Prologue
Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera novel by Gaston Leroux, or the musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber. It's their world- I just play in it.
The sound of a register popping open with a metallic click filled the stale store air.
"Your total purchase comes to five francs, Madame."
A charming smile that didn't reach her eyes and a hand extended for payment. A barely registered twitch of her mouth was given when the plump woman who now held her complete attention as "valued customer" asked the store's policy for returns.
As she watched the two chins of her face move in question, the cashier couldn't help but be reminded of an old working rival of hers at her old job. The Spanish accent didn't help matters either.
"Why, yes, we have an even exchange policy. If the dress doesn't fit your daughter as planned, you can bring back the undamaged garment with your receipt for a new one in a different size."
A curt nod, and the woman walked out of the store with her well boxed dresses filling her big arms, the tinkling of the bell attached to the doorframe resonating in her wake.
The store was left empty, and the cashier began to buzz around fixing clothes laying in wrinkled distress on racks, pausing to fold shelved undergarments into pristine squares of lace and silk. She only stopped when the bell sounded again, but relaxed as she saw it was only Madame Jacob, the store's elderly owner.
"Hello, my Dear, how have things been?"
As was usual, the woman set about behind the counter, into the small office/kitchen that was in a room veiled from the eyes of their customers by a sheet of black silk she had strung up as a divider between it and the cashier area.
"Fine Madame Jacob, I finally sold that blue and pink dress that's been laying around for so long abouttwenty minutes ago."
A surprised raise of pure white eyebrows met her answer. "That cheap looking piece of garbage that dress company sent me by accident? I thought we'd never be rid of it."
"A Madame Farias bought it earlier today."
"Farias? What is a Portuguese woman doing in Paris this time of the year? It's the middle of winter."
"She wasn't Portuguese, she was Spanish."
When Madame Jacob asked how she knew; the cashier obliged her with an answer without thinking. "Portuguese accents have a more guttural quality than Spanish ones. They have similar pitches, and I wouldn't have been able to tell if she hadn't spoken such bad French. She was using all the wrong accents and."
The cashier began to trail off when she realized that her boss was staring at her with a pointedly suspired glance as she handed her the tea she had brewed for them.
"Sometimes, my darling Christine, I wonder where you learned all this random information you're so good at spouting off."
Christine Daae turned her back to her boss and looked outside the office window that faced the alley, noticing that the snow had just begun to fall over the city. She would thankful for her little flat two floors above the store (the first floor one belonging to Madame Jacob, who acted as her landlord-ess as well as manager) so that she wouldn't need to leave the warmth of the building to venture into the snow now that her shift had ended, but at the question of said boss, Christine suddenly felt very cold.
"An old teacher of mine taught me. he knew a lot about that sort of thing."
"Oh yes, you used to be an Opera singer!"
If the kindly Madame Jacob's eyes weren't dimly focused on the flakes outside her window, she might have noticed how Christine's shoulder's sagged at that exclamation.
"Well, I was mainly a ballet dancer. I only performed in a few Opera's. I got sick of the limelight very fast."
Madame Jacob issued a kindly chuckle over the steam of the green tea she had bought from a small specialty shop nearby. She had purchased it specifically for her and Christine's use, knowing how neither of them liked the richer taste of the Earl Grey most Parisian's seemed to favor at the time. "My Christine, you were never one who seemed to fill the description of diva very well."
She set her wrinkled palm on the cold top of Christine's cold hand, the one that rested on the desk she sat near as she absently sipped her tea. "You have much too good a heart for that sort of thing."
Christine let loose a little laugh that held only the barest traces of desperation on it. "Maybe now, yes, but then I craved that light as much as anyone could."
Madame Jacob gave her a confused look. Just that Christine was talking about her past was strange enough, but the girl issuing details of this sort was a rare occasion, indeed. As much as she loved the apparently friendless dark haired cashier who gave half her pay back to her each week for her rent, she had to admit she was extremely private.
I would be too, if I had been through such a public break-up with my fiancé, like her.
As little as Madame Jacob knew about Christine's past Opera career, no one in Paris could help but know about the exploding engagement involving her and her apparent boozer of an ex-fiancé Raoul de Changy, who had nearly beaten the young girl to death after a rather astounding row about her feelings for some previous boyfriend or another. Christine's discovery by a policeman in an alleyway had made the papers by day break after that awful evening, as did Monsieur Changy's highly publicized trial and prosecution afterwards.
Since Christine's arrival at her store seeking work as a cashier to her eventual renting of the vacant second floor apartment, they had never spoken of that incident. Madame Jacob even knew better than to openly stare at the scar from Monsieur Changy's knife that would forever mare the left side of her beautiful face.
Madame Jacob loved when Christine talked, feeling from the raising of five healthy children who now lived spread across France, that her silence was no good for her mental wellness. So with blind curiosity and a only slightly misguided desire to help blocking any need for the tact she usually used with her cashier and tenant, she asked, "What made you back away from stardom then?"
Christine's eyes were focused on the Paris Opera house, who's top was visible past the buildings surrounding their store-cum-apartment house. "I was too afraid to go after what I wanted, I supposed."
Madame Jacob could've sworn Christine's eyes were starting to mist as she curtly thanked her for the tea and excused herself to her flat, claiming post work fatigue.
