Marc rushed ahead of her, shifted the bags once again, and held the door open. "Mlle?" He asked, dripping false charm.

"Thank you, Monsieur Laurent."

He walked in behind her, letting the heavy door shut with a bang that made Charlotte jump.

"So sorry I frightened you, Charlotte. It really wasn't my intention." But he was grinning so widely you knew it was.

"I'm sure it wasn't, Monsieur Laurent." She remarked, sarcastically. Nerves were getting the best of her, and she was getting snappish. "Were you raised in a barn?"

"English boarding school..barn...it's all relative, Mlle."

"Of course." She said, not really listening. She was too busy taking in her surroundings, the grand staircase, the massive chandeliers. She didn't even notice she was wringing her hands until Marc put down their bags and clasped her hands to make them stop.

"Mlle, you appear nervous. How about a story to calm you down."

"A story?" She tugged her hands out of his grip and went back to wringing them.

"Certainly! Have you heard the story of the Opera Ghost?"

At that moment the doors in front of them swung open.

"Monsieur, Mlle, it is a pleasure!" A man stepped out, followed by another. The first man was slightly shorter than the other and had a deep booming voice. He had the appearance of a once robust man gone to seed. "My name is Armand Moncharmin, but you can call me Monsieur Moncharmin if you wish." He chuckled. "No, really, call me Armand. Behind me stands a Monsieur Firmin Richard." He nodded to a taller man who was beginning to grow bald. "He and I are the managers of this opera. And you two are?"

"Marc Laurent!"

"Charlotte DuBois, messieurs." She dipped a curtsy.

"Ah. We have received letters from both of you. Mlle. DuBois, M Laurent, follow us."

Charlotte and Marc walked behind the two men. Charlotte was shaking, and Marc took her hands, this time not to stop them from moving, but to comfort her. She took this as a friendly action, not one of courtship, and let her hands be held and squeezed.

They walked into a comfortable office. A man and a woman were sitting there, sipping water from tall glasses.

"Ah, boys and girls,"Moncharmin remarked, "here is where we split up. M Laurent, please go with Mme Marie Bouville, our ballet mistress, and Mlle DuBois, please go with M Gabriel Reyer, our chorus master."

Gabriel Reyer was a nervous looking man, with graying hair. He stood up when his name was mentioned, and moved behind Charlotte, placing his hand on her shoulder. "This way, Mlle, if you please." He said, very quietly and politely, steering her in the proper direction, through the door and down a few halls.

"Here we are, Mlle." He said, gesturing to a large room holding a piano and many rows of chairs. "The chorus room. I'm sure it's been a long trip. Would you care for something to drink?" He gestured to a pitcher of water which sat on a tray, surrounded by many tall glasses.

"That would be lovely, monsieur." Charlotte smiled and stood as the man poured water into two glasses.

"So, you can have a seat if you please," the chorus master said, pointing at a chair, then pulling another over so he could sit and face her, "So, Monsieur Richard tells me that you are an alto, yes?"

"Yes."

"Lovely, we need a few altos. You know, many of the women who come in here, claim to be sopranos, but really, I think they are in a terrible state of denial."

Charlotte giggled. "I think all altos experience a bit of soprano envy, if I do say so myself, monsieur. Luckily, I suffered mine when I was six."

Now it was the chorus masters turn to smile. "So I take it you have been studying for a long while then?"

"My father runs a music store, and tutors and teaches. He used to work in this opera, actually, played the oboe more than twenty-one years ago."

"Ah." He took a sip of his water. "That was a bit before my time. I've been working here for about twelve years."

"How very interesting. You must have seen a lot of things come and go."

His eyes suddenly took on a haunted look. "Yes, Mlle. Many, many things." At that he abruptly changed the subject. "Shall you be singing a prepared piece? A duet? In need of accompaniment?"

