Marianne told me something truly profound when I first met her. She cattily informed me, "Mademoiselle Suisse, it is assumptions that are strangling this culture." I was startled but reverent. She then took to smearing a fist of fireplace soot on my coat, but I was still reverent nonetheless. I often care for those who condescend me.

I remember the first day she began to ruin my health. It began most unfavorably as I was inching out of a cab in a bustle, taking care to mind the mud, when a pale, mousy-haired young woman whipped by me, pursuing a man whose hat brim sheltered his face and whose brisk pace showed that he wanted to have no association with her.

"You have cheated me again, Monsieur, and it will not do, I must be paid!" she chided loudly, putting hands on his broad shoulders as he attempted to shake her like dandruff.

"Be off, tick!" he snapped.

"But sir---"

"You scruffy---"

"It will not do---"

"---street urchin---"

"The money----"

"Nobody told you to enter this profession!"

"This was not a life ambition, a prime directive. I ask you for five francs."

"I do not have---"

"Plus three for the trouble."

"You---!"

"I jest. Only five."

"I shall alert the Bobby."

"Here, Mademoiselle," I said kindly, holding out five francs to the grimy be-ragged girl.

Both figures turned towards me and it was with great shock that I saw that she was speaking with Raoul's brother, playboy Philippe. The girl looked hollow with lividness as she beheld the five francs like a slap to the face.

"Your presence is not wanted, chienne blonde!" she spat in a grating, guttural growl as she left me and Philippe to exchange mortified looks and be on our ways. He already thought me a trollop, and would despise me even more for me to cattily remark upon his own encounter with one. Already planning to be mute on the subject (though seeing him in it was no surprise to anyone with an ear or an eye to know his reputation by), I soundlessly followed the eighteen year-old girl, careful to follow her with a Bobby nearby.

"I was only trying to help," I began within her earshot, instinctively placing a palm on her broad, sinewy shoulder.

Such a yelp as I have never heard came from her! "Do not TOUCH me, cursed chienne grose! Suisse grose! Meddling Swiss bitch! Portly Swiss bitch!" She bellowed like a man, flashing a tiny but potently pointy dagger in her right fist. "Be off!"

And I was off. I ran like a child, frightened for who knows what reason. Somehow, a hungry woman with matted hair petrified the infant in me.

By nightfall when I prepared myself for the evening show in my dressing room, my hair stylist Cecile adding cascades of false hair to my gold-plated Egyptian headdress, I pondered in a rather sullen manner why I had not had word from Erik, not so much as a compliment or goad. Tonight would be my second lead role of the season and I deemed that at least some encouragement would have been healthy.

"Cecile," I snipped peevishly as she turned to leave, "why have you stopped? My head is not fully curled."

"I am sorry, Mademoiselle," the dowdy Austrian woman chirruped. "My pins and paper have all been taken by something unknown. We had best make do with what merely covers your hair."

"I dare say," I hissed, "the the Ghost has taken your hair pins, but however you would like to mask your incompetence."

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

On my way to the stage, Mme. Giry (the well-meaning matron) toddled by with two programs and a newspaper (calling cards of Erik's Box Five). But why two programs?

"Mme. Giry," I said lightly, brushing her shoulder. "You only need one program. You have not forgotten that I am to perform tonight, have you?" Was it possible to think that Erik would want me to skip the fourth night's performance to be with him? Certainly, I had an understudy, but that was unthinkable. He knew--

"Ah, Christine," she cooed almost sarcastically, "you think that you alone accompany him in that box? He does have other pupils."

I was stunned. Such a thought had never crossed my mind.

"Are you sure? Who?"

"She's been around far longer than you, my dear, and has been patient with him long enough. It is her seat you've been taking this last year, my dear."

Before I could react, I was brusquely handed sheet music by the stage manager and told to hurry and deliver it to the conductor, if I pleased, thank you. I made quick time of it and gave it to Horace, who took it with a nod and spoke to the pianist all the while.

"That damned violinist," he barked. "Is there a replacement for him?"

"Not a damned soul, damn it."

"Damn."

"Damn fool was hit by a cab, bloody old imbecile."

"I know a replacement," piped up a demure flute player, a peculiar-looking but devastatingly charismatic Mediterranean type named Benjamin Goldman who had the corps de ballet atwitter hastily composing love notes in poor grammar and wrapping flowers around his chair.

