Homecoming

Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan

Chapter 3

            "How unusual!" Christine managed to say, although she felt as though her breath had been choked out of her.  Casting a significant glance towards Meg, she ventured, "One of your admirers has a very sweet imagination ..." 

            Meg guessed at the source of Christine's sudden tension, but attempting to play along she examined the flower Elaine had handed her.  "Isn't that lovely?" she said, giving the rose a careful sniff for the child's benefit.  But as she bent her face to the bloom, a flash of white at the doorstep caught her eye. 

            A quick perusal of the note revealed that the flower was left by a particularly love-struck admirer of Meg's.  Christine giggled with her friend as the note was read aloud, but it was more to release her own nervous energy than out of mean-spiritedness towards the young man.  What panic had gripped her heart at the sight of the bloom! – and yet what a sense of sorrow replaced that fear when its origin had been discovered …

            She had spoken only vaguely with her friend about Erik, perhaps revealing much less than she should have; but there was no reason to believe that he was any longer here at the Opera, and for this reason she had felt it best to treat the book as closed.  Too many confusing, conflicted emotions were coursing through her mind, and she did not relish offering an explanation to her little friend when she could not entirely explain the past to herself. 

            Meg and Christine spent a little more time together, including Elaine in their conversation as best they could; but soon the appointed time arrived, and Christine rose.

            Elaine watched her mother don her hat with an expression quite serious for her small years.  "Mama – are you really going to leave?" she asked, tears brimming in her eyes.

            "Oh, mon couer," Christine sighed, falling to her knees and embracing her daughter.  "I love you so, so much.  You and Meg will have a grand time, and you will hardly notice that I'm gone before I'm back again.  Do you promise to be very good?"

            "Yes, Mama," Elaine replied in a very small voice.

            Christine gave the little girl a tight squeeze and one more kiss before rising to clasp hands with Meg.  "I love you, dearest."  To Meg she whispered, "Thank you;" and quickly, so her daughter would not see her tears, Christine made her departure.

            Meg knelt beside Elaine and threaded her arm around her waist; her other hand offered the rose.  "If you like this, Elaine, you may keep it – I have quite a few in here already, as you can see."

            The child looked at Meg with large eyes.  "May I really?" she asked.

            "Of course," Meg smiled gently, glad the small gesture had seemed to cheer the child.  "Now don't cry – we should be enjoying ourselves!"

            Sniffling back her tears, Elaine remembered the stories her mother had told her.  "Could we please go see the stage now?"

            "Yes!  What a wonderful idea,"  Meg answered, smiling at her enthusiastically; when the little girl smiled back, Meg swept her graciously toward the door.

            Elaine was enthralled with the stage and wanted to examine each inch of it minutely.  Meg stayed close behind, afraid that the little girl might fall into one of the trapdoors.

            "Do they go down awfully far?"  Elaine said, clutching her rose and leaning over one of the gaping holes.

            Meg reached out her hand and gently pulled the little girl back.  "They go far enough down that they could hurt you if you aren't very careful."

            Affected by Meg's warning, Elaine backed away from the opening.  Her fear was soon forgotten, though, when a curtain rustled.

             "Oh, Meg!  Are those the ballet girls?"

            "That's right!  The petits rats, they call them – the have rehearsal for tomorrow night's performance.  And  I should be practicing, too – come along, mademoiselle.  You can be my audience!"

            After an afternoon of rigorous practice, Meg bundled Elaine home to her own mother.  "So this is Christine's daughter,"  Madame Giry said pleasantly, tipping Elaine's chin up towards the lamplight.  "She has her mother's looks, that's certain."

            "Good evening, Madame,"  Elaine responded with her best manners, with a small curtsey thrown in for good measure.

            The older woman was delighted.  "What an elegant little thing you are, Elaine."

            "Merci, Madame."

            "Mama, I do believe Elaine should have some supper and then go to bed; she has had a very long day for such a young lady."

            "I rode on a train!"  Elaine interjected, unable to let Meg have the telling of her story.  "I got to see the stage, and Meg's room, and there was … "

            "That is very nice, child." Madame Giry interrupted her gently, but firmly.  "Come now and have something to eat."

            After a small repast of good food, Meg led Elaine to her bedroom.  "You will sleep in here with me, but you'll have your own little bed.  Does that sound nice?"

            Elaine seemed pleased with the small cot Meg had made up for her; but as the older girl buttoned her into her nightgown and tucked her under the covers, her voice grew small and sad.  "Meg, will you tell me a story?  Mama always tells me a story ..."

