Sunday in Paris

Disclaimer: This is the last one for the story, because these are annoying. I DON'T OWN ANYTHING BELONGING TO SOMEONE ELSE!

A/N: I have found that my page breaks are not working. I'll put up stars and put the first word of the new section in bold. Thank you.

Response to Reviews: isn't this so exciting? I have 2 reviews!

WildPixieChild16 and Kathleen Stanton: thank you so much! You are officially the first two reviewers! eDoughnuts for you!

Christine brushed her hair over her shoulder, wondering what it would look like shorter. It was a pain, and there was so much of it. But it was the current fashion in Paris, and Raoul should have a fashionable wife.

He hadn't been home all day; when she had asked after him, she got muddled excuses. Where could he have gone? Ideas drifted through her head. Perhaps he had gone to make dinner reservations for them…but that didn't take more than an hour. Maybe he had gone to buy her a present…yes that could be it! It was just the sort of thing he would do. He was such a romantic…

But no, the last time he had gone out for something like that, the servants had made her a hot bath and rich foods and other things to make her sleep.

Could he have gone to visit Jules? Jules Leroux was his best friend. Maybe she would invite someone over, like dear Madeleine, Jules' wife, or Angelique Benoit, the young woman who had been afraid to marry the kind Christophe Blais. That had been a good marriage, if she could say so herself. The beautiful Angelique was a perfect match for the handsome Christophe. And they looked so good together…

Martin, Raoul's favorite servant, stopped outside Christine's open door and cleared his throat nervously. "Oh Martin, do come in. You look quite ridiculous standing out there." She smiled but he only looked more scared. She sighed.

"Is he with Jules today Martin? Raoul, I mean?"

"Um, y-yes my Vicomtesse."

"All right then, out with it. What did you really come here for?"

"Your husband, the Vicomte—"

"Yes Martin, I know who he is. But can we not do away with these silly formalities?" Christine took his hands in her own. They were cold and clammy. "Oh Martin, are you sick?"

"N-n-no my Vicomtesse. Your husband wishes for you to join him at the le Croix's residence."

"Thank you Martin." At his hesitance, she sighed. "What else is it Martin?"

"Marie…I was wondering…if we could marry?"

She awarded him a strange look. "Martin, you don't have to ask. I think it's a wonderful idea. When is the wedding set?"

But the young man just stood gaping at her. "You may leave," she told him in an effort prompt anything remotely human out of him. Was this how the phantom had felt when she had first gone to his lair? When she had simply stayed in his gondola, staring at him with undisguised longing? Is that why he had sung? Not because he had loved her? It was just too much.

Marie passed the open door, jogging Martin back to his senses. He turned and left, and the two disappeared as the door shut. Christine walked over to it and opened it slightly, just in time to see the two sharing a passionate kiss.

This, too, was a good match, she thought to herself, if I do say so myself.

Raoul de Chagny had had a fine day. After his time with that lovely flower, Simonne—how she reminded him of Christine!—he went to an almost lovelier lunch with Baptiste, a good friend of his. He would have rather seen Jules, but the man was busy. He and his Madeleine had gone to London.

But back to Giselle… The girl was everything he'd hoped for in young Christine Daae. She looked the same, her behavior was similar, at least at first, but her…perhaps more carnal talents were definitely differing. He liked her. He would make her rich.

"Raoul? Are you all right?" It was Baptiste.

"Of course. I had a lovely day today, I was just thinking about it, and—"

"With your wife?" he persisted.

"Um, yes." It wasn't a complete lie, he told himself. Simonne had been a great deal like the woman.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have doubted your loyalty. You put Valentine and I to shame. I've seen you in public with her, always holding hands and looking at each other, holding her like she were stolen goods—"

"What are you babbling about man?"

"You see, there have been these rumors, probably set by some gossip mongrel, the wash ladies, your servants—"

"What rumors?"

Baptiste sighed. "People said they saw you with a whore today."

Panic shot through his blood and he could only stare incomprehensively at the slightly older man. "A whore Raoul. A courtesan, prostitute—"

"I know what a whore is," Raoul said, gaining control of his senses.

