Chapter 9 – Fireside Chats and Rooftop Rendezvous
(A/N-I still don't own anyone you recognize, especially Erik. Darnit.)
It was a cold, grey February day when Philippe, the Comte de Chagney and his paramour, Sorelli, started seriously talking about the future of the Opera Populaire. Nestled in a large armchair near a nice warm fireplace, with his lover on his lap, Philippe mused aloud, "So, without the Opera having a patron, things are sliding downhill?"
"Not completely. For all that he's never clearly seen around the place, the Opera Ghost is somehow keeping the quality up as much as anyone can." Sorelli ignored Philippe's skeptical snort, and plowed on. "The problem is mostly monetary, plus neither Carlotta nor Piangi know the meaning of restraint. You should see the changes she's trying to make in her costumes. And Piangi's belly keeps popping the seams of every costume he's putting on. I mean, forget about padding, he's already overfilling every single pair of trousers they're putting him in." Sorelli was good friends with the head costume seamstress, and Marie had been crying on her shoulder about all this for weeks (sometimes literally.) Sorelli wasn't actually angling for a solution, really, she was just venting, since she couldn't talk about this at work.
While Philippe didn't offer any solutions while Sorelli and he were together, her plaint did stick in his head after he returned home. /I wonder, my estates are doing VERY well, I could probably afford to be patron to the Opera, and Mother likes music –/
After musing over it for another week, he started asking his relatives how they'd feel about it. His mother was in favor, his sisters liked the idea also, and so last on his list was Raoul. After dinner, when the men went to the study, as was their habit, Philippe settled down with a small snifter of cognac, pouring another for Raoul, who would be leaving in three days to return back to the Naval Academy for another six months.
Philippe decided just to blurt it out, since Raoul had been uncharacteristically introspective for about the last two weeks, and was unlikely to say anything much. "What would you say if I told you that I've decided to become the new patron of the Opera Populaire?"
Raoul jerked his head up as though he'd just been stabbed with a dagger. First he frowned, and then he grinned. "That's a wonderful idea! I've been trying to come up with an idea of how to rescue an old friend –"
"An old friend? What does that have to do with the Opera House?"
"She seems to be living there as a ballet dancer." Raoul's tone was distinctly condemning of the idea. "And someone must be blocking my all notes to her, she hasn't written me one back yet."
"She? She who?"
"Do you remember sweet little Christine, from Perros, the girl I rescued from the sea?"
"Raoul, you rescued a SCARF, not the girl. I was there. And then you caught a cold we were all sure was going to become pneumonia." /And Christine may have been cute, but sweet? Not as I remember./ "Wait, is THAT what you've been brooding over all week? The fact that one girl isn't responding to your notes?"
"But, you see, if we're the patrons of the Opera House, she'll HAVE to talk to me!" Raoul was positively gleeful.
"Hold it right there, hero." Philippe was getting an inkling of what was sticking in Raoul's craw by now. "Let's do it this way. I have a "date" with Sorelli late this evening. You write your Christine a note asking for a meeting in two days. I'll make sure it gets into her hands, Sorelli knows everyone living in that building, and if she's also a ballet dancer, it will be easy for Sorelli to deliver a note personally." /And, now that I think about it, Sorelli HAS mentioned a Christine a few times in passing, as a friend, it's probably the same girl./ "If you want her for your first mistress, that's fine with me, as long as she also agrees. You are still a bit young for that, but, well, we just won't tell mother."
Raoul frowned, but then voiced his protest aloud. "I want to RESCUE her from that den of iniquity, not drag her down myself!"
"Rescue? Den of Iniquity? It's the Opera Populaire, not a whorehouse!"
"It's not? Where do most of your friends hunt for new mistresses, when they tire of the old ones?"
Philippe was not going to let this one pass without a protest. "That doesn't mean that only soiled doves live there – but – you know you already have a marriage arranged. It was one of Papa's final acts to engage you to Therese Deuville, you KNOW that! All this girl can ever be IS your mistress, so if that isn't what you want, then let her be."
Raoul, as usual, wasn't listening. Finishing his latest missive, he sealed it and handed it to Philippe, then left the room to look over his wardrobe for their next meeting. He needed to look properly like a hero - /I suppose the armor from the attic would be overdoing it, besides, armor is both heavy and so uncomfortable -/
With some misgivings, Philippe took the envelope with him. This was one letter he was going to deliver himself! He wanted a word with this older version of Christine.
Christine happened to be still up when Sorelli came to the dorm room she shared with Meg. Granted, she had taken her hair down to be more comfortable, but she had not yet started undressing.
Looking in at the girls, Sorelli found Christine brushing out her long hair. It was still dark blond, but the color had deepened as she aged, it now looked more of a light brown, with reddish highlights. "Christine, can you come with me for a few minutes, please? Comte Philippe would like a few words with you. Don't worry, I'll play chaperone."
"What in the Allfather's name does the Comte want to talk to me for? Sorelli, I promise you, I haven't been trying to poach your man – please say you believe me –"
Sorelli laughed, "No, Christine, it's nothing like that, just come along, OK?"
"Well, OK," Christine said, quickly braiding her hair into one plait. It was faster and easier than putting it back up.
