9. E'STRANO!

It had been nearly three months since that strange, and hauntingly handsome, boy was found on the brink of death in the deepest cellar of the Opera House. The mystery around it, as well as the circumstances, made it difficult for Christine to put out of her mind. She and Raoul speculated about it, even wondering vaguely whether or not it had any form of connection with the presumably perished Phantom. But as the weeks, and eventually months, passed by the subject was forgotten.

Though this wonder nagged slightly at the back of her mind, it was slowly fading away. Not a word was ever heard about the strange Gabriel de Tophet and so his importance dwindled away. Most of her life had been spent in the Paris Opera but it was all transforming into a far off dream. Even her father's violin was becoming a thing of memory and imagination, but she couldn't dwell on losing that chapter of her life. She was becoming too tangled in this new chapter of being a comtesse and the endless parade of parties and social gatherings.

Raoul comforted her constantly, assuring her that she was perfect and had no one's approval to gain. But she knew she had to overcome her past as an opera singer. She was not high born like the other women in her class, and she could tell by their scrutinizing glances that they thought she married Raoul for his title. If they could only know the truth of it. How deeply she truly did love him ever since the day he fetched her scarf from the sea when they were mere children. If they could only know how bravely he risked his life to save her from a madman whose existence was a phantasm.

It was because of their silent judgments that she was dreading that night. For the first time in two months, she and Raoul were hosting a small dinner party. Among the guests would be his sister Fleur and her husband, as well as a multitude of other names pulled from the Paris blue book.

Already, at least half of their guests had arrived and were socializing quietly in the music room. The Marquise de St. Pelay was twiddling away some Liszt at the piano while her husband, the Marquis, bellowed an emphatic conversation with Raoul on the other side of the room. Christine was at Raoul's side, lightly holding his arm as they both held impressively solemn expressions while they listened to the man.

"And that is why, my young Comte, you should become less of a patron of the arts and more of a patron of politics! Art is undermining government and this bohemian ideal of opening our doors to foreign countries' art forms may as well open our doors to invaders and conquerors!" The man was making himself turn red in the face before he finally stopped for a breath.

"Surely, Marquis," Raoul took his chance to speak, "You don't think anyone could ever conquer France?"

"Of course not!" the Marquis de St. Pelay laughed. "In no time at all I am certain that France will be more powerful than even the British Empire! Assuming we are not destroyed by our own art…"

"It's only the destructive art that's worthwhile," a voice broke in, laced with the unmistakable accent of an Englishmen, though his French was fluent.

Christine had to lean to see past Raoul as the stranger approached. He was an older man, and very obviously a dandy as he wore a magnificent boutonniere in his lapel of yellow primroses. He smiled to the gentlemen and offered a hand to Raoul.

"Lord Henry Wotton."

Raoul did his utmost to conceal his bewilderment as he absently took the man's hand. "Comte de-"

"de Chagny," Lord Henry finished for him. "I know who you are, Monsieur le Comte. Though, I can see plainly that you're completely at a loss regarding just who it is that I am. You see, I invited myself when I heard about your party. You needn't be so polite, it's terribly tedious. You have every right to be indignant and throw me out. This crush could use some stimulation."

"Age never changes you, Harry," the Marquis grumbled before turning his attention to the bewildered young Comte. "Lord Henry is just trying to provoke you, pay no attention… He was an old friend of your brother, Philippe."

"I call it 'lasting' friend of Philippe. Any relationship title is only made offensive when referred to as an aging object. Makes one feel twice as old as they are, or ought to be. There are too few things that are constant or improving with age…" his snarky smirk then faded some as he at last focused on Raoul. "I was a friend of you brothers. And I wish to offer my honest condolences."

"Thank you, monsieur," Raoul said quietly. "You're the first to offer any."

Lord Henry scoffed lightly. "That is not surprising at all. Philippe was far too interesting when he was alive to be dwelled on when he's dead. So much time gets wasted on grieving and apologizing over something that one had no control over in the first place. I myself never made a habit of giving condolences to anyone."

"Then why give them now?" Christine finally spoke with curiosity.

"Because I truly am sorry." His voice was sharp with clarity with every word spoken, almost like a professional orator. There was no doubt that this man always had something to say, and it was proven when he glanced to Raoul, then back to her. "I feel compelled to congratulate you, though, Comte. I had heard that you eloped with a beautiful soprano after some considerable scandal. I've all the more admiration for you because of it!"

