Dinner with Phillippe

The vibrancy of the cabaret bled into the street – jocular couples, loud music and a heightened gaiety that found Giselle both charmed and appalled. Beautiful, if vaguely wanton women, hung on the arms of men many years their senior, who kissed their faces or fondled them outright sans embarrassment.

She was no stranger to the behavior of men and women in mating mode – at most every inn she ever stayed saw the exchanges of lust for money. This, however, was on a much grander scale and cushioned in wealth, making the debauchery less offensive in a strange way.

The maître d greeted Phillippe with a jovial "Bonjour, M. le Comte de Chagny – your usual booth?" His tailcoat unable to meet in front thanks to his portly frame.

Giselle was conscious of his surveillance of her – side-eying Phillippe and twisting the waxed ends of his handlebar mustache. "Supper or just appetizers?"

Phillippe turned to Giselle. "Are you quite hungry – they offer a delightful sole?"

She nodded numbly. "That sounds lovely."

"Bien. The usual wine?"

"No – I think tonight a nice champagne – a treat for the mademoiselle."

"I shall bring you our very best." Making a slight bow, he disappeared into the throng, allowing Phillippe to seat Giselle himself.

The sommelier brought a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket he set on the table. Removing the wine wrapped in a white towel, he popped the cork, startling Giselle. "Oh."

Phillippe held up his tulip glass accepting half a glass to taste, once finished, he nodded. His glass was refilled and another tulip glass prepared for Giselle. "Thank you," he said to the man. To Giselle, "Please enjoy your wine –it is quite nice."

Taking a sip, she giggled. "Champagne two nights in a row – I feel spoiled. I do like the bubbles tickling my nose, though. They are quite fun."

"So you are a country girl?" Phillippe asked, leaning across the table to speak with her. Their booth, though set away from the loudest part of the cabaret, is still surrounded by the music and chatter from the people crowding the darkened room.

"Yes – as I told you, my father was a carpenter and he taught me his craft. We were a family of women and he was pleased that I enjoyed working with my hands. I danced – that was my mother's wish – she loved the ballet. I was grateful to be able to find continued work after my accident at the Opera House."

"I should have liked to see you dance," he said, lifting up his glass in a toast. "To lady carpenters."

Giselle lowered her eyes. "Thank you."

"Are there any other wonderful secrets you might like to share?"

"Well…Papa taught me fisticuffs."

He sat back against the leather padding of the booth. "Indeed? And have you engaged in any conflicts – either for sport or out of need."

His manner was so relaxed and friendly – it was difficult to believe that he was of noble birth – but then she could not imagine him to be a commoner. His finely chiseled face, the Grecian nose and cleft chin all spoke of a privileged heritage. In some ways, he reminded her of M. Erik – their body structure, the way they moved, a quiet elegance – catlike – Comte Phillippe in his grey and M. Erik in his black.

"Some of the farm boys would tease me when I would practice dancing in the workshop. One of them got a bit too close – trying to touch me. I punched him in the jaw. When he fell to the ground, all his friends scattered leaving him at my mercy. It was tres jolie."

Phillippe threw back his head and laughed loudly enough to draw the attention of a couple dancing close to their table. "Did you trounce him further?"

"No, I trusted he learned his lesson – why waste my energy – the point was made?"

"You are fascinating, Giselle, do you know that?"

"I know that I am different. I am not certain that I am fascinating."

"Oh, you are. Trust me when I say you are." His grey eyes half-closed, the barest smile on his thin lips.

"You remind me of M. Erik in many ways."

"Indeed? I do not sing, nor am I a musician or detective – and certainly not a phantom. I am nothing so romantic."

"He appreciates oddities – and speaks his mind."

"You admire him."

"I do –he and Mme. Christine have been good to me." She cleared her throat. "You look like him – at least your height and the way you handle yourself. I often wonder what he looks like under the mask."

"Raoul says his face is quite horrible. That said, a gorgeous young woman loves him and, more significantly, chose him over my beautiful brother, so it cannot be so terrible, non?" He took another sip of his wine. "I like that you have been thinking about me."

The waiter arrived with their meal and Giselle was grateful for the interruption. The sole was cooked to perfection, at least as far as she knew, grilled frisee with squash and figs as a side dish and a fresh, hard-crusted bread with garlic olive oil for dipping took much of their attention – their eyes, however, danced as they ate their meal.