Author's Note: Hi there! Welcome to thedoozy of achapter; here is where tons of backstory is revealed. Warning: Raoul and Christine are somewhat OOC. (If you were confused by Chapter 4, just know that the Opera Ghost showed her power with illusions, making her dressing room look new, and making the operahouse appear in flames.)Enjoy! Don't forget to review, SVP! Also, this is not the end!
Gaston sat forlornly on a bench in the Tuileries. The morning sunlight warmed him, but he felt chilled and desolate inside, with his exhaustion catching up to him. He couldn't face the dressing room again, and he had lost all his information.
"Do you have a pen, Monsieur?"
Without looking up, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his pen. But in the process, a half-crumpled slip fell to the ground. He bent and picked it up quickly before handing the pen to the inquirer. He looked up.
And met the cold blue eyes of Madame Giry. She gave him only a slight smile, and handed him back his pen. "The cross under the hill."
"Pardon?"
"You heard me, Monsieur. Now go."
He peered at the address written there. The De Chagny estate.
The ride north was uneventful. In fact, Gaston did his best to nap on the way, but was plagued by what seemed to be waking dreams of living corpses and violins. Of fire and roses, broken glass, and above all, her. The Opera Ghost.
He laughed dryly. Funny how he had once thought the Phantom of the Opera was a man. A living man.
Sleep finally overtook him, and he could later recall little of the train ride.
The De Chagnys were less than helpful. Once they learned of his investigative intentions, they promptly asked him to leave, and delve no further into their affairs. He walked away with a sigh, and headed straight to the nearest church, where the priest, charmed by Gaston's affable and perfectly-polite, respectful manner, let him into the records. He had looked at the local burial records, finding the De Chagny plot easily.
At the foot of a gently-sloping hill lay a small, plain wooden cross, painted white. He peered down at it doubtfully. This simply could not be the grave of a noblewoman, the wife of the Opera's patron! Especially with all the elaborate stone tombs, bells, and sculpted angels just up the slope. This little cross would rot and fade away soon, leaving the mortal remains of whoever was buried there to be forgotten by time. There was no name, no dates, nothing to identify this poor person. But it was within the reaches of the de Chagny plot. The outskirts of it. And Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny, wife of Raoul de Chagny, was unaccounted for. All the dates matched up. Raoul le Vicomte was the Opera's patron at the end of the Phantom years.
He dropped to his knees before the cross. Who were you?
"Are you here for her, as well?"
The voice came from down the hill. Gaston watched as a figure moved up the shallow incline, dark against the sunset. She was a young woman, pretty, in a country-maiden sort of way, dressed neatly in blue so deep it was nearly black, with a pale lemon shawl over her shoulders. She carried a small bouquet of yellow roses. "I bring her these every year. What brings you, good Monsieur?"
"I—" Gaston paused. The girl looked at him expectantly. "I am investigating this grave. Is it not unidentified?"
"Well, yes and no. It's not marked, but there are a few who remember her." She pulled her shawl closer.
"Are you one of them, mademoiselle?"
She laughed a low and melancholy laugh. "Non, monsieur, but my mother did. All the stories I've heard were from her. Maman was one of her maids."
"Won't you tell me what you've heard, Mademoiselle—?"
Suddenly, her serious air broke, and she smiled. "Delamer. My name is Danielle Delamer. As I said, I bring her yellow roses every year. But this year, I'm afraid it will be my last. I am departing this week for Québec; my new employer is a professor at the Université McGill."
"I'm Gaston Leroux. I am working on a report looking into this woman's death." He told the half-truth confidently. "Who was she?"
"Madame Christine la Vicomtesse de Chagny, née Daaé," said Danielle very matter-of-factly, tempered with reverence.
Christine. He had a name for her now. "What happened to her?"
Danielle began her tale haltingly. "She married the Vicomte Raoul at a young age; and they seemed very happy. But after some time, she began to have nightmares. The whole estate would hear her screaming at night. It got to the point where her husband began sleeping in another room. Everyone said she was hiding a great and terrible sin, for she cried out to an angel to save her.
"This was all at night. During the day she was fine, very sweet, and very pleasant, but no one could look at her the same after hearing her night-calls. And Monsieur Raoul, well, he tried to love her the same, but day after day a shadow grew between them. A suspicion in his eyes. He grew extremely protective and would hardly let his young wife out of his sight. He forbade the presence of roses. One night, a servant girl received a red rose from a suitor. Monsieur took one look at it, and took her into an antechamber. She came out a few minutes later in tears. She said that he had told her to get rid of the rose, or pack her bags and leave.
"Monsieur also forbade music in the household. Tensions escalated. Finally, they had an argument over taking a trip to Paris. My mother remembered Madame Christine brandishing a copy of L'Époque, and crying, I promised him! I must go! Raoul, he's dead; he's dead, and it's all my fault! I murdered him! But Monsieur Raoul refused to let her go.
"After that...she lost her mind."
"How do you mean?"
"Standing long moments before her mirror...not to admire her reflection, mind you, but almost as if she was trying to find something behind it."
Or someone, Gaston thought grimly.
"She broke the ban on music, and when the Vicomte was away, she would sing. Ah, even I remember her voice, and I was but a little child at the time! Truly seraphic, Monsieur Leroux."
"She was sent to the Saint-Israfel Asylum. Maman swore she would never forget the last time she saw the husband and wife say goodbye. Monsieur Raoul was weeping; he made no attempt to conceal that. Madame Christine looked blank as a painting, sitting patiently in the carriage. He kissed her hands, and said, 'Goodbye, Christine, mon amour. Please get better. I love you.' She only looked at him, and answered in song: In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came...that voice which calls to me and speaks my name. He bade the driver to go. And that was the last we at the estate ever saw of Madame la Vicomtesse."
"Oh, we heard things. Monsieur Raoul visited her every other day. We heard that they had to keep her away from every mirror, for she would try to break them. She would sing all throughout the night. Ropes frightened her. So did boats." She fell silent.
"How long was she there?"
"Three months."
"Why so short? Did she recover?" Danielle gave him an odd look.
"She killed herself."
"How?"
Danielle looked slightly sick. "Must you ask?" she replied uneasily.
"I am writing a comprehensive report, Mademoiselle."
"All right. She killed herself by bashing her head against a stone wall. We heard that her last words were, 'I have no hopes to be saved.' "
"Mon Dieu," Gaston whispered. This was bad. And yet...the pieces were falling into place. His lost information...the picture of the chorus girl at the Academy...the Ghost herself...He could almost feel the story forming in his mind.
Danielle nodded. She knelt and carefully placed her bouquet of roses by the little monument, then crossed herself. She stood, and pensively brushed off her skirts.
She said warmly, "Alors, it's been a pleasure, Monsieur Leroux. I wish you bon chance with your story. I hope I have been some help."
"I was on the brink of quitting, Mademoiselle Delamer, but thanks to you, I believe I can go forward once more." He paused, then added honestly, "You're a wonderful storyteller, Danielle."
She blushed and thanked him modestly. They shook hands and cheek-pecked, then she added quietly, "I hope she has found peace in death. She certainly didn't have it in life."
She did not notice Gaston pale when he muttered, "One can only hope."
