It was the managers once again.
"Mlle. Daae," Firmin began, "A finer voice has never been heard on this stage."
Christine thanked them softly, her voice regaining its usual timidity. She asked them if there was anything she could do for them, and they replied in the affirmative.
"Some of the opera's most influential donors have invited us to dinner," Moncharmin explained, "and they would like to speak to you. Would you oblige?"
She nodded, of course, and again they sighed with relief.
"Our carriage leaves in twenty minutes," they told her, thanking her softly once more before leaving her to change.
In the mere minutes it took her to take off her makeup and tame her hair, Erik had returned to her dressing room, carrying with him a gorgeous blue calico gown. He laid it in her arms silently before he left once more, having resolved the problem of what she would wear.
She quickly changed, knowing that she did not have much time, but she took a moment to look at herself in the mirror. She normally was not a vain girl, but it took her a moment to fully recognize who she was looking it. The deep blue of the gown made her ivory skin glow with radiance, while perfectly illuminating the dazzling blue of her eyes. She sang like an angel that night, and now she looked like one.
Erik watched her from behind the mirror, silently commending himself on a job well done. When she left, he returned to the house on the lake to compose and unwind, expecting her to comply with his instruction and return to him that night.
It did not take long for Christine to find the managers again, for they were actively searching for her in the opera lobby. Before she could get too lost in the chaos of the reception, they pulled her towards the front door, making sure she was safely in the carriage before they followed suit. After all, she was still needed.
They did not mean to overwhelm the girl after the biggest triumph the opera has seen in decades, but of course they had questions. First was the question of the night.
"Mlle. Daae," they called her attention from her own thoughts, "How… How did you learn to sing like that? Your voice… It is otherworldly."
She replied with a few words of thanks, for what felt like the millionth time that night, but unfortunately she did not give them any real answer. "I… I have a very good teacher."
"Damn right," Moncharmin murmured, "but who is it?"
"I am very sorry, but I cannot say," she regretfully told them. "He would like to remain anonymous."
"Anonymous? To the managers of the largest opera in France?" The two men stared dumbfoundedly at her, unable to contain their shock. "Surely there must be some mistake!"
"I am afraid there is no mistake," she assured them. "But I will send him your regards."
Firmin gave a rather indignant huff, but there was no time for more questioning. They had arrived at the bistro, where Christine was to sit and attempt to explain her success to the opera's most important patrons.
The patrons, who had to more money than they knew that to do with, had bought out the bistro for the night. For the first half hour or so, all that came from her mouth was a sea of timid thank-you's as patrons young and old poured their hearts out to her and her success. After they heard how she spoke, many of them questioned if the voice they heard that night truly belonged to her, and in response she quietly assured them that it was indeed her. Of course came the question that everyone wanted to know, and over and over again she kindly explained that she was sworn to secrecy. The ambiguity of her answer lent a sense of mystery and enigma to her very presence, only making patrons want to know more about this strange girl who appeared from nowhere and took Paris by storm. She was asked again and again to grace the patrons to another display of her voice, to which she tried desperately to say no to, but she knew that she could not desist for long. It was only after the managers pulled her aside and stated that many patrons there were willing to donate large amounts of money to hear her again that she agreed to an encore.
When she was pulled to a small stage in the front of the dining room, it was only mere seconds before a pin drop could be heard throughout the restaurant. She chose a classic French art piece, one that Erik had practiced with her quite extensively. She did not disappoint, yet again, and her encore was definitive proof that her voice was indeed hers. It was only after a few pieces that she was finally allowed to exit the stage, and although she did not let it show, her voice was exhausted.
"Christine Daae?"
A voice stirred a memory deep within the recesses of her mind, one that she had long forgotten even existed. She turned slowly, for she was used to her name being called again and again that night, but never with that level of familiarity or sincerity. When she found the owner of that voice, she immediately recognized the now-grown face of her childhood friend: Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny.