Author's note: Nothing to say right now, but it is my hope that you find enjoyment in this. ^_^
Disclaimer: I. DON'T. OWN. THEM. There!
Chapter Four –
After the Gala
Narrative returns to Christine…
What else is there for me to say? The gala opening of 'Hannibal' passed smoothly, like a bolt of deep, rich red satin and ended with a note so perfect, so shining that it seemed like a diamond. Thanks to my unseen Angel's teaching, I was an instant masterstroke and the audience, let alone my friends onstage, simply adored me. Or so Mme. Giry and the rest of the cast said.
As soon as I had sung my final aria, 'Think of Me', and received a heartfelt applause from my new admirers, I made my exit, the curtain swinging shut behind me and enveloping me in a cloak of darkness. Before I had even had a chance to catch my breath, all my friends from the ballet corps gushed around me, all chattering and congratulating me. I handed each of them a flower from the bouquet that had been thrown onstage for me and turned to M. Reyer, who stood aloofly nearby, for his approval. He nodded stiffly and then Mme. Giry claimed my attentions. "Yes, you did well." she said. "He will be pleased."
Before I could grasp what she had meant by this, she rounded on the ballet dancers. "And you!" she scolded, in indignant anger, "You were a disgrace tonight! Such ronds de jambe! Such temps de cuisse! Here – we rehearse. Now!"
She emphasized her last word with her cane and the ballet girls scampered to get into their positions, and, in another minute, she had them all practicing as if they hadn't danced in the opera moments before. Meanwhile, I, feeling flushed and excited from my first performance, made my way down the hall, leaving them all behind. The shadows beyond backstage were lit by the moonlight that filtered in through the narrow, polished windows, leaving the halls riddled alternately with crisp moonlight and inky shadows.
Then…
"Bravo, my little one…"
I froze, unable to move at the sound of the unseen voice. But nothing happened then. No one appeared, nothing moved, I was alone. Nothing happened.
Slowly and numbly I made my way into my room, where I was struck by a sight undoubtedly more fantastic than anything else that I had ever seen. Roses – hundreds of them, in pure white and deep, scarlet red that was so dark it was almost black – had been placed there, mounded on top of my dressing table and every other surface that was there. Their fragrance was so sweet, so heavy, and so intense within the small room that it made me dizzy. Who could have done this?
"Angel."
Even as I whispered the name, I knew that He, somehow, had given me these gifts. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and I turned around to see Meg Giry hovering in the doorway, also staring at the roses within my room. I caught my breath, not quite knowing how I would explain this. But she didn't say anything.
Instead, she came into the room and gave me a jubilant hug, her green eyes shining, as she asked, "Where in the world have you been hiding, Christine Daae? Really, you were absolutely perfect! Oh, cherie, I wish that I knew your secret! Who has taught you to sing so well?" I turned away, withdrawing my hands from hers, and reached out with my fingertips to brush the velvety petal of a blood-red rose.
"An angel, Meg. An angel of music."
I felt guilty for a moment, knowing that I hadn't told her the complete truth. But a fairy tale is better than a lie – and a lie is better than the truth.
Meg frowned at me in confusion, bewildered, and said, "Christine, I don't understand. Who is this 'Angel' you speak of?"
The instant that I had entered the room, I shrugged, my thoughts overwhelming me, and replied, "Oh…the Angel. Well…Father used to…speak of Him…he said that, when he was gone, he would send me the angel of music, to watch over me and take his place." I tried to make my answer simple, as I slipped my frilly, clinging white lace dressing gown over my shoulders. Silently, I tied the gown's long, draping satin sash as Meg processed my words, still frowning.
"Christine, stories like that can't come true."
"This one has." I said, and even I knew that my answer was just a bit too quick to be the absolute truth. We stared at each other for a long, silent moment and then the door opened once more, and Mme. Giry entered the room.
"Meg Giry, are you a dancer?" she demanded, and Meg nodded meekly, knowing that her domineering mother had caught her and that there was no way out of the situation. "Then come dance!"
Meg quickly left the room, scampering to get out of her mother's way before she was given more trouble, and Mme. Giry watched her run back down the silent, dark, half-moonlit hall that led to the backstage practicing area. Then, she turned to me. "My dear, I was told to give you this," she said gently, almost motherly, and held out a piece of paper to me. Wondering what now was coming to me, I took it and nodded a quick thank you to Mme. Giry, who then left the room, closing the door behind her. When she had gone, I broke the wax seal on the note and scanned over it.
"A red scarf…the attic…Little Lotte…"
* * * * * *
From the unseen narrator's view…
I hadn't meant to startle Christine, much less frighten her – I would rather kill myself than do anything to harm her – and yet I knew that the only way that I could congratulate her was under the safe cover of darkness and invisibility. I decided to get to the secret passage in her room and speak to her; there, at least, she knew and understood my voice. But as I did so, I noticed movement in the hallway, beyond my secret passage, and heard two very familiar voices. I turned to see what was happening.
Outside in the hallway, André, Firmin, Mme. Firmin, and what I suppose would have been termed as a 'handsome young man' was making their way towards Christine's dressing room. The managers were clearly in high spirits and Firmin had a bottle of the finest champagne available stuck in his coat pocket. "A tour de force!" André was bubbling, "No other way to describe it!"
"What a relief!" Firmin remarked, wiping his brow. "Not a single refund!"
Mme. Firmin elbowed her husband good-naturedly, saying, "Greedy!"
They had reached the young singer's dressing room then and paused as André chimed, "Richard, I think we've made quite a discovery in Miss Daae!" Nodding his agreement to this, Firmin turned to the young man who was with them and indicated Christine's dressing room.
"Ah – here we are, Monsieur le Vicomte."
I grabbed part of the wall to keep myself from reeling back in horror. The Vicomte! I had been expecting someone older, someone more around my age, or older than that, even, but he looked as young as… Suddenly, my horror turned to jealous anger and suspicion, for I realized that the Vicomte was undoubtedly somewhat, if not exactly, Christine's age.
"Gentlemen," the young man, Raoul: the Vicomte de Chagny, the new patron of the Opéra Populaire, bowed as he spoke. I was disgusted to hear his voice. It was smooth, young, and low, a perfect combination of both wealth and elegance. If he went anywhere near Christine, I would—
"If you wouldn't mind," the Vicomte continued, urbanely, "This is one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied."
Firmin had his back halfway turned to him, so Raoul quickly reached down and plucked the champagne out of Firmin's coat pocket and smiled suavely at the surprised look on the manager's face. André, however, nodded and bowed, instead of looking mortified. "As you wish, monsieur." He motioned to Firmin and his wife and the three began to make their way out of the hallway and away from Christine's dressing room.
Before they had left, Firmin looked back, seeing Raoul at the door, and remarked, "They seem to have met before…"
Something died inside of me when I had heard that.
Firmin's comment was lost as the two managers and the matron disappeared from the corridor. Raoul, meanwhile, knocked on the door and entered. I kept myself from coming out from my hiding place and strangling him right on the spot for entering a lady's room unannounced and ran to my position behind Christine's mirror. Breathless, I got there just in time to see him walk through the door.
Inside, just beyond me, Christine was sitting at her dressing table. She was brushing her long, beautiful, glorious wealth of dark hair contemplatively.
"Christine Daae, where is your scarf?" the boy asked, startling her. Christine whirled around in her chair and stared at him. Good. Hate him as I do, I silently told her.
"Monsieur?"
He sighed theatrically. "You can't have lost it. After all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin…"
I saw that Christine was frowning; then, suddenly, she stood, her beautiful, sparkling eyes lighting, and finished for him, "Because you had run into the sea to fetch my scarf! Oh, Raoul, it is you!"
"Christine!" he said and laughed as they embraced warmly.
