No Relation, I Trust
First Movement

Prelude
Paris, Fall 1875

The introduction had been discordant, to say the least, but no one had ever accused Élise de Chagny Durand of being harmonious. As the only daughter in a family ruled by arrogant, aristocratic men, her sole means of protection had been the affectation of indifference that had eventually become her nature. Had Hélène de Chagny lived long enough to ease her daughter into womanhood, Élise might have learned the grace necessary to transform her vanity into true elegance. Alas, the De Chagny pride had manifested as insensitive conceit, and her privileged upbringing had never been tempered by a true sense of charity.

This was a failing that her aunt, the Baroness Anne-Marie d'Amboise, took entirely upon her own shoulders. She had not been forceful enough in her attempts to mentor her niece, who, while certainly haughty and condescending at times, was not a bad sort of woman. Well past the silliness of her vapid youth, Élise possessed a respectable reputation, attended church regularly, took tea in the finest salons in Paris, and generally led a very comfortable life. The world in which she lived had for many years revolved solely around her own person, and while this orbit had been temporarily disrupted by the death of a most beloved brother, Comte Philippe, the sudden intrusion of another brother back from the dead, so to speak, threw the entire system into absolute chaos.

She walked into the parlor with a regal air that might have rivaled an empress, her flaxen hair coiled into an elegant coif, and pristine gown of sapphire reflected in her cool aqua eyes. The perfect, impenetrable armor complimenting her perfect, expressionless face. Every defense had been in place, every prejudice well practiced, a deaf ear turned, blind eyes assessing, and a mind for dissonance.

She greeted the Baroness as she ever did, with the barest whisper of pursed lips glancing first the right cheek, and then the left. "Good afternoon, Aunt," wrapped in crisp, brittle ice, warming only when her gaze had fallen upon Raoul.

For her younger brother, there had been a smile. But for the older…

Her eyes widened, breath catching, at the sight of the grim, masked man looming at the farthest end of the room. Whether shock, or dismay, or perhaps recognition caused the involuntary reaction, the darkening of Erik's countenance indicated a very bad beginning indeed. Muscle twitching in his tightened cheek, he bowed his head in acknowledgement, green-blue eyes glittering dangerously in anticipation.

Élise recovered quickly, poised with rigid spine and insincere tilt to the corners of her pink lips which some might have even considered a smile. She moved closer to the familiar stranger with a fine-boned hand extended for the perfunctory greeting. "Monsieur Villon," silkily uttered in honeyed voice wreathed with smoke, "we meet at last," and the barest hint of waver was evident in the timbre of her intonation when his mouth obediently brushed her graceful fingers.

"Madame." Simple, succinct, and with very little inflection.

Verbal niceties observed, Élise shifted back, eyes assessing of the man before her, and then the damning utterance. "I suppose that there is a certain resemblance, although it is difficult to tell with only half of the image."

His gaze hardened, body coiled and teeth bared, all pretence of cordiality forgotten. Only the indiscernible touch of his wife's fingers to the back of his clenched fist aborted the strike. The danger remained unnoticed, or disregarded by the lady, but the action had not, and her wintry gaze fell upon Christine. Background melody of "half is more than sufficient, my dear. Erik is the image of your father," delivered in the Baroness's rich alto faded beneath the hum of unyielding feminine appraisal.

Here, there had been history.

A young, idealistic brother had appeared, ragged and dispirited, towing a dirty pale waif, all dark empty eyes and darker aura with soul bleeding out on the marble floors. A more unfit Vicomtesse-to-be had never been seen, but a man blinded by love was also deaf to reason. Élise had accepted, but never approved, and her reservations had been rewarded when Christine had finally left Raoul shattered beneath her heel.

She had not forgotten.

One brother to another, an even greater disgrace to the family than the man she stood beside, but she seemed stronger now, more alive. No longer a mouse. "Christine, my dear," tight smile, glistening with frost, "it has been quite some time since last we met. You are certainly looking very…healthy."

Healthy, wealthy and scarlet seething. No longer the mouse, but Erik's wife.

"Undoubtedly the mark of a happy marriage." A bit of (mis)direction by Aunt Anne-Marie. "Do you not agree, Élise? How is your husband?"

Conducting the players this way and that.

xXx

Overture
Paris, Christmas 1877

The second attempt had lost some of its dissonance, flavored as it had been by the presence of a child. Never one to admit defeat, the Baroness had invited and cajoled until her niece and nephews had grown too exhausted to continue in their attempts to avoid the inevitable reunion. Three generations of the De Chagny family and their mates had been uncomfortably reunited beneath one roof.

The first to accept had been Raoul, in all his predictable nature, making every effort to please his Aunt as her age advanced and her time grew shorter. Just such an appeasement had taken him to Venice as her companion the winter before, and he had been tolerated in Erik's home long enough to meet his niece. He had made peace enough with his disappointments to savor a taste of happy anticipation in seeing Christine and her daughter once again. He felt the effects of family, though he had yet to begin one of his own.

The next to accept had been Erik, or rather, Christine on Erik's behalf. She had written that they would travel to Paris with Angelique at the beginning of December and stay until the after the completion of the twelfth night celebration. Two years had passed since their last visit, and Paris had many allures. Families of blood and families of love bound them all.

The last to accept had been Élise, and her hesitation had been borne of darker reasons than the memory of that first unfortunate meeting. Whilst Raoul had been happy in sowing his oats, and Erik had been happy in planting his seed, their sister had suffered more than one unsuccessful harvest. She had twice failed to deliver a child to her husband, and her icy façade had cracked under the weight of despair. A happy family of mother, father and child would be a dagger to her heart, and a rending of her soul.