"Such is hardly anything to be proud of, Lord Henry," the Marquis grumbled quietly. "I do not think this is the place to deliberate it."

"One should always be proud of the things that no one else can boast of," Lord Henry smiled. "I am pleased to see that your bride is indeed as lovely as was rumored, but one day I would be delighted to hear what else is true."

"I cannot deny or confirm any rumors that I myself have never heard, monsieur," Raoul replied. "What have you been told?"

"Many things. Too many to be discussed this moment, I'm afraid. I was on my way back to my hotel when I stopped by to see the younger brother of the great Philippe de Chagny. Of the rumors, however, I can say that the least interesting thing about it was that you're happily married…"

This made Raoul and Christine laugh together. It was probably one of the only true rumors, she knew, and Raoul must have been thinking the same thing.

"You've provoked my curiosity, Lord Henry," Raoul still chuckled. "If you have no other engagements, perhaps you would like to join us for dinner tomorrow night and tell us everything. Possibly even some stories about my brother that no one else dares mention."

Lord Henry's face lit up at the invitation and he offered his hand once more. "I would be absolutely enchanted, Comte. I dine so little with beautiful women these days." A clever glance was given to Christine. "I shall call tomorrow evening, then, armed with tales to make even the shrewdest characters cringe."

"I can think of a few in your acquaintance who would not even bat an eyelash to sordid tales," the Marquis added.

"That's because I only associate with the ones who create said sordid tales," said Lord Henry without a beat.

"I've no doubt of it. I remember all too well how infested Paris was all those years ago with tales of your friend M. Gray."

Lord Henry's face darkened at the mention of that name. There was pause, and then he nodded subtly. "Paris was in need of a jolt that year, if I recall. Now, if you'll excuse me, Comte. I must be on my way." A bow from the waist was given to Christine. "Comtesse."

"Goodnight, monsieur," Raoul too gave a slight bow, and they watched the Englishman stroll leisurely from the room. "What an unusual man."

"Unusual is not the word, Comte," the Marquis chortled. "The man spews words of corruption every time he opens his mouth."

"I find him fascinating," Christine could not help smiling. "He doesn't strike me as being as immoral as he puts on."

"Perhaps not…" the Marquis had to agree.

"But you mentioned a M. Gray," said Raoul. "Is he as terrible as you so implied?"

"He is the worst of them all! But it could never be proven. I myself have never met him, but I have heard that he is a good looking boy who commits the most atrocious acts in the dark. One story I had heard had the most disgusting details involving flaming absinthe and three courtesans-" He abruptly stopped himself when he suddenly remembered where he was, his eyes flashing to Christine with shame. "This is not a fit discussion for your party, Comte… I should like to continue in my argument regarding art and politics."

"Please, Marquis…" Raoul said with some reluctance. "Continue…"

Christine could already sense a headache coming on as the Marquis began to speak again about the Moderate Party and why art should be stamped out. She softly excused herself from Raoul and slipped away. She mingled through the small crowd, stopping occasionally to greet their guests more personally.

While many of these people were pleasant and enjoyable to talk with, she did not feel she belonged with them. This entire situation felt like a scene from one of the operas where everyone was in some character or another. Only this lacked the emotion that an opera was so fraught with, and that was something she suddenly felt herself longing for…

Just then, a pleasantly familiar face appeared around the corner. It was Fleur! A broad smile burst on Christine's face and she quickly wove across the room to greet her sister-in-law.

"Hello, Fleur!" she said with some painfully contained joy.

"Christine!" Fleur smiled in return and snatched up her hands within her own. "How beautiful you look! I'm so sorry we're late… You see, Gerard was suddenly feeling too ill to attend."

"Is it serious?" Christine's smile immediately vanished.

But Fleur laughed lightly. "Hardly! He ate one too many bonbons at the theatre last night and now he has an aching belly to account for it."

Christine chuckled with her, still clutching her sister-in-law by the hands. "I'm sorry he couldn't come… I missed you both terribly."

"Oh, you are simply the sweetest! I will tell him you said so. Not many people say such things about him," she laughed. "I hope you and Raoul won't mind, but I have brought a guest in my husband's place."

"Of course we don't mind. Who is your guest?"

"He is simply charming, I tell you!" Fleur smiled, and for a moment, Christine was sure she saw the other woman blush. But Fleur turned her head too quickly to look over her shoulder and around the room. "Where has he gone to?"

