2
Christine and Lise stepped daintily out of the train and onto the platform, where journalists and news reporters crowded around to get a glimpse of the once prima donna. Years ago she had been one of the most valuable people in all of Paris. Now.she was still adored, but she no longer sang for the opera. Her last play, "Don Juan Triumphant", had ended in disaster. Only Christine knew what the disaster truly had been.
Lise, suddenly shy in front of the crowd, smiled meekly and followed closely behind her mother. The public had only heard rumors of her talent, but until now, her voice had been well protected in their grand home in the south of France. Coming now to Paris, and to the opera, Lise's great talent was on the verge of being unleashed to Europe. She would be bigger, even, than Christine.
Mother and daughter clambered into a carriage, lifting their skirts up out of the snow and slush, and they departed to the opera house. Both stared out the windows on either side in awe: Lise, because she had never seen such a large, busy, beautiful city in her life; and Christine, because memories of years and years ago were flooding back to her. She felt like she was still that same young, innocent prima donna, naïve and ignorant, tasting fame and all that sort of business for the first time.
They finally pulled up to the opera house. The two stepped out, and Lise tugged on her mother's sleeve. "Mama, look! How quaint," she exclaimed, pointing at a little monkey music-box. It played a tune that Lise was hearing for the first time.but that Christine knew very well. She turned pale and froze in place, staring at it.
"Mama? What is it?" Lise looked up at her mother quizzically.
"Masquerade," Christine whispered. At once she turned on her heel and entered the opera house, leaving Lise to hurry after her, trailing behind, puzzled at her mother's odd behavior.
A joyful cry rose from the stage. A woman around Christine's age, perhaps a little younger, rushed down and threw her arms around Christine.
"Meg!" Christine gasped. "Look at you! You're the teacher now!" she laughed. Meg Giry had always been the clumsy ballerina, always behind the rest by one second. But now Meg was grown, and graceful. She performed a little pirouette for Christine.
"My mother's useless now; all she does is sew and cook," Meg giggled. "She says she can still teach, but she can hardly stand on her own. That's what happens when you get old."
Christine smiled. "Forgive me for losing contact; it's been...difficult...to move on," she apologized, trying to find the right words. Meg grew somber. "Of course. You've been through so much."
"What? What happened, Mama?" Lise asked eagerly, curious. Her mother and this old friend of hers seemed to share some secret, something far more serious than they let on.
Christine turned to Lise in surprise, as if she had forgotten she was there. "Oh! Of course! Meg, may I introduce you to my daughter, Lise."
Lise curtseyed for Meg, and Meg mirrored the action. "She's the spitting image of you, Christine!" she laughed. "But-" Meg's face distorted in bewilderment. "She looks...I- I don't see Raoul in her," Meg remarked. She looked to Christine.
"There is still much you don't know about...what happened," Christine said, lowering her voice. "I shall tell you later."
The whisper, however, wasn't quite quiet enough. Lise heard, and her curiosity grew. She resolved to listen in whenever her mother decided to fill Meg in on this dark secret of hers. After all, it had to concern her, because of Meg's odd reaction to her. Raoul was her father, yes, but maybe she just hadn't inherited any features from him. What was wrong with that?
Although, her eyes were indeed very different from Christine's. Lise had always assumed they were just from ancestors further back along the line. She had never thought much about that kind of thing.
Then Meg remembered her place. "I must get back to my teaching," she sighed, glancing towards the young ballerinas onstage. "But afterwards, I'd like to hear you." This last comment was directed at Lise, accompanied with a sly but slightly guilty grin. "After all, that's why you came, isn't it? I overheard the managers talking about the message from you, Christine...I swear I wasn't spying on them!" she said. Her smile gave her away. "Well, I was anxious to hear how you were. But, I must go now. You may watch, if you wish. I'll be finished soon."
Christine and her daughter settled down in the front row to watch. Christine marveled at the change in Meg. Before, she had been a tiny thing with great big oaf feet and had stumbled around, trying her best to please her mother- the former ballet instructor, Madame Giry. But now Meg was a work of art: beautiful of face, slim but curved and perfect of figure, and graceful as ever. Christine felt proud for her friend, and realized she had missed her, and wished she could have been there to watch the change take place and to encourage her.
