Chapter 15
Yulia set her book down when she heard a knock at her door. She was mildly surprised to see little Meg Giry standing before her.
"Yulia? May I come in?" she asked, sounding greatly distressed.
Yulia motioned for her to enter and both young women sat down.
"Yulia, no one has seen Christine in over a week! Not even Monsieur le Vicomte! I don't know what to do…have you heard anything?"
"No," Yulia said, calmly picking up her book and paging through it.
"What are you reading that's more important than Christine?" Meg demanded.
"Romeo and Juliet. It's quite a silly story, really. Romeo's a silly young boy, and Juliet's not even fourteen. They decide to marry after seeing each other for a few hours. They die for an illusionary love! It's ridiculous!"
Meg glared at her. "Do you have any idea where Christine is? Please, Yulia, this is important!"
"'My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a loathed enemy.'" The dark-haired woman laughed ironically at the last line.
"Yulia Kazakova!" Meg cried, throwing her small hands up in disgust. "Christine is a dear friend to me, please…"
Yulia put her book down. "It is interesting…comparing the English with the Russian…it doesn't sound quite right in Russian, let alone in French…but, no, I haven't seen Christine since her abduction from the set of Don Juan."
"Why are you so…uncaring all of a sudden? I thought we—Christine, Raoul, and you—were becoming friends, but now…you're back to your old self. I liked the new you, better," Meg said sadly.
"This is the new me; the Yulia Alexandrovna that's finished with childish schemes. Don't worry; I won't be staying in Paris much longer."
"You're going back to Russia?"
"No…I'm waiting for money from a cousin in America; I'll be staying with her, for a time."
Meg nodded. "The managers would let you come back to the Opera, you know. If you'd only sing with a bit a heart, you could become famous."
"I have no such ambitions. Is your business finished here, Mlle. Giry?"
Meg pouted. "I suppose so. In any case, there's something I have to return to someone. Good day, Yulia."
"Goodbye, Meg."
Later, while Yulia was preparing an early supper, another knock came to her door.
"Yes, what is it? I'm cooking—oh, hello, Raoul. My, two of my limited circle of friends in one day."
"Have you heard from Christine?" he asked, pale.
"And with the same question. Come in, Monsieur. No, I've not heard from her. If you'd permit me to keep watch on that wretched little stove in there…"
Raoul picked up the tome with the Russian title as Yulia tended to her dinner.
"An English-Russian edition, Mademoiselle Kazakova? Curious. I didn't know you were a literary enthusiast."
"I think Mercutio is quite humorous."
"'A visor for a visor,' indeed," Raoul mumbled in competent English. "Yulia, you have no idea how worried I am. My Juliet's flown away, without warning or explanation."
"As ladybirds often do," Yulia remarked wryly. "Would you like some soup, Raoul?"
He sighed. "No, thank you. Perhaps I shall sample your cooking on another occasion."
Yulia smiled. "You wanted a story-book romance and ended up with a mystery tale. Poor boy. It will all work out for the best, I'm sure."
He looked up at her mournfully. "I feel ill without her. I love her…"
"I don't doubt that. Your love for her is pure and innocent, just like hers is for you. But there are dark things in the world, Monsieur, and your love for each other must be strong enough to face them. Christine is so child-like; I'm sure she was frightened of the prospect of being a bride. She'll come running back to you any day now, I'm sure. Just don't lose your faith in her."
He stood up. "Thank you, Yulia."
Yulia actually felt content. She had consoled him; consoled with lies, but still consoled him. Hoping against hope was a great human quality, though a detrimental one. "You're welcome, Raoul. Take care, will you?"
"I shall. Thank you, Yulia. Good night."
"Good night." Yulia sighed and brought her book out to her tiny kitchen.
"Pretty little girl lying dead in a cold tomb…how wonderfully macabre," she mused as she served herself the soup.
Meg changed hastily after rehearsal. She removed a bundle of cloth from her tiny dresser and tucked it underneath her shall. Her mother would fall into fits if she knew what her impetuous little girl were attempting. Still, Meg kept feeling a nagging at the back of her mind to return the porcelain mask she had swiped on the opening night of the phantom's opera. She readied herself and slipped along the route she had followed half-way with her mother the viscount to whatever awaited her below.
