Does this chapter progress the story in any way? No. But I wrote it because the idea came to me and I thought it would have been fun to write, even though I obviously took many liberties with certain guest characters, since it's not the first mention of actual people in this story. Plus, we all need a little rest from the main plot's misery, don't you think?
As always, your reviews keep this story going so keep'em coming!
Another bouquet wrapped in commercial paper landed in her arms, as she struggled to get across the sea of people crowding in the backstage corridors, some regular opera s and others desperate fans of glowing divas trying to catch a glimpse of their idols.
"Miss Daae!" She heard her name shouted at her behind her back and as soon as she turned the flashing light of a camera burst in her face. "Could you sign these?" A pack of the gala's leaflets were shoved towards her.
Even though she never denied anyone kind enough to ask her for an authograph, the crowds pushed her deeper into the room, almost swallowing her like kinetic sand.
"Christine!" A lively reporter tried to approach her, followed by a crew of other journalists and phtographers. "Tonight was a triumph!"
She lowered her gaze in humility, still trying to avoid being knocked down by the rest of the convives, who laughed and shouted all around.
"It was a big production, being worked on for so long by everyone involved. It's really exciting to see how well-received the new adaptation of a classic work was," she replied with her standard rehearsed press-answer.
They all scribled on the notepad obediently while nodding in agreement. She couldn't wait to get rid of her thick costume and wig.
Her eyes flew upwards torwards the burning gas lamps across the walls, reminding her of her heat and exhaustion. How suffocating could gala nights be?
"Christine, you are the talk of Paris, yet still remain a mystery to your fans. How can the great Daae be still an unmarried woman, even though it is well-known that she is pursued by men of the highest society?"
Those questions always angered her. The press seemed to treat the performances only as an opportunity to peak into her personal life, in truth ignoring completely her artistic work.
"My private life will remain as such for as long as I wish it to be and it is my greatest hope that the public are interested in nothing but the music I, along with my colleagues, try to serve. Goodnight, monsieur, and thank you."
Her sombre answer did not seem to please him. "Thank you for your time, mademoiselle," he replied coldly and turned to leave.
Finally, she managed to reach her dressing room door and practically shove out everyone who tried to follow her inside. Mindlessly kicking her low heels off, she sat down to unpin the loosened brown waves from her head, muttering a very un-ladylike curse her someone knocked on her door once again.
"Come in," she shouted, wishing they'd all get lost.
Instead of the usual flock of journalists and patrons flouding her room, a timid young man approached silently, taking off his tophat in respect to the french diva.
"La mademoiselle Daae?" he inquired with burning eyes and she affirmed his question with a slight nod. Notting the growing pile of flowers on his left, he continued, "I'm afraid I come bare-handed for I thought it needless to pay a talent as grand as yours-if I may say so myself-such frivolous respects in the form of beautiful yet fleeting flowers."
His french was faultless and his eloquence stunned her, despite the obvious heavy german accent. She slightly bowed her head and brought a delicate hand to her chest, trying to convey her gratitude.
"Monsieur, it is an honor to hear those words being spoken sincerely," she muttered sweetly and found herself drawn to starting a conversation with this beautiful foreigner, with the-slightly longer than usual-brown hair, green eyes and kind smile. "Are you involved in the arts yourself?"
She stood and wrapped her thin robe de chambre around her, minding her modesty in the presence of a stranger.
He scratched his ear awkwardly, as if struggling to form a sentence in his mind before replying. "I like to think of myself as a composer, yet artists like you make it difficult to believe in one's talent."
She laughed and he mimicked her. "Monsieur, don't be so pessimistic! After all, you seem to be very young still and composing is no easy feat. If you ever compose an opera, it would be my honor to sing it."
His eyes widened in an exasperated expression, which did nothing to cease her easy laughter. "If I ever compose an opera, it would be a dream to have you sing it, madame."
"Then it's a deal," she agreed and another knock was heard on the door. "Do excuse me. Come in!"
The door was flipped open excitedly to reveal a disheveled Raoul.
"Christine! You were-" he froze at the sight before him. "I shall bother you no more." He bit his words and left at once, terrified to see Christine laugh alone in her dressing room, and with a new man this time! Perhaps she truly wasn't as innocent as she looked.
"Raoul?" She shouted, rushing towards the door, yet didn't have the strength to chase him outside. She huffed. "I'm sorry about this."
The young stranger raised his gloved hand, reassuring her no offense was taken. "I must be on my way, in any case," he explained. "I look forward to watching you perform again, Mademoiselle."
"Monsieur?" she stopped him as he turned the doorknob, "I never asked your name."
He smiled and wore his tophat with his other hand. "Richard Strauss, mademoiselle. Goodnight," he slightly bowed his head and left.
Alone once again, she took her time to think while changing the rest of her garments. Perhaps, in another life, she would have been attracted to this young man, like he obviously was attracted to her. But now, she had a reckless vicompte angry at her and a fiance to care for. Her eyes darted to her ring finger and the gold band around it reminded her of how much pain she would have to encounter in only a few minutes. And how, in this life, there was no one she'd rather spent eternity with than Erik.