From the stories that Christine had told me over the years I had known her, I had gathered many memories. This meeting – Raoul himself – was one of those stories. Many years before, Christine had taken a visit to the seaside with her father. One day, while she had been playing on the beach when the rough sea winds had torn her red scarf, a favorite of hers, out of her hands and carried it out to sea. Raoul, the young son of an aristocrat, had witnessed the unfortunate event and rescued the scarf. After that, the two had become inseparable and played together every day until Christine had returned home with her father. Unfortunately, a few years later in time had brought about her father's death. Then, Christine, in her loneliness and grief, had all but forgotten the young aristocrat who had been her friend.
But now he had returned and the two were reunited.
After she had greeted her long-lost friend, Christine moved away and went to sit at her dressing table while Raoul pulled up another chair and seated himself on it. I was beginning to think dark thoughts about this Vicomte de Chagny.
"Little Lotte let her mind wander…" he sang, reminding her of the childhood tune that they had always sung together.
Very dark thoughts.
Christine smiled at him.
"You remember that too…" she said, but there was an almost unascertainable note of uneasiness in her voice. Raoul, however, took no notice of it, as he continued.
"…Little Lotte thought: am I fonder of dolls…"
"…Or of goblins, of shoes…" Christine joined him as they sang together.
"…Or of riddles, of frocks…" she sang alone.
"Those picnics in the attic." he reminded her, "…Or of chocolates…"
"Father playing the violin…" Christine remembered.
I could see the pain of sadness in her expression as she said that, visibly still grieving the loss of her beloved father. I hated him for hurting her, for causing my precious child pain. Earth and sky, eternity itself, I hated him! I kicked the wall in front of me viciously, but neither of them heard the sound.
"As we read to each other dark stories of the North…"
You are treading on dangerous ground, Monsieur le Vicomte, I silently said, watching Raoul closely. The Angel is watching you.
" 'No – what I love best,' Lotte said, 'is when I'm asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head!' " Christine sang alone, and I thought of her earlier conversation with Meg. For a short moment, she seemed to be in another world entirely.
"…The Angel of Music sings songs in my head!"
The last vestiges of the song faded into the darkness, and then Christine turned in her chair to face Raoul. "Father said, 'When I'm in Heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' " she said. "My father is dead now, Raoul, and I have been visited by the Angel of Music."
"No doubt of it," Raoul said briskly. Then he stood and held out his hand to her, announcing, "And now we'll go to supper!"
Christine, however, shook her head slowly, and then she spoke.
"No, Raoul, the Angel of Music is very strict."
He laughed gaily, as he replied, thinking that he was playing some sort of little game, "I shan't keep you up late!"
Why don't you just leave, you senseless boy? I thought.
"No, Raoul…" Christine said again, but he would have none of it.
"You must change. I must get my hat." he told her, going for the door. He stood in the doorway, adopting a gallant, affected pose.
"Two minutes – Little Lotte."
And, before she could stop him, he hurried out, leaving her alone. Christine ran to the door, calling after him, "Raoul!" But he was gone and there was simply nothing that she could do about it.
I was already moving.
* * * * * *
Narrative goes back to Christine…
I stepped back into the dressing room and closed the door softly. The click of the latch seemed strangely loud in the silence and I felt, with a chill, as a trembling, horrible feeling rushed through me, that the air had just gone a few degrees colder.
Raoul was gone…but He certainly wasn't.
I took yet another step backwards, into the center of the room. Then I went to my dressing table and picked up my hand mirror, running my hand slowly over its well-worn, familiar gilt gold surface. "Things have changed, Raoul," I said, my voice quiet…and then something like an overwhelming, yet invisible presence invaded the room, slowly and silently, as if it were a shadow brought on by night.
"Insolent boy!" came His voice, seemingly behind the mirror. I turned around, overwhelmed with happiness to hear Him speak, my eyes lighting up. My Angel was here with me – that was all that mattered. He sounded as if he was angry, however. And He would be, after that scene, I recalled tardily as He continued.
"This slave of fashion, basking in your glory!" Not only angry, but disgusted as well. "Ignorant fool!" He went on, and it sounded as if He was sneering at the very mention of Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny. "This brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"
I was spellbound by the sound of His voice, but I knew that I had to soothe Him somehow if I was to ever speak with Him. "Angel, I hear you," I said, turning towards the mirror, where His voice had centered, "Don't be angry. Raoul is my old friend." The voice was still silent. Perhaps my tact was working. I felt the mood lightening and said, keeping my voice soft, "Please don't be angry."