Philippe was waiting in Sorelli's postage stamp sized sitting room, turning Raoul's letter over and over in his hands. "Thank you for coming, Christine. It seems as though my brother is attempting to overturn every tradition in our family. You definitely made quite an impression on him. He says he's been trying to write to you several times-"
Christine grimaced. One does not just blurt out to a wealthy, influential potential patron that his brother was a jerk and a pest, even if they HAD known each other many years ago. Choosing her words as carefully as she could, Christine said. "Yes, I got his notes, and his gifts, but Monsieur le Comte, what he wishes from me is not something I choose to gift him with. He wants to be my protector, and I do not choose to take that path. My plans lead down a different road."
Philippe was relieved to hear that. "He wants to meet with you. Perhaps if you meet, you can convince him of that yourself. I am certain that he will not leave off trying to contact you until he hears from you directly." Philippe extended the scrawled note.
Christine reluctantly took the envelope, breaking the seal and reading the plea to meet him the next day - anywhere she chose. Thinking hard, she finally said – "Very well, I'll meet him tomorrow afternoon at 4:30 on the Opera Populaire roof. I don't want to be stuck in some room with a single door, where your brother can block the way out."
That statement told Philippe more about Raoul's technique, or rather LACK of technique, than twenty hours of observation could have. With an inward grimace, he accepted Christine's ultimatum. "Tomorrow, Mademoiselle."
Once Philippe had left, Christine quickly scribbled a note to her friend Erik. Raoul would have his brother there, she wanted Erik there too. She might need more than just her father's dagger.
Slipping out was no real problem, by now she knew all the corridors and how to hide in plain sight in them. Swathed in her darkest hooded cloak, since many of the corridors never warmed up, she went down the stairs, as surreptitiously as she could. She did not notice Joseph Buquet's lustful eyes on her as she left the stable level, and he was too drunk to follow her, but he wondered where she was off to at so late an hour.
Making it down to Erik's level, she was relieved to see him poling his friend the Daroga back to the dock, since it would be impossible to keep her note dry while swimming over to his place.
"Christine, what are you doing here so late? You should be in bed!"
"Erik, I need a favor. That brat, Raoul got his brother involved, and now I have to meet up with him-"
Erik went stiff as a board, saying only "When and where?"
"Tomorrow afternoon, but at least I talked Philippe into having the meeting on the roof at 4:30. Can I ask you to observe, but stay out of sight unless I need your help?"
/My Christine, you couldn't keep me away with a blowtorch!/ "Of course, mon ami. Hopefully you can convince him to leave you alone" /and if you can't, I can always push him off the roof myself!/
The next day was cloudy but, thankfully not as cold. Christine was dressed in her warmest dress and cloak, and made sure that her dagger was an easy draw under her cloak. While she devoutly hoped she would not need it – she was taking no chances. Soon it was time to start climbing the stairs to the roof.
Reaching the roof, she realized that she was not the first one up. Erik was already here, she could feel him. /I wonder where he's hiding, I sure hope he doesn't need to show himself./ Looking over the area, she found an area near the large skylight where the roof was dry and there was no snow. Leaning lightly against one of the decorative statues, she settled down to wait.
She didn't wait very long. Raoul was first up the stairs, with Philippe following more slowly, a watchful, wary look on his face.
"Christine!" Raoul practically bounced over to where she stood, intending a hello hug.
Christine immediately aped Erik's most frosty touch-me-not attitude, stopping Raoul before he raised his arms. "Vicomte de Chagney." There was more ice in her tone than there was on the whole of the Paris rooftops.
"Darling Christine, you don't need to be so formal. I don't insist on my title with you."
"Perhaps YOU don't, but I prefer it. Vicomte, Raoul, you must stop this pursuit of me. I do not want to be your mistress! I have a lifeplan to pursue, and it does not include a detour over into your bed." Christine usually was not this blunt, but she was hoping to open his eyes to the real Christine, rather than the paper doll he seemed to be keeping in his head.
"I rescued you once, cheri, and now you need rescuing again." Raoul was undaunted.
"You rescued a SCARF, I was safe on shore! And anyway, I-do-not-need-to-be-rescued. I am in the place I WANT to be, with good friends, a career about to take off, and I like it right here. What would you offer me? You can't marry me, and even if we did suit, I am not Vicomtesse material. I know the theatre, I sing and I dance, but I don't speak the same way nobles do, nor act that way, nor think that way. And what is more, I do not like you that way. You do not interest me as a lover, I feel towards you like a sister. Go back to your intended, live your life, and be happy. And let me be me. Is that clear enough for you?"
"You don't mean that. I can give you riches and respectability, I can take you away from this Den of Iniquity. You need me."
Erik was nearly ready to throttle the boor for that Den of Iniquity comment alone, but did not want to reveal himself just yet. /It's all words so far – but if I ever catch him alone in a dark alley -/ His hand next to his lasso itched to let fly, but not yet.
Christine growled, frustrated with Raoul's thick-headed stance. Pulling her dagger from its' sheath at her hip, she snarled as the righteous idiot's last words really sank in. "I have tried to be civilized, but, Monsieur le Vicomte, if you ever refer to my home as a Den of Iniquity again, I will cut your tongue out myself. I'm tempted to do it anyway, since your implication is that I and my friends are all prostitutes. If that is your opinion of this place – then the solution is easy. Stay away from my home, and NEVER let me see you again. Now get out of my sight. This conversation is over."
As the two men exited the roof, Erik heard Raoul telling his brother, "She's just angry at me. She'll come around, you'll see." The slam of the door cut off Philippe's reply.
(Phew. That was not easy to write. So, what does anyone think? Please read and review.)
