, able to rationalize anything she wanted, in order to convince herself that she would be happiest with her Vicomte. At first, she had enjoyed being a lady very much; after all, she was a seventeen-year-old who had grown up poor, and was now surrounded by people who catered to her wishes, and an adoring husband. Now, however, three years and two (almost three) children later, not to mention the infinite amount of time between social events that spent doing virtually nothing but reading and needlework, she was beginning to see what she had done.
With all this time given to her for brooding and reflection, Christine knew that she had been a highly sheltered child. Although they were poor, her father had doted on her and spoiled her to the best of his ability. After he had died, she had been immediately passed into the care of Madame Giry, the ballet mistress of the Opera Populaire, and a very good friend of her father's. She suppressed a chuckle as she thought back to her awe at what seemed to be the unsurpassable opulence of the grand building. From what Raoul had told her, the new one was ever grander and less...less...gaudy, really. She had always been a star, the best ballerina, the best singer, and was watched fairly closely, even petted on, by Giry (insofar as Giry could dote, which, admittedly, was a very limited amount) and the older dancers, forcing her to remain in an almost childlike state. She was never one of the dancers to find a crewman to visit in a dark corner, and the bottles of wine circling throughout the cast never made their way to her.
This innocence had understandably transcended into her relationships with other people, which made Raoul's sweet devotion far easier to understand than the Phantom's dangerous passion. Erik offered a life fraught with tension, while Raoul promised her protection and wealth. As a woman with few means, Christine had almost been indoctrinated with the philosophy that a guarantee of safety and money were the only things important in a husband, and that it was selfish to look for more. Whether this was true only in society, or in reality, Christine had been a penniless orphan, and Raoul was a wealthy vicomte, and, even more than that, treated her with a sweet form of chivalry, protecting and comforting her, which she needed. Now, Christine was part-amused and part-disgusted to think of her naiveté.
Her thoughts were interrupted by shouts of children. Shouts of "Mama, Mama!" came from her son Troy, curly-haired and tall for his two years. Immediately after his bursting into her chamber, Christine was visited by her daughter, Troy's twin. The more serious of the pair, Kajsa looked like a miniature replica of her mother. "Mama, Papa est retourne!"
The stillness broken by her children, more people rushed into the room. First to hurry in was Miss Georgiana Seymour, the twin's English governess. Grabbing her young charges, she began to gently admonish them for what seemed to be the thousandth time about running in the house and interrupting their mother. Christine's personal maid, a beautiful girl from the southern part of the nation, Celie, was at Miss Seymour's heels. Upon seeing Celie with a hairbrush, Christine finally snapped out of her trance and rose, her vision clouding for the briefest instant from standing too fast. Smiling absently at the twins, she allowed Celie to lead her to her toilette as Miss Seymour hurried the children to their rooms to help them change out of their play-clothes, as to properly greet their father. Celie brushed her mistress hair, pinning it into a simple half-chignon, as Christine hurried to button the back of her rose silk gown, a dress much more suited for seeing her husband than the old lawn she had torn off her body in her hurry. Raoul did love to see her in pink. Once the last button was secured, Christine walked out of her dressing room in the calm manner that was characteristic of wealthy ladies, hiding all her nervous energy under the familiar mask of placidity.
Raoul was waiting for her in the blue sitting room, his personal favourite of their four sitting rooms. "Bonjour, my dear," he said, his eyes truly happy to see his bride. Enveloping her in a gentle hug (he feared of hurting the baby), he gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek, and one more on her porcelain-white forehead, and handed her a gift, of a bolt of beautiful white silk. "Perfect for you, and for the bébé," he whispered into her ear. He beckoned to his children, who, Christine noticed, were significantly cleaner and more polished than they had been even five minutes ago, and was once again eternally grateful for their talented governess, who surrendered them to their father, if somewhat reluctantly. "Have you been good children?" he asked, teasing.
As an answer, he got a chorus of "Yes, Papa. Very good. Perfect," causing him to laugh indulgently at his offspring.
He held them a bit longer, then released them, giving each a gift. Kajsa (named for Christine's Swedish grandmother), who was now dressed like a little lady in a perfect navy taffeta dress and lacy white pinafore, squealed with delight at her new doll, and Troy, feeling that he was manly, gave his thanks in a gruff voice, causing both Christine and her husband to chuckle at their darling. "I expect to see you both at supper," Raoul declared, subtly telling the governess to remove them for the remainder of the afternoon. They smiled one last time, and scampered off to play, Miss Seymour right behind them.