"Where is the damned fellow, is he near?"

"Oh, yes," Benjamin said with a flutter of long black lashes. "Excuse me." He brushed past me without a word and took up a light jog until he was out of sight.

Within a quarter hour, Benjamin was trotting out a slight, smooth-skinned figure in a well-groomed suit and a large black hat, who toted a gorgeous violin wrapped in a wine-velvet cape.

"This is Michael Fortis," Benjamin presented smoothly with a gesture to the looming figure.

"How do," said Michael Fortis in a melodiously rich baritone without much movement of the lips.

"Well, Michael Fortis, have you ever played with an orchestra?"

"Oh, yes. Quite frequently."

"Your résumé then?"

"My dear man, one does not carry around résumé's at all times! Not even you, I surmise."

"What good fortune," Horace said delicately and maliciously, "that you could come. Take your seat, browse the music. Do tell me you sight read."

"Extraordinarily well."

"C'est bon. Mademoiselle, you must be off now, thank you."

Without much time to reflect on Michael Fortis, I left for my performance upstage. As I turned to leave, I noticed something very bizarre sticking out of Michael Fortis' hat brim. It resembled a cluster of Cecile's missing papers. I touched my partially curled hair in thought, but went on my way without thought.. Perhaps it was dressing for a head wound.

At the end of curtain call (but no standing ovation), I bustled back to my dressing room and was devastated to find it bare and free of Erik's presence. That was appalling. Erik had never done this to me before, and I had triumphed tonight! I waited three hours in that bloody room, staring at the mirror till I bored myself too terribly and went home, disgruntled.

The next day, I caught Mme. Giry ambling up the Opera steps, cane moving as nimbly as a third leg. As soon as she saw me approach, she hastened speed and left before I could speak with her about the old pupil.

Old bat.

I approached the house by the lake to find that Erik had just woken up and, in a dressing gown and street shoes, uncombed hair like a fistful of steel wool, apologized very sincerely but weakly. He was drained. It took me nearly an hour to realize what was the trouble with him.

"You are hung over!" I exclaimed in shock and indignation. "You drunk yourself sick last night!"

"I don't see an inkling of logic in your silly little proposal, Christine, you know I abhor such a common pastime. I'd much rather solve riddles, my dear, don't you like that too? It's such a beguiling pastime, you'd enjoy it thoroughly if you---"

"Who else are you teaching?" I demanded, suddenly puffed with rage. "Who is your next little singer?"

"Little singer? Why you are, my child, and your jealousy is most intriguing. I have never seen you envious."

"Most of the time you are jealous enough for us both!"

"Yes," he sighed most plaintively but in a voice that was remote as a voice can get from sounding apologetic. The room was silent, as I waited for him to continue speaking. He did not. He merely stared at a vase for three minutes, then eyed me rather vacantly.

"Is she your lover?" I pressed maliciously.

"Lover?! Dear Christine, you have tripped the boundary of jealousy and eccentric! Rather delirious, you are, and I see no need for it. What in the devil are you doing? Why are you pawing around in Erik's things?! Leave that coat rack alone! It's a lonely little thing, holding only my things, and it need not be pestered by you! You fancy coat racks get lonely, Christine? I fancy they do. Leave the damned violin case alone!" He snatched up the sandalwood-scented ivory box from my arms and used a free hand to pin down my own.

"You can tell me!" I snapped. "I would not mind! I would not care that you felt how trivial I was, my talent no longer worthy of exclusive training."

With the most aggravated air about him, he bashed the ivory violin case upon the mahogany desk. "Christine Daae, you might be the most spoiled little brat I have ever met!" he hissed.

I was shocked, breathless. "A what?" I echoed.

"BRAT, BRAT, BLOODY DAMNED BRAT," he barked. "You think the death of your father gives you a permit to lounge about on your past and feel superior over every other living being. You happen to also be an even greater hypochondriac than that bloody Persian she-male, and I dare say I know him rather well! Nagging, sniveling over every little ache. Drives a bloody man insane!"

The rest of the visit was stilted and stiff. We departed from each other's company early. We had never had a true fight with each other. Had that little ingénue done this? Had I done this? In any event, I decided ultimately that whoever this little tart might be, I despised her.

Because I was not a child or a brat or…or…jealous. That's exactly what I wasn't. And how dare anyone accuse me of the contrary.