Meg soon finished instruction and joined Christine and Lise once again. "Now," Meg said. "I'll fetch the managers and tell them you've arrived."
Soon the managers entered the room and stopped dead at the sight of Christine. The men, André and Firmin, had been the managers in the time of Christine also. They had been younger then, but were now older and not quite as agile and quick-witted as they had been.
"Mademoiselle Daaé! You've returned to us at last!" Firmin exclaimed, strutting in a dignified way over to Christine to kiss her hand. André, not wanting to be left behind, hurried over and did the same.
"We received your message and have been waiting anxiously to see you again!" Firmin said, smiling upon the former prima donna. "You look splendid.and who is this young mademoiselle?"
"My daughter, Lise," Christine said, smiling upon her. Lise curtsied politely, a little overwhelmed at the excitement of the two managers.
"Is she-"
"Yes, she's the one bearing the burden of great talent," Christine laughed. "She's prepared a piece for you to hear her. Lise?"
Nervously, Lise walked up to the stage. Her stomach fluttered madly as she stepped up, but once she turned to face the rows of velvet seats, her fears dissolved immediately. She imagined the crowds in the audience giving her a standing ovation, roaring for more. She knew this was where she was destined to be; in the spotlight. And then she began to sing.
Her voice was like a waterfall: beginning calmly and softly, but gradually rushing and pouring out of her mouth, reaching out to all corners of the great room; charming everyone and everything and turning the world to gold; evenly growing to the peak of the climax, seeping through hearts and flowing through the souls of the audience. Her sweet but strong and confident voice proved to be even better onstage, where she was meant to be. And her body stood firmly, confidently upstage center, flooding down to the audience sitting in pleasant shock below.
She finished her song slowly, her enchanting voice fading to a whisper, as if it were disappearing over golden hills into a flaming sunset. At first the managers were too shocked to do or say anything at all, and even Christine was surprised at the maturity and control of her daughter's voice. She had expected it to be a little less strong, since it was usually hard to get up onstage and do that in front of a judging audience; but Lise had been as good as ever, and better even. Meg herself was completely speechless: this girl was even better than Christine herself had been, even at her best moment!
When Lise had finally finished, she went quiet and smiled shyly, waiting. André could say nothing at all, and Firmin only nodded and gasped, "She's in." Christine and Meg applauded energetically, smiling and cheering Lise on.
Yet, a part of Christine was a little sad. She had once had such talent, and she wished she could go back to that moment when her angel's teachings finally shone through: when she sang for André and Firmin all that time ago when the former star Carlotta had left the opera. She too had amazed them, and had become a legend overnight. There had been rumors about her, that she was part goddess, that she channeled the voice of an angel. Except, that last part was true indeed: the Phantom, her beloved Angel of Music, had been the one who really gave her that gift. And then she had been asked to give him her love in return for her talent...but by refusing, she could not and would not sing again. She felt too bad about betraying the Phantom; she couldn't use what he had taught her when she had fled from him. What kind of thanks was that? She had had no gratitude; therefore, she would pay by giving away her gift, abandoning her talent in favor of a quiet, uneventful life; where there were no surprises, no exciting happenings. This- her daughter's audition- was the first time she had left her little town in the south, and certainly the first time she had gone to Paris since the Phantom had brought her down to the deep, dank tunnels under the Paris opera.
But the worst part was, no-one really shared the burden of that secret with her. Raoul had come and saved her in the end- that was certain. But that was all he knew. What had happened before that...before anyone found her...only she- and the Phantom- knew. They all believed he had just taken her down, and then they jumped to the conclusion that Raoul had been down just afterwards to rescue her.
But those hours before help came...oh, if only they knew. If only they had known then...
She knew she couldn't tell Raoul, never! It was out of question; it would ruin their lives together. And she couldn't tell Lise- well, at least, not yet. But she longed to tell someone- she felt she would let it slip otherwise. Oh, how Christine wished there was no secret to hide at all! If it would just disappear; if the secret would just crawl away and die.
Christine decided she would tell Meg.