            "What would you like to hear?"  Meg asked, smiling kindly and smoothing the child's hair.

            "Cinderella?"  Elaine squeaked.

            "But of course," Meg replied, and plunged into the story.

            Elaine was fast asleep before Cinderella reached the ball, and Meg slipped quietly out of the room and closed the door behind her.  From her chair beside the fire, Madame Giry glanced up from her knitting with an inquiring expression.

            "Sound asleep," Meg smiled.  "She asked for a story, but she couldn't outlast it."

            "That is for the best, I'm sure," Madame Giry put in.  "I'm sure the poor child has had quite a bit happening around her of late – perhaps more than she understands, I dare say."

            Meg nodded somberly.  "You are probably right, Mama.  Christine told me much this afternoon – she left a great deal out of her letter."

            "I had feared as much," was her mother's soft reply.  "You need not tell me now; I am tired myself.  But how is Christine?"

            Meg gave the matter some consideration.  "She stayed to visit only briefly, but I could sense a distinct change in her.  She is … she is so like I remember, and yet so different; she is much more serious, and sad."

            "I am sure,"  Madame Giry assented.  "But you must remember she is no longer the child you knew; she has been a wife, and a mother – and now a widow.  These roles are nothing like the ones she played on the Opera's stage, and would certainly leave their marks on her."  Meg nodded in agreement.  "But now, my dear, I shall retire; and perhaps you should too.  You must be well-rested for your performance tomorrow evening."

            "Dear Mama – still the ballet mistress," Meg giggled.  "And will you come to see me?  It would be no trouble to get Elaine in as well."

            "I am feeling rather well enough; and I am sure Elaine would delight in it.."

            Meg clapped her hands in amusement.  "Lovely!  I can just see the two of you now, sitting in the foyer, eating bonbons …"

            Madame Giry crossed her arms in mock-severity.  "… And listening to your many admirers speak of your beauty, I'm sure."

            "Why not?" Meg answered with a suppressed grin.  "Are they not speaking the truth?"  

            When their laughter subsided, both ladies retired to their rooms.

            Elaine was a great success with all of the crowd in the crush-rooms.  Everyone admired and exclaimed over her lovely gown, her thick blonde curls and her noble little manners.  Madame Giry managed a bit of a laugh, for she alone out of this crowd knew that Elaine could be as difficult as she was enchanting; one day as the child's keeper had revealed much.  "It isn't that she is a bad child," Madame Giry told Meg later on.  "But she has been indulged, perhaps overly so; for her ideas about how she should behave simply do not coincide with mine."

            Everyone in the attending crowd that night, however, found her to be "tres mignon;" more than one socialite delighted in her antics and labeled her "le jolie." She even received a small portion of a column in L'Epoque, where it was noted that she was "the" topic of the evening.  Who was the charming mystery child? 

            Only one person looked at her and thought of Christine Daae; but he, as always, kept his opinion to himself.

            He had only marked her briefly, but something in the lift of her chin and the riot of her curls reminded him of  Mademoiselle Daae.  "Though she isn't Mademoiselle Daae anymore," the Persian reminded himself.  He was seated comfortably in his flat on the Rue de Rivoli by now; he had had enough of the press of the crowd and the lackluster singing. 

            "This leading lady's attitude makes La Carlotta look one of the Catholics' saints," he told Darius, his manservant; "and furthermore, if I had ever had a camel whose voice resembled hers, I would personally put it out of its misery."  He shook his head.  "But, I suppose the management cannot be beggars and choosers; she has been the only leading lady willing to stay on after learning what happened to Carlotta and Christine Daae."

            Darius, true to character, nodded but said nothing.  Nadir sighed.  "If only Erik would let me come see him..."

            His mind wandered back to their last conversation.  Erik had been evasive on many issues, but had been very firm on two: that Christine and the Vicomte had been safely released, and that he wished the Persian to leave him alone until further notice.  The events surrounding  the kidnapping had all but destroyed the frail bridge of friendship spanning the great chasm between the two men.  Erik had assured Nadir that he did still consider him a friend, but that he required, and would have, solitude; and the Persian was unwilling to put anymore stress upon the tenuous bond than was absolutely necessary.  

            At this time, like many times in their past, the Daroga felt like a chess-piece in Erik's hands.  The king had castled and the queen was apparently lost, so Nadir stayed nearby, as a good bishop should, and waited for Erik to make the next move.