"I have a prepared piece, thank you for asking." Charlotte finished her water, stood up, and burst into song. She was rushing slightly, she could tell, but managed to reign it in during the ritard. She was also a bit loud, but did try to emphasize the decrescendos, to make it look like she had done it one purpose. She finished, unfortunately a bit too rough for her taste, and sat back down.

Reyer looked up at her, then down at her résumé, letter of recommendation and credentials, then back up at her. Charlotte began wringing her hands again, and stared into the empty glass. She would have poured herself some more water, just to give herself something to do, but figured that would not be polite.

"Well." He said finally, standing up and setting his empty glass on the tray with a loud clink. "Well." He peered down at her, as if trying to look into her very soul. "Well, Mlle DuBois, I welcome you to the Paris Opera house and invite you to fill the position of alto in our chorus ensemble."

She was happy. So incredibly happy that she actually began to cry. Not great racking sobs, but warm tears of life sprang to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. "Oh thank you monsieur!" She exclaimed, wiping absentmindedly at her face with the back of her hand. "You've made me so happy!"

"I'm glad to..erm...see that, Mlle." Gabriel Reyer looked at her uncertainly for a moment, then "would you like to come back to the main office so we can negotiate your contract?"

Still dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, Charlotte signed the contract. It left her with more than enough money to bay her rent, and buy food. She was still crying when she walked back out into the lobby to wait for Marc.

He came in a while later, grinning like a mad fool and saw Charlotte's tear stained face. His grin splintered and cracked like a bad mirror. "Oh, Charlotte, I'm so sorry!"

Charlotte looked at him. "For what?"

"They didn't hire you?"

"They did! I'm crying because I was happy!"

"I thought that was just an expression!"

"Obviously, it wasn't!"

"OH! CHARLOTTE! THEY HIRED ME TOO!" And with that, he picked her up and spun her around. Charlotte, though still a little unnerved, was beginning to understand that this was the way of Marc, and that she would just have to go along with it.

Marc picked up their bags. "Would you like to walk to your apartment? Perhaps I could show you what I know about Paris on the way. It is a lovely day."

And it was, so off they went. Marc carried the bags and narrated as they walked. It was quite pleasant, and they dropped off Charlotte's bags in her room, and Charlotte decided she would accompany Marc, to be polite and to learn more about her surroundings.

It was all going very well until they passed a beggar

"Mlle. Monsieur. Can you spare a franc for me?" Charlotte reached for her purse, but Marc placed his free hand on her arm.

"No." He whispered.

"Why?" She whispered back.

"I'll tell you once we get past him." Marc said and dragged her past the old man. "You can't give him money, Charlotte."

"Why not? He looked hungry."

"He's not hungry for food, Charlotte, he's just hungry for your money. He'll cheat you and swindle you."

"He will?"

"Of course! Couldn't you tell just by looking at him? He's a dirty Jew, Charlotte! You should do your best to stay away from THAT kind. There's just something wrong with them."

"With old men?" Charlotte was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"No, poor naive Charlotte. How sheltered Copenhagen must be. You need to be wary of the Jew, Charlotte. He'll try and steal all your money, and you must watch out, when you're older, that he doesn't murder your children in their sleep to use their blood during their Passover services."

Charlotte was almost ready to shout WHAT? at the top of her lungs and take off running, but she remembered she had a part to play. "Oh, how disgraceful!" She said, masking her disgust for Marc as disgust for her own people. She then decided it was best to change the subject. "What do you plan on doing when you get back to your apartment?"

"I plan on celebrating and getting fabulously drunk."

Charlotte laughed, but it was tinny, hollow and forced. It seemed so tainted, somehow.

A/N: Dear () [anonymous reviewer] that was Erik right after Christine left him. He was crazy, and the stable boy had come looking for him, which was why he had killed him. Erik will be much more compassionate in 1891, I promise you.

What Marc says sounds awful and so politically incorrect, but many christians actually did believe that, and during the middle ages, thought Jews had horns and tails, and would try to look for them.

It makes you sick to your stomach, doesn't it?