After freshening up, for the bumpy carriage ride was most taxing to a nobleman such as himself, Raoul returned to the sitting room where his young wife was waiting, silently embroidering a new collar. After exchanging the empty pleasantries of French social life that were required even of husband and wife, Raoul said, "They have finished Le Fantome. It is to be an opera, Christine!" Christine paled out of habit, but underneath her chalk-white skin, she was actually genuinely pleased.
After about a year of marriage, and the novelty being the mistress of the large household had begun to wear off, Christine began to realize how superficial…and boring her life would be for the forty or fifty years until she died if she did not do something, anything. Thus, she began a great project – writing Le Fantome de l'Opera. It was simply a story based on her view of her experiences at the Opera Populaire, a memoir, really. Ariel knew that she was not particularly gifted with eloquence, but she worked at it two hours a day for over a year. Raoul insisted on reading it once she was finished. After he made some changes (minor, he assured her, only to change some 'factual discrepancies'), he brought the manuscript with him to the Ange, where he had been the last three months. A talented writer had been hired to transform it into first a play, and then an opera. The Ange picked it up, and it was on the schedule to be performed at some point during the summer.
Christine gathered herself and asked in the coquettish voice that she had perfected after years of practice, "Well, then, husband, who is to play me?" Avoiding the question that she really wanted to ask, she arranged her face into an expression of mild interest, quiet curiosity.
"I do believe, wife, that it is to be a rather mysterious young lady named Ariel D'Aubigne. She's rather small and dark, but no one can discover where she came from. All I know is that she impressed the managers very, very much with her audition, and now is the Ange's established diva, though, I must say, as I have met her on several occasions, she is nothing like the nightmare that was La Carlotta. She is kind and funny, warm, if a bit cryptic at times. She had been living with a cousin, but I do believe that she now lives with some other singers. She's quite a bit older than you, you know. She is twenty-four!"
"And her singing?" Christine was genuinely interested to hear her husband's response, which she was certain would be a masterpiece of diplomacy.
Raoul hesitated here. For as much as he adored his wife, he had to admit that Ariel's singing was far superior to any that he had ever heard. Raoul actually knew quite a bit about music, and he knew that Ariel could sing. "Er, her singing? She's quite good. In fact, Christine, darling, she's very good. I heard her in 'Aida' and 'L'italiana in Algeri.' Both performances were phenomenal. Very powerful voice. She can control your emotions with the tiniest little shift in tone. None of your sweetness, however." Changing the subject, which could be potentially awkward, "Will you be coming to Paris for the premiere?" He asked this out of politeness.
Christine, deciding to let her husband think that he had gotten away with a bit of cleverness, ignored the comment about her 'sweet' voice as well. She knew as well as anyone that her voice, while certainly very pretty to listen to, was not suited for the more difficult pieces of opera; she had often mused that she should be relieved that she got out before anyone else discovered this. Well, not everyone. Erik knew. He had never told her, but she knew that he had heard it too. Answering her husband's question, she surprised him, as well as herself, with the reply, "Yes." She was firmer this time. "Yes, I think I will. I should like to see it, and I am curious to meet this Mademoiselle D'Aubigne." Both of them knew that she would be almost eight months pregnant at the time, but there was a steely tone to her voice that Raoul had never heard before. In any case, he supposed it was likely that this was merely a caprice of a pregnant woman, and that her fancy would pass. And, if it didn't, he supposed, she could perhaps set a new fashion, as it was typically taboo for wealthy women to emerge from seclusion in their homes during pregnancy. Yes...he rather liked this fantasy of his wife setting a great new trend.
Gathering up her courage, Christine asked, "And who will be playing m...our Fantome?" Her voice trembled slightly.
Raoul was not paying enough attention notice her slip, and, after taking a sip of his brandy, answered, "A charming man named Henri Bordeaux. Good voice, strongest at tenor, but decent bass." As much as she hated to admit it, Christine knew that Raoul had a greater knowledge of music than she, if none of the talent she possessed.
"Excellent. I am very much looking forward to seeing it performed." Christine answered. She didn't dare ask if he had had any sign of the real phantom; there was a long list of subjects best avoided around her husband, and Erik and all things related to him topped it. Her mind busy, she asked rhetorically, "Will pheasant be good for supper, dear?"