Releasing Christine's hands at last, she took her dress in one hand and walked away in search of her escort. She didn't search very long before she disappeared into the foyer. When she returned, she had the arm of a young man. But his face was concealed behind a couple of guests who strolled slowly by. When Fleur and her escort reemerged, however, a gasp sounded from Christine. It was Gabriel de Tophet.

"M. de Tophet," she breathed his name.

His eyes had fastened on her. In the three months after he had disappeared from their home, she had forgotten how striking his eyes were as well as how they penetrated into her as if he knew every fiber of her being.

Just then, the bell rang for dinner to be served. Like a flock of flamingos, everyone drifted into the dining room to take their assigned seats along the elaborate oak table. Raoul was seated at one end, the Marquise de St. Pelay on his right, and on the opposing end of the table was Christine with the Marquis de St. Pelay at her right.

The process of placing all of their guests in appropriate order for the night was a task that took her five days in planning. Dinner was uninteresting as the men presided over the conversation, led primarily by the Marquis in his obsessive rant about art and politics.

"These painters, who cluster together like driftwood, are so engrossed in their world of imitating life that they forget about the truly important things! The need for an efficient government, for instance."

"I always viewed art as a window to the aspects of life, not a mere imitation," Raoul politely argued.

"They skew the truth, I say," the Marquis said stubbornly. "Paintings are a misrepresentation of life and music is a distraction from it!"

Gabriel, who had been silent during the entirety of the meal, finally spoke, his voice carrying strangely across the table. "Might I put forth, Marquis, that music evokes all of the necessary emotions and inspirations needed for your political acts? Did we not have La Marseilles to fuel our revolution? Have you never heard a melody that made your heart want to burst with love for an unknown muse or stir you so profoundly that you feel you might have gazed upon your very own soul?"

The Marquis stared at him almost as though he was speaking another language, but Christine felt a flutter within her chest. It may have been a foreign language to St. Pelay, but it was her language.

"I can honestly say, monsieur, that I have not," replied the Marquis.

"Then you have never heard true music," retorted Gabriel, and for the briefest of flickers, his eyes went to Christine.

"No music can sway me from my views, M. de Tophet," the Marquis said with certainty.

There was a tension beginning to build as the argument continued, and it was enough to spur Raoul into acting as the mediator and host. With a clearing of his throat, he carefully set his napkin atop the table.

"Shall we retreat for some smoke and cognac, gentlemen?" he said amiably.

There was a murmur of agreement before the men politely excused themselves from the ladies and filed from the room. Raoul was at the head of the group, but Gabriel dawdled a few steps behind. His eyes never settling on anything or anyone and continuously wavering towards her direction. Or was she being egocentric to think so?

The women returned to the music room where the Marquise seated herself once more on the piano bench. She began to play the same Liszt tune that she had been playing all night, all the while her finger-work never improving. Fleur herded Christine to a settee where they sat down.

"I do love the sheer irony of it all!" Fleur whispered with a grin.

"Of what?" Christine chuckled at her excitement.

"The Marquis and his wife! He complains about music, yet there she is playing it! You are quite fortunate that Raoul is as in love with you as he is your voice. He spoke of nothing else when he rediscovered you at the Opéra Populaire."

"It seems so long ago…" Christine said somewhat dreamily as her mind drifted back to those days of music and darkness. They were fearful days, but also filled with sheer delight at the mere sound of music and singing with all of her being.

Her memories were faded, but she could still hear the sound of the opera's orchestra filling the theatre, and that haunting organ as its breaths bellowed through the damp cellars, playing tunes that she had never heard and would never hear again. Melodies that spoke to her more eloquently than any poem or any human being ever could…

But, she could hear those melodies. In her remembering, she did not realize that the twittering at the piano had paused for a moment before striking up again with a different tune, and by different hands. These hands were not clumsy like the poor Marquise's; they were masterful and expertly timed with each chord. And the music that emanated from it brought a gradual silence from all of the ladies in the room as their attention was stolen.

The Marquise was now standing beside the large instrument watching the new player with captivation. Sitting on the bench was Gabriel, the only man in the room and seeming without a care about it as he played.

"Well!" breathed Fleur with a small smile. "He had mentioned that he was fond of music, but never that he was skilled at it!" The woman rose from the settee and approached the piano, leaving Christine alone to stare with a mixture of fear and fascination.

"Gabriel," Fleur said quietly. "What is that tune you are playing and why have you left the men? Surely you feel ridiculous spending your time with women!"

The ladies giggled, but fell quickly silent again to better hear the music.