His friend turned to leave. "Raoul, once you have yourself properly under control, then I will return. You have been cutting me off, ignoring me, and, while the food was…lovely…it does not make up for your outrageous attitude."

He flushed, loving Baptiste even more. The man always spoke the truth, considering his thirty years to be worth much more than Raoul's own twenty. "Thank you for lunch Baptiste. I was simply thinking of dinner tonight. Christine and I are eating at the le Croix's, did you know?"

"Really? Who else is in attendance?"

"Jacques Lagrange and his wife, Elise, Philippe Grondin and his sisters Juliette, Francoise, and Celestine—"

"Not his wife?"

"Ah, the loving Fernande. Such a dear, she is. And, of course, Moise and Desiree, the le Croix couple themselves."

The two shared a knowing laugh. It was well known that Moise, a handsome, cold, and arrogant man did not fit well with the average looking, smiling, and friendly Desiree.

"Have a nice evening Raoul."

"Adieu to you too, Baptiste."

The two grasped hands and turned to leave. "Oh, and Raoul?"

"Baptiste?"

"I'm truly sorry about my assumption, earlier, and—"

"It's all right Baptiste. Even so, men do things like that all the time."

"Yes, but—well, it just didn't…strike the right chord with me."

"I know friend."

They smiled and Raoul entered the carriage outside.

Simonne Bouvier stretched lazily in the early morning hours of the Sunday morn. Sundays were terrible for business and mornings were bad anyway. It's not like she was on the street. No, she did well for herself.

Rene Giroux entered, looking peeved at something. "What is it with Sundays? Are these pathetic men so 'religious' they can't buy one of my courtesans on God's day? WHAT IS THIS?" he roared. He was always upset on a Sunday, particularly if he had a hangover. Which he did.

Simonne sighed slightly and put her arm around him. "Don't worry Rene. I appear to have a very wealthy new patron. Should take him a while to get bored…"

"No one gets bored of you, mon ami."

She smirked rather egotistically as the other girls glared. "When will he be back?" Giroux asked, virtually unimpressed with her snooty attitude.

Simonne dropped her arrogant façade and looked up at the man who had housed the whores—all eighteen of them. At twenty-one she had been here since she was fourteen, looking older than she was. At least, she had when she was young. Giroux joked she had come to him eighteen and still was. "Tonight," she said shortly. "You said you'd be moving us to the building on the other side of town—the nicer side. I have a very rich patron—we all do. Even young Virginie has her Moise le Croix. All of us have enough now to strike on our own—buy the house, make the money, live decent and honest lives. We haven't, so we'll have you. Why? Because that's what we've always known. Perhaps we will leave now…"

It appeared Giroux had not heard one word she said. "You can't! Not tonight!"

"And why not, pray tell?"

"Claude Bonenfas?"

"Perhaps we will leave. Go for ourselves." It was Monique. She had arrived at the house after Simonne but felt her age gave her greater rights. Simonne disliked her. Very, very strongly.

Apparently though, the other girls did not feel the same way. "Yes, we'll leave. Simonne, you'll come with us?"

She held back a pompous look. They still deferred to her. Giroux snapped to attention. "Monique, Simonne, ladies…let's not be too hasty. You have a nice spot. As soon as you've more money…"

Monique glared at Simonne. Simonne glared at Monique. Giroux left the room at a trot, leaving the two to fight it out. And then Marcelle—dear, dear Marcelle—threw herself between the two.

"Stop it! You're being stupid! You've Claude and Raoul, and you've Monsieur Bonenfas's brother, the one whose name starts with a 'J'" Marcelle looked at each girl in turn.

Monique turned abruptly and stiffly and marched out the room. "Bitch," Simonne heard her mutter.

With some sort of relief, Virginie went and quickly closed the door behind the woman. "Simonne, were you serious about what you were saying earlier?"

Simonne put a hand to her head in mock fatigue. "No. What do you want little sister? Another Bastille Day? The freedom of the whores? No, we are better here."

Marcelle nodded firmly. "No more trouble. Monique will be quite busy tonight. I know you don't like her, but she's is good enough to have scheduled appointments. What does that tell you?"

Simonne nodded. "I'll leave, I must prepare. I, too, have scheduled customers. Four, methinks, until my schedule is freed."