Poor girl, Madame Jacob thought, must have been too much too soon for her.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Phantom of the Opera novel by Gaston Leroux, or the musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber. It's their world- I just play in it.
The sound of a register popping open with a metallic click filled the stale store air.
"Your total purchase comes to five francs, Madame."
A charming smile that didn't reach her eyes and a hand extended for payment. A barely registered twitch of her mouth was given when the plump woman who now held her complete attention as "valued customer" asked the store's policy for returns.
As she watched the two chins of her face move in question, the cashier couldn't help but be reminded of an old working rival of hers at her old job. The Spanish accent didn't help matters either.
"Why, yes, we have an even exchange policy. If the dress doesn't fit your daughter as planned, you can bring back the undamaged garment with your receipt for a new one in a different size."
A curt nod, and the woman walked out of the store with her well boxed dresses filling her big arms, the tinkling of the bell attached to the doorframe resonating in her wake.
The store was left empty, and the cashier began to buzz around fixing clothes laying in wrinkled distress on racks, pausing to fold shelved undergarments into pristine squares of lace and silk. She only stopped when the bell sounded again, but relaxed as she saw it was only Madame Jacob, the store's elderly owner.
"Hello, my Dear, how have things been?"
As was usual, the woman set about behind the counter, into the small office/kitchen that was in a room veiled from the eyes of their customers by a sheet of black silk she had strung up as a divider between it and the cashier area.
"Fine Madame Jacob, I finally sold that blue and pink dress that's been laying around for so long abouttwenty minutes ago."
A surprised raise of pure white eyebrows met her answer. "That cheap looking piece of garbage that dress company sent me by accident? I thought we'd never be rid of it."
"A Madame Farias bought it earlier today."
"Farias? What is a Portuguese woman doing in Paris this time of the year? It's the middle of winter."
"She wasn't Portuguese, she was Spanish."
When Madame Jacob asked how she knew; the cashier obliged her with an answer without thinking. "Portuguese accents have a more guttural quality than Spanish ones. They have similar pitches, and I wouldn't have been able to tell if she hadn't spoken such bad French. She was using all the wrong accents and."
The cashier began to trail off when she realized that her boss was staring at her with a pointedly suspired glance as she handed her the tea she had brewed for them.
"Sometimes, my darling Christine, I wonder where you learned all this random information you're so good at spouting off."
Christine Daae turned her back to her boss and looked outside the office window that faced the alley, noticing that the snow had just begun to fall over the city. She would thankful for her little flat two floors above the store (the first floor one belonging to Madame Jacob, who acted as her landlord-ess as well as manager) so that she wouldn't need to leave the warmth of the building to venture into the snow now that her shift had ended, but at the question of said boss, Christine suddenly felt very cold.
"An old teacher of mine taught me. he knew a lot about that sort of thing."
"Oh yes, you used to be an Opera singer!"
If the kindly Madame Jacob's eyes weren't dimly focused on the flakes outside her window, she might have noticed how Christine's shoulder's sagged at that exclamation.
"Well, I was mainly a ballet dancer. I only performed in a few Opera's. I got sick of the limelight very fast."
Madame Jacob issued a kindly chuckle over the steam of the green tea she had bought from a small specialty shop nearby. She had purchased it specifically for her and Christine's use, knowing how neither of them liked the richer taste of the Earl Grey most Parisian's seemed to favor at the time. "My Christine, you were never one who seemed to fill the description of diva very well."
She set her wrinkled palm on the cold top of Christine's cold hand, the one that rested on the desk she sat near as she absently sipped her tea. "You have much too good a heart for that sort of thing."
Christine let loose a little laugh that held only the barest traces of desperation on it. "Maybe now, yes, but then I craved that light as much as anyone could."
Madame Jacob gave her a confused look. Just that Christine was talking about her past was strange enough, but the girl issuing details of this sort was a rare occasion, indeed. As much as she loved the apparently friendless dark haired cashier who gave half her pay back to her each week for her rent, she had to admit she was extremely private.
I would be too, if I had been through such a public break-up with my fiancé, like her.
As little as Madame Jacob knew about Christine's past Opera career, no one in Paris could help but know about the exploding engagement involving her and her apparent boozer of an ex-fiancé Raoul de Changy, who had nearly beaten the young girl to death after a rather astounding row about her feelings for some previous boyfriend or another. Christine's discovery by a policeman in an alleyway had made the papers by day break after that awful evening, as did Monsieur Changy's highly publicized trial and prosecution afterwards.
Since Christine's arrival at her store seeking work as a cashier to her eventual renting of the vacant second floor apartment, they had never spoken of that incident. Madame Jacob even knew better than to openly stare at the scar from Monsieur Changy's knife that would forever mare the left side of her beautiful face.
Madame Jacob loved when Christine talked, feeling from the raising of five healthy children who now lived spread across France, that her silence was no good for her mental wellness. So with blind curiosity and a only slightly misguided desire to help blocking any need for the tact she usually used with her cashier and tenant, she asked, "What made you back away from stardom then?"
Christine's eyes were focused on the Paris Opera house, who's top was visible past the buildings surrounding their store-cum-apartment house. "I was too afraid to go after what I wanted, I supposed."
Madame Jacob could've sworn Christine's eyes were starting to mist as she curtly thanked her for the tea and excused herself to her flat, claiming post work fatigue.
Poor girl, Madame Jacob thought, must have been too much too soon for her.