Dinner at the Lequesne household was a very casual affair; Edmond spoke of his students fondly, of his current lecture series, and the messy running-about of the McGill Administration. Amanda listened intently and gossiped easily about the neighbourhood. Gaston sat rather quietly, mostly lost in his own thoughts. It had been a day of discovery, most certainly. He now had a definitive account of the chandelier incident, something which had eluded him for many months. There were no doubts as to the authenticity of the Professor's story; he was an honest man, and had solid proof, in the salvaged score. Gaston had swiftly transcribed the lyrics of the libretto into his notes, remarking on it's advanced musical composition, and defiance of taboo. With his fork, he carefully poked at the hearty slice of savory meat pie steaming his spectacles enticingly. Once again, he found his usually-ravenous appetite diminished.

"Monsieur Leroux?" Amanda was asking insistently but pleasantly.

"Hmm?" Her voice shook him from his reveries. "I beg your pardon, Madame. What was it you were saying?"

She gave him an appraising smile, then said, "Has my husband told you he once lived in Paris? Oh, what a lovely city! I've only visited there once, as a girl. Edmond, dear, we should take a vacation there."

Professor Lequesne answered thoughtfully, "Perhaps our guest could recommend a hotel, or attractions to see. I hear the Opéra has been restored wonderfully. Isn't that so, Monsieur?"

Gaston nodded, a bit uneasily. Though his mind was far from the prospect of food, his stomach clenched, and the aroma of his meal made it no easier. After dinner, they shared the requisite cup of French coffee, and socialized by the fireplace. Gaston shared his experiences as a drama critic and world-wandering journalist; the latest news in Paris, and hesitantly described the sparkling restoration of the opera house. In return, he learned how Edmond and Amanda met a few years ago while he was in England, and she was a struggling London singer. Of their relocation to the New World, and how much of a blessing and a curse Montréal was. They adored their home city--it was a bustling center of business and culture, and they were quite comfortable there; but the winters were utterly brutal and merciless. Eventually, the Professor excused himself to look over some paperwork, and his wife busied herself with a book. Gaston took the opportunity to retreat to his room, give his notes a final scrutiny, and pack his things. His departure date was tomorrow.

On his way up the staircase, Danielle appeared at the top, face cast in eerie shadow. She still wore her plain housemaid's frock, but she had taken off her apron, and unpinned her hair. It lay now in a thick braid hanging over one shoulder. She was clutching her yellow shawl tightly. "Monsieur Leroux?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Delamer?" She spoke low, but the urgency in her tone was unmistakable.

"Come quickly, sir. There's something you must see." It was only then that he realized she was breathing quickly, and her face was anxious or perhaps frightened. He followed her up the stair, turned right, toward the bedrooms, then to the end of the short hall. On an end table, she picked up a stoneware oil lamp, and lit it with a match that had been lying beside it. She pulled on a rope suspended from the ceiling. A trapdoor opened above them, and she lowered the ladder that folded neatly on it. She climbed up first, with the lit lamp, then beckoned for him to follow.

The attic was cold, and the darkness, beyond the circle of golden light from the oil lamp, was complete. He followed the small, flickering light blindly, as Danielle led him to a corner, where a mannequin stood blankly. The housemaid stopped, and held the lamp up. Gaston blinked a few times, then he saw that the faceless form wore the wedding gown found that very afternoon. Its silk and lace shimmered faintly.

She took a deep breath before speaking in a measured voice. "Now, remember this afternoon the gown was pristine. It looked new and sparkling white from sleeves to petticoats. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Look at it now." She knelt, and shone the light on the skirt.

He did. The skirts were stained slightly green, as if from murky lake water. The small train was even worse; an aged yellow-green, that somehow gave the frock a tattered appearance.

"Touch it," she breathed.

It was damp. Not sopping, dripping wet, but far more than just condensation-damp. Like the bride had walked into shallow water.

Gaston and Danielle at that moment felt chilled to the bone, even more so than the simple cold of the room. And like a prima donna entering exactly on cue, a delicate, feminine voice floated through the attic:

I am trapped here, hardly knowing the reason why.
Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned,
Imagine me trying too hard to put him from my mind.
We had such hopes and now those hopes are shattered;
And now I curse the day I did not see all that my Angel asked of me.


Gaston was left with nothing to do but pack his things and bid farewell to the friendly Lequenses, beautiful Montréal, and Danielle, who had been integral to his understanding of the Opera Ghost story. He had his return ticket to France; his precious notebook was nearly full with details from his experiences--the masquerade ball, the wedding gown travesty, Professor Lequesne's tale--and he was feeling strangely weary. Gaston thought, I am quite ready to return home.

The day he embarked on his return journey dawned cold and damp. It was raining lightly. The snows had disappeared; and now a misty fog hung low over the river. Tiny raindrops pelted Gaston's black coat and hat. They stung his face gently; he breathed in the sea-salty air deeply. Carrying his luggage, he boarded the Belle Emmanuelle, and looked back to wave at Amanda and Danielle. They smiled--Amanda sweetly, and Danielle with a knowing look in her eyes--and waved, calling, "Au revoir, Monsieur Leroux!"

"Au revoir," he replied, softly. He waved, then turned toward the deck, and pulled something out of his pocket.

It was the gold ring.


That night, lulled to sleep by the gentle shifting of the ship on the waters of the Atlantic, Gaston dreamed again.


"Good morning, Madame!" Isabelle Tremblay, a new nursemaid at the Saint-Israfel Asylum for the Insane, greeted cheerily as she entered the tiny chamber. "I've brought you a little something...something to brighten it up in here."

Eagerly, she produced a flower: a long-stemmed rose of deep scarlet; she had cut it especially for this beautiful young ward, stripping its thorns and trimming its deep green leaves. Isabelle held it out to her with a shy grin. To celebrate the arrival of spring, she had brought a vase full of roses (purchased from the local flower vendor) for each of the other patients. She liked pretty Madame de Chagny, who was around her age, and always seemed kind.

So she was stunned when the petite brunette let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Madame Christine—" Isabelle jerked back, hiding the rose behind her back. "What's wrong?"

The Vicomtesse had collapsed into a heap on the floor, sobbing wretchedly, "Can't you hear the nightingale? He's singing the night's own music, but n-no one w-would lissten."

"Listen?" The nursemaid repeated, confused. It was not midday yet; nightingales sang at dusk.

The young ward raised her curly head. "Please...you must—you must let me go to the Paris Opéra! I have to go. I cannot betray him once more!"

"I can't," Isabelle answered softly. "Perhaps your husband—"

At that, she laughed bitterly. "Perhaps my husband! Perhaps my husband will bring me more lilies this week, just like he did at my debut! The flower of death! Always the flower of death. Well, I shall see that it is fitting."

"Madame?" The nurse was alarmed.

"Regardless, I shall return to the Opéra. Leave me, Isabelle," she said with a secretive smile.

"But Madame..."

"I have no hopes to be saved. Go now."

Isabelle did not learn until the next day that that afternoon, attendants found Christine de Chagny in the garden, beside the rose bushes, her face covered in blood. The Vicomtesse was cold and limp. She had committed suicide by striking her forehead against the stone wall. She was clutching a single rose; its thorns had dug into her hand, leaving bleeding cuts on her palms that stained the creamy white petals red.


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Note: I know, I promised this one would be better, and it's not. Sorry. I do love the dream sequence though; I have a new obsession lately with the legend of the nightingale and the rose. And "No One Would Listen" of course! A project of mine is to eventually transcribe the legend into verse. But anyway, I'm off-topic--review away, please!