There was another moment of silence and He sighed, deeply, and finally spoke. This time, His beautiful voice was gentle and reassuring. "Have no fear, mon petite." He said. "I want nothing of him…I only want you." A pause. My heart began to beat heavily in my chest.
"Will you come with me tonight, belle princesse?"
I felt a wild surge of excitement fill my entire being, racing in icy, thrilling shivers up my scalp and down the backs of my hands. He wanted me to come with Him! I found myself having difficulty breathing, but I managed to reply steadily, "Yes, Angel. I will come with you."
"Then look at your face in the mirror," He told me, "For I am there!"
I turned slowly, unable to believe that this was really happening, that I was really going to see my Angel, at long last, after waiting for so long. And suddenly, I saw, the mirror was no longer glassy and still – now, it was a bright, shining inferno of white light! Then my eyes had focused on something beyond that light: something infinitely more brilliant. For there, behind the mirror, stood my Angel…
The Phantom of the Opera himself.
I couldn't move.
My feet seemed as if they were filled with lead, and all I could do was gaze at him. He was partially hidden behind a cloak of darkness and I could not discern his face from within the shadows. Then, the mirror glided noiselessly open, like a door, and we were standing face to face.
The Phantom stepped forward and held out a hand to me.
"Come, my Christine. I am your Angel of Music – come to me."
As if in a dream, I stepped towards him, holding out my hand and reaching towards him. When my fingers were within his grasp, the Phantom suddenly took me, firmly, but not fiercely, by the wrist. I gasped. His touch was as colder than ice, colder than anything I had ever felt.
Cold as death.
He pulled me into the space behind the mirror with him, slowly and methodically, as if we were dancing to a music that I could not hear, and I gazed up at him, unable to take my eyes away. The Phantom was tall: taller than anyone that I had ever seen before, and he was entirely cloaked in darkness and black, so that it was impossible for me to see anything else of him. Yet I could feel the iciness of his breath on my face, and from somewhere high above me in the darkness, I saw what might have been a glimmer of light on his eyes.
I was powerless to resist as he led me two steps deeper into the space.
Meanwhile, back in the dressing room, Raoul had run up to the door to retrieve me for dinner. He heard voices coming from within. One was mine – the other…he had no idea whose the other voice was. The only thought that occurred to him was the fact that the door had very suddenly, very mysteriously become locked, and that it was a man that had just addressed me. He yanked at the doorknob, trying to get it open, muttering to himself, "Whose that voice? Who is that in there?"
Still, the door would not open.
And Raoul was helpless to 'rescue' me.
Behind us, the mirror slid shut, closing out the Opéra Populaire, the dressing room, and the world that I had known from lifetimes before. But I didn't notice it – all I could see was the immense, shadowy shape of my unseen protector, my guardian, my Angel…the Phantom. Again, there was a glimmer of something from within the darkness and I knew that his cold, relentless, penetrating gaze was upon me: staring at me up and down, through me, finding a way into my mind. Then he drew me even further into the passageway that was behind the mirror, a place that I had never even known to exist, and thus, our strange journey into the depths of the opera house began.
Unable, unwilling, to withstand him, I let him lead me on through the passageway, staring wonderingly, at my surroundings, as if I was dreaming and this was not real. In the dressing room, the door came unlocked and swung open. Raoul dashed into the room, desperate to find me, only to discover that the dressing room was empty. Little did he know that the mirror had just slid closed behind the object of his search and my strange abductor.
"Christine!" he called, still trying to find me. "Angel!"
* * * * * *
Author's note: Duhhhhhh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh! *dashes over to the piano keyboard in computer room and hammers out the opening notes of the Phantom of the Opera* Finally, the Phantom has his beautiful pupil in his grasp – what will happen next? Read on! (Oh, and if you review, I will make certain that you get extra long-stem red roses as an…ahem!, incentive …)