"Adieu Simonne," Virginie said. It appeared she had become something of a hero to her.

Good. Allies were always nice.

Little Meg Giry, daughter of the—she sniffled a bit—deceased Madame Giry and some unknown man, was miserable. She was cold and she was hungry and she was wet, and all she wanted was the opera house.

Her mother had disapproved of her gossip; it was as if she truly cared for the opera ghost! It had been a joke, a game, a child's amusement until Christine Daae had attracted his attention, and when she had brought it to Meg's attention, that night after Hannibal, the first night under Andre and Firmin, the new managers, well, that was when things started to become interesting.

To be totally honest, she had thought Christine jesting. And then she had thought her mad.

Meg fingered the white mask, mute testimony to that terrible night… She thought he was dead. She hoped he was dead. He deserved it.

No one knew who Antoinette Giry had died, or at least, no one but Meg knew. Meg's mother had killed herself. By her own hand!

But she could hardly think straight. It was late, about midnight, and she was hungry and cold and wet…

A carriage rumbled and came into view. As much as it hurt her pride, Meg approached it, with every intention of begging. It was her mother's fault! Anything, anything to put the blame further from her and closer to someone else. She swallowed through the lump in her throat. Begging! Oh Maman, why did you leave me? Meg wondered idly, anger beginning to overtake her. Anything to make her forget about begging. It was a woman in the carriage. Young, or old? Married? Meg couldn't see anything. "Mam'zelle—or, I mean to say Madame—"

"Who is that there?" The young woman sounded frightened.

Meg would know that voice anywhere. "Christine?" she gasped.

"Meg?" the woman sputtered. "What are you doing out here Meg? Come inside my carriage; I have not seen you since—well, since—"

"I remember," Meg said tightly, more in an effort to remember the old times, when they had been equal and Meg not so hungry than out of any real sympathy for Christine's hardships. Christine didn't know that, not that it mattered. Look how well she was doing now! Married to a Vicomte, her Christine, and with child?" She opened her mouth to ask, but she was cut off, rather rudely, by a servant with a boyish figure and an angry and old face.

"My Vicomtesse, who is this wench? Might I take care of her for you?"

Christine bristled at his impudence, but her courage and self-trust had dwindled in her time with Raoul, Meg could see that. "No, you may not. Please leave, this is my friend."

The boy bowed and left the tiny room. "Where's Raoul?" Meg asked, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice. Christine didn't have appeared to have noticed.

"He stayed a bit later with the le Croix's. I was tired, so he sent me home with strict instructions to fall right asleep and not wake until morning." Christine smiled and Meg fought impending anger.

"Christine? Mother, well, she's, she's dead Christine."

"W-what? Are you sure?"

Meg's eyes went flinty. "Oh Meg, I'm so sorry! Is that why you were out here?"

Meg sighed and rubbed her temples, her head sore. "Christine, I couldn't pay the flat's rent, and the landlord rose the price. Where am I to find a job? Short of being a whore, there's nothing I can do. I can't read, write, do figures—well, except for my name—do anything really. Anything but dance…that's all I was learned at."

"Short of being a what?"

The girl blushed slightly, unable to go on. Was she so naïve? Christine shrugged and looked her friend up and down. "You'll stay with me, from now on. I'll turn you into a proper lady, with good dresses and noble suitors."

This was more like it. "Thank you Christine," Meg said softly, all anger gone.

Author's Note—VERY IMPORTANT!

Now that I have your attention (I think) I have been notified by Hassadah (I'm sorry, I couldn't tell you her pen name) that many things in my story and her's, Anywhere You Go, are so much like in my story. I would like to say this is very eerie coincidence, although it is hard to believe. You may believe what you will, but I AM NOT LYING. She and I have talked and resolved the issue. I have changed the name of my whore to Simonne from Giselle and made it so Erik is not the name of Giry's dead brother. She also kindly advised me that Elise is not Giry's name (I'll admit I made it up—well, borrowed it from…someone…else.) It is Antoinette. The proper corrections have been made.

Now go ahead and click that review button. You know you want to. One more note—go check out Hassadah's story too!