Yet she had agreed; her last desperate defenses eroded away by her aunt's gentle coaxing, her younger brother's soft smile whenever their niece's name passed his lips, and her own husband's desire to see his wife make peace with her demons. Every De Chagny had a few, it seemed, albeit from different levels of hell.

Élise and Lucien Durand had been the first to arrive that wintry evening, warmly greeted by the Baroness. The gentleman always had much to say, an educated man eager for debate, as any good barrister would be. His keen dark eyes could twinkle with merriment one moment, or turn as hard as granite the next, which was always a benefit to his profession. Friend or foe as the case demanded. He had always been an odd match for Élise, but match her he had with a strong will and soft touch.

Into the midst of this amiable encounter appeared the elegantly attired, masked figure of Erik Villon. His aunt constantly petitioned for the addition of De Chagny to the moniker, but he demurred. Conversation ceased upon his entry, and the Baroness smiled, hand extended toward the prodigal nephew who took it obediently.

"Erik, I was beginning to think that you might not be joining us this evening."

"My apologies, Aunt," said with his most sincere smile. "We were unavoidably delayed by Angelique's ardent refusal to cooperate with the dress code. Christine will be down with her shortly."

"You are forgiven. As you see, your brother has yet to grace us with his presence." She ignored his expected grimace. "I am pleased to finally be able to introduce you to Élise's husband, Monsieur Lucien Durand," her smile grew wider, "May I present my nephew, Erik, Comte de Chagny."

"Erik Villon," he corrected automatically, taking the other man's extended hand and exchanging polite greetings with his brother-in-law.

"I understand that you have earned quite a reputation throughout Italy for you innovative architectural designs," Lucien ventured by way of small talk. "Élise and I have yet to tour that country, but I am hopeful that we shall one day soon."

No reply was made, but the awkwardness of the silence was short lived, for a toddler attired in red velvet tumbled inelegantly into the room and attached herself to her father's leg with a squeal of "Papa!"

A glance down to his daughter melted away Erik's detachment, and an adoring grin softened his expression. "Testing your wings again, bel ange?"

Christine appeared only a heartbeat later in pursuit of her wayward child. Dressed festively in a modest gown of forest green, she moved immediately to her husband's side with a look of tired exasperation upon her lovely face and an apologetic smile, resting a protective hand upon the top of her daughter's mahogany curls.

"She is no doubt testing her mother's patience, as well," the Baroness observed, "but that is to be expected now that she is discovering the world outside of her nursery walls." She smiled indulgently at the child, who regarded the adults surrounding her with wide-eyed fascination. "Christine, my dear, may I present Lucien Durand."

"A pleasure, monsieur," in her silken tone. She smiled warmly at the older gentleman and extended her hand, which he took with an answering smile.

"The pleasure is mine, Madame Villon. I am a great connoisseur of the performance arts, and your voice has been often praised as a true thing of beauty, though I myself have never had the fortune of hearing you sing."

Christine laughed lightly at the thinly veiled hint. "Perhaps we might rectify that great misfortune after dinner this evening," with a glance to her husband, "if Erik will agree to accompany me."

The compliment to Christine did not pass unnoticed, and Erik seemed of a mind to reward the other man for his congenial attitude. "I am at my diva's command."

"I would be most appreciative." Lucien then directed his attention to the child, bending down slightly to address her in a gentle voice. "You must be Angelique." At the mention of her name, she smiled bashfully, and then promptly hid her face in the fabric of her father's trousers.

"Chéri," Christine chided gently, "greet your uncle properly."

She turned her face slightly, peeking up at the strange man through dark lashes, and regarded him closely for a moment as she judged whether or not he was someone that she might like. Her smile bloomed wider. "B'jor unca."

Lucien was smitten. "Bonsoir, mademoiselle."

Élise had remained silent throughout the exchange, drifting closer and closer to her husband's side, ever conscious of the tremulous nature of her acquaintance with both her brother and his wife. Yet her glittering eyes had not wavered once from the child, and two tiny curves lifted the corners of her mouth, softening her countenance imperceptibly. So it came as a great surprise to everyone when Angelique seemed to take a sudden interest in the pretty lady standing just behind her newfound uncle. Releasing her firm grip on her father's trousers, she lurched forward, steadied by her mother's supportive hand, and stared up at Élise with a rapt expression.

"B'jor."

Clearing her throat uncomfortably, Élise whispered, "Bonjour, Angelique."

The child giggled happily at the sound of her aunt's voice. "Pwetty."

A true smile appeared on the woman's face, startling both Erik and Christine, although it would not be until much later that they would confess their mutual astonishment to one another, for it was the first time that either had ever borne witness to what lay hidden beneath Élise's mask of indifference.

As if suddenly realizing herself, she straightened, schooling her features once again, and settled her gaze on Christine. Her lips twitched upward ever so slightly. "She is a beautiful child, Christine. You have been truly blessed." For once, there was not a hint of insincerity to be found beneath her words.

"Yes," Christine glanced to her husband with a soft glow illuminating her features, "we have been."

The tension eased. The movement continued.

And a little child shall lead them.¹

¹ A little child shall lead them. Isaiah 11:1-10
A/N: I know…it's been awhile. Once again, pesky real life interferes. Job stress and a mild case of writer's block made the Élise-centric vignette a headache to complete. And then it got to be a bit longer than I expected, so I split it in half. Part two will be this weekend, for anyone who is still interested .

Prelude is meant to be a rather dissonant piece, and you will undoubtedly recognize the earlier scene, this time in Élise's perspective. Overture is just playing with the language. Hopefully they are not too badly overdone.