Yulia set her book down when she heard a knock at her door. She was mildly surprised to see little Meg Giry standing before her.
"Yulia? May I come in?" she asked, sounding greatly distressed.
Yulia motioned for her to enter and both young women sat down.
"Yulia, no one has seen Christine in over a week! Not even Monsieur le Vicomte! I don't know what to do…have you heard anything?"
"No," Yulia said, calmly picking up her book and paging through it.
"What are you reading that's more important than Christine?" Meg demanded.
"Romeo and Juliet. It's quite a silly story, really. Romeo's a silly young boy, and Juliet's not even fourteen. They decide to marry after seeing each other for a few hours. They die for an illusionary love! It's ridiculous!"
Meg glared at her. "Do you have any idea where Christine is? Please, Yulia, this is important!"
"'My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a loathed enemy.'" The dark-haired woman laughed ironically at the last line.
"Yulia Kazakova!" Meg cried, throwing her small hands up in disgust. "Christine is a dear friend to me, please…"
Yulia put her book down. "It is interesting…comparing the English with the Russian…it doesn't sound quite right in Russian, let alone in French…but, no, I haven't seen Christine since her abduction from the set of Don Juan."
"Why are you so…uncaring all of a sudden? I thought we—Christine, Raoul, and you—were becoming friends, but now…you're back to your old self. I liked the new you, better," Meg said sadly.
"This is the new me; the Yulia Alexandrovna that's finished with childish schemes. Don't worry; I won't be staying in Paris much longer."
"You're going back to Russia?"
"No…I'm waiting for money from a cousin in America; I'll be staying with her, for a time."
Meg nodded. "The managers would let you come back to the Opera, you know. If you'd only sing with a bit a heart, you could become famous."
"I have no such ambitions. Is your business finished here, Mlle. Giry?"
Meg pouted. "I suppose so. In any case, there's something I have to return to someone. Good day, Yulia."
"Goodbye, Meg."
Later, while Yulia was preparing an early supper, another knock came to her door.
"Yes, what is it? I'm cooking—oh, hello, Raoul. My, two of my limited circle of friends in one day."
"Have you heard from Christine?" he asked, pale.
"And with the same question. Come in, Monsieur. No, I've not heard from her. If you'd permit me to keep watch on that wretched little stove in there…"
Raoul picked up the tome with the Russian title as Yulia tended to her dinner.
"An English-Russian edition, Mademoiselle Kazakova? Curious. I didn't know you were a literary enthusiast."
"I think Mercutio is quite humorous."
"'A visor for a visor,' indeed," Raoul mumbled in competent English. "Yulia, you have no idea how worried I am. My Juliet's flown away, without warning or explanation."
"As ladybirds often do," Yulia remarked wryly. "Would you like some soup, Raoul?"
He sighed. "No, thank you. Perhaps I shall sample your cooking on another occasion."
Yulia smiled. "You wanted a story-book romance and ended up with a mystery tale. Poor boy. It will all work out for the best, I'm sure."
He looked up at her mournfully. "I feel ill without her. I love her…"
"I don't doubt that. Your love for her is pure and innocent, just like hers is for you. But there are dark things in the world, Monsieur, and your love for each other must be strong enough to face them. Christine is so child-like; I'm sure she was frightened of the prospect of being a bride. She'll come running back to you any day now, I'm sure. Just don't lose your faith in her."
He stood up. "Thank you, Yulia."
Yulia actually felt content. She had consoled him; consoled with lies, but still consoled him. Hoping against hope was a great human quality, though a detrimental one. "You're welcome, Raoul. Take care, will you?"
"I shall. Thank you, Yulia. Good night."
"Good night." Yulia sighed and brought her book out to her tiny kitchen.
"Pretty little girl lying dead in a cold tomb…how wonderfully macabre," she mused as she served herself the soup.
Meg changed hastily after rehearsal. She removed a bundle of cloth from her tiny dresser and tucked it underneath her shall. Her mother would fall into fits if she knew what her impetuous little girl were attempting. Still, Meg kept feeling a nagging at the back of her mind to return the porcelain mask she had swiped on the opening night of the phantom's opera. She readied herself and slipped along the route she had followed half-way with her mother the viscount to whatever awaited her below.