A striking smirk appeared on his equally striking face as he looked askance to the woman, his fingers continuing without falter across the ivory keys. "I wanted to prove a point to the Marquis about music and there is no piano in the drawing room…"

The questions were only half answered and his eyes lowered once more to the instrument with an air of nonchalance.

"But my husband is not present to hear it," the Marquise commented on the obvious fact.

"He refused to come," Gabriel said simply. "But I know how to draw him. I know how to draw them all." His eyes then found Christine from afar, looking steadily at her. "Perhaps a heavenly voice will be too much for them to refuse?"

All eyes turned to her and she could feel her heart leaping into her throat. He was asking her to sing. She had not used her voice in any musical form since the night that Erik had stolen her from Faust. Feeling the attention upon her, she had to force a lovely smile along with the hesitant shake of her head.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur… I- I can't."

"Oh, but Christine!" Fleur hurried as gracefully as she could to her sister-in-law. "I have never heard you sing before! And what a perfect opportunity to perform the voice we had only read about in the paper!"

"One song," Gabriel's voice seemed to flow with the music that he played.

The haunting melody that he played then transformed into another, one that she easily recognized as the work of Verdi's opera, La Traviata. It was Violetta's aria, Ah! fors'e lui. As the piano played on, the women began to prod her on, their excitement growing as they were faced with the opportunity to see an operatic performance. All the while, Gabriel staring at her. He seemed to know that he didn't need to speak to encourage her. He needed only to play the music.

The notes that flitted through the air acted like an invisible lasso, coiling around her throat and pulling her to her feet and towards the piano. And as that musical cord tightened, it forced from her the first syllables of that aria.

"E' strano! E' strano!"

How strange, indeed, as the lyrics expressed all that she felt inside. The aria began timidly, but gradually she could feel the emotion of it consume her. Violetta's confusion in love was almost her own and her voice soon filled the music room. As she sang, she felt something that she did not realize had been dormant in these past months. It was freedom and exaltation. Now that she was singing, she felt at last that she was Christine Daaé, not the Comtesse de Chagny.

When at last the aria came to the climax she had found her gaze locked upon Gabriel's mesmerizing eyes. There was a glimmer in his eyes and his chest fell and rose rapidly. Her rapture in the music was his own and she was momentarily deafened by the beating of her own heart in her ears. But she could hear him clearly as he whispered only one word.

"Bravo."

"Christine!"

Raoul's voice brought a harsh recoil back into reality and it made her jolt as her soul seemed to snap back into her body. She turned in time for her husband to steal to her side, and at the entrance to the music room, she could see the other gentlemen in their black and white suits, leaning comfortably on the door and wall.

Raoul was smiling, though she could sense his inevitable questions. "Christine, you didn't tell me you intended to sing tonight..."

"It was spontaneous, Raoul!" Fleur spoke up. "And it was magnificent! What a voice! And you left the opera to marry him!" She laughed at her own jest.

"It is a tragic loss for the world," Gabriel added, reclining somewhat away from the piano's keys. His eyes at last left her to favor Raoul. But his gaze was far from friendly.

"Well, M. de Tophet, was your point made to my husband?"

Gabriel's response to the Marquise was delayed as he looked questionably to her. "Pardon?"

"You said you were making a point about music," she reminded lightly.

To this, he smiled and rose to his feet. "Perhaps you should ask the Marquis if any point was made. I merely wanted to hear the voice of the former Christine Daaé once more."

"She has no equal," Raoul agreed at a whisper, and taking her hand, placed a kiss on it. "And I am the luckiest man France to have her as my wife."

"Tis a pity luck is so short lived," Gabriel said crisply. When his comment received curious stares, an obviously forced smile appeared. "So I have been told."

"More music!" Fleur said flippantly, unaware of any tension. "Do you know any waltzes, M. de Tophet?"

"I know waltzes, fox trots, arias, adagios, and dirges, Madame!" Here, he happily seated himself once more at the piano with a toss of his coattails. "And there will be music until we are all corrupted by its spell! Even the Marquis!" Splaying his fingers, he hit the keys and began to play Brahms's Opus 39, Number 1.

As the music went on, Raoul gently took Christine by the hand and led her away towards the settee, seating her before he seated himself at her side.

"Are you all right, my dear?" he whispered. "You were magnificent, but you're looking pale…"

"I'm fine, Raoul…" she whispered, fighting every attempt to allow her eyes to drift towards the pianist. She could feel him watching her but didn't dare meet his gaze again.