From the journal intime of Christine Daaé, chanteur populaire:
Septembre 17, 1675
I'm now set up in the prettiest little suite of rooms…it's an attic floor, but the walls are surprisingly thick; I do not think I will grow cold here, come winter. It certainly isn't particularly stifling, now! Like everything else over the past few weeks, they are far, far beyond anything I expected. The bed—with feathers!—sits below a little recessed, gabled window. It is not the only one, but when I wake, it is through this one that the sun wakes me. A little border of gold-painted suns dances its way across the walls, which are the most delightfully inviting shade of pale yellow. I have no idea what I will need the sitting room for, but it is equally unusually designed and is, of course, completely charming. I have a bureau! Whatever will go in it, I also do not know, but I fully intend to remedy that. All of this is never what I would have thought of for myself, but it is perfect. Should I be surprised that he suggested the address to me? No, no…I think not.
…I had the oddest dream last night, though, and I thought of papa again. I seem to be doing that lately more often than not. First in my dream it was his violin playing for me; it was wild and lilting and playful and spiritual as only papa could ever do it—like when he played for me, just for me, on my birthdays. Then it changed somehow, I don't know when, and it was an angel's voice that sang to me and the violin was gone. What was strangest was how the two meshed to become one in my mind, and now when I try I cannot separate them…
Twice a week she sang for the masked man on the Rue de D, and twice a week she walked back to her rooms filled with a strange, restless sort of yearning that she could not understand. When she found herself singing whatever song it was she had been practicing last, she never noticed the appreciative glances of those nearby, or how a soft soap-bubble of sound around her seemed to slow and suspend all other sound and movement within it. If she had been stopped at those times, she would have looked at the interloper strangely and hurried on—surely, the monsieur must be mistaken; she had not been singing anything.
A few wizened, toothless old heads nodded their consensus on observing one such occasion from the table where they gossiped and took their cheap wine. Witchcraft, mes amis, one spat in merry abandonment. She must be bespelled. A conspiratorial giggle, perhaps induced by lower thresholds for alcoholic consumption than they had once had, rose up from them collectively as they watched her go by. Just after she passed the table, she began to hum again, and a new round of maudlin laughter erupted from the far-from-sober old matrons.
It was several months after Christine had begun lessons that it came to be she stood by the window of her teacher's music room. It was late, and the dark was closing outside; already the candles were lit here, though she could see well enough--Erik always grew angry when she put herself in any danger of permanent harm. Normally she would have been home by now, but increasingly she was coming to prefer his company--and that of Mme Giry and her daughter--over the few people she used to know from the slums. She was nodding off to strange reverie when the voice tugged her back to the moment. Erik had spoken, but between the words and the softness of delivery, Christine was quite sure she had heard him wrong.
She half-swung to face him. "What?"
"I think, ma cherie, that you heard me very well."The tilt of his head, the cross of his arms, the set of his shoulders, and the studied ease that he allowed his spine to betray—all spelled mocking boredom. Christine blushed.
"Erik…you have…a position, for me? To sing?" She had no idea how closely he studied the little shadow flickering beneath her eyelashes where they had closed, or exactly how fascinating he found the little flush that rose up to her cheeks against the creamy ivory of her skin. She was so white; he realized with a start, almost deathlike. But no. The moment passed, as blood returned to her face with the blush, and the candlelight infused in her the golden glow of health.
For a moment, he almost distrusted himself to speak, and turned to look out the window. "You will be ready tomorrow, I trust." Those lovely eyes—that soft, clear green, with the purposeful, playful ring of brown, to render fools all those who did not think to look closer to their right hue—raised to his general proximity in astonishment. If it were anyone else, he would have been interminably impatient. As it were, a smile played on the thin lips beneath the velvet mask.
"But, Erik. I will have nothing to wear, and…in such grand company. Monsieur, I—I think I shall be frightened. Will you be there?"
He nodded, and his voice was warm; she unwound into it with all the grace of a cat in the sun, and gave a little sigh of gratitude. "Of course I will be there, ma cherie." Once again, his mood seemed to shift. It was almost playfully that he picked up his violin and asked her, "Do you feel the air around you?"
Christine's forehead creased into a perplexed little frown. "Non…" She couldn't imagine what he meant. Air was air. It was everything, and nothing. It was nowhere, it seemed, but everywhere, and—
"Feel," he breathed. Her eyes closed dutifully. What did he want her to feel? Around him, fact and fantasy seemed to blur, and anything was possible. Air could be more than air, if he said so…Angel feathers, a rustle and near-golden warmth as little rustles swirled suggestively over her skin, and tugged at the hem of her dress. A soft hum emanated and spread from the part of the room where he stood, and it shocked her to realize after a moment that it was sound, and fascinated, she felt the note from the violin quiver, dance, and soar to the highest reaches of its glory before madly plummeting to resonate somewhere in the lower echelons of the D string, finally fading to nothing.
He murmered, "and that is where I am. Anywhere the air can go, as can I, mi amour, do you see?"
For the first time, she met his eyes squarely, and grinned in delight. "Oui, monsieur Angel. As long as I do not suffocate, you are with me." Who could be so heartless as to refuse to smile at the pure happiness that radiated from her, and laugh along with that waterfall of sound? Certainly not Erik, the man who was her teacher of music.
"Very well then, one-who-the-angel-guards. This old celestial has an answer to the question that plagues you—will you come?"
Christine frowned. "What question? Je suis désolé, I don't remember…" A full court bow charmed her assent despite his non-reply, and it was on his arm that she passed through the corridor where the dark shadows threatened and crept. Now, they touched neither of the two walkers, held at bay either by his presence or the glowing happiness that still danced out of her in waves…or both. Down to the end of the hall then, to a room Christine had never noticed before, and a key, opening a heavy door, and into a room with no fire but a brazier in the corner for light.
It was an odd room—all the walls were a warm, delicate shade of orange, with the most fashionable of floral borders painted on the walls in a deeper shade of dusky red-tinged pink. What was odd, though, was what was in it: for each of the four walls, there was a heavy, elegantly tooled mahogany wardrobe, and in each corner was a full-length mirror, angled in such a way that the girl standing in the center could see herself from every angle. It took her a moment to notice that he had hung back in the doorway and was watching her. As she turned to him, he moved forward and came as if to take her hand.
The feel of the room had changed now, and the very air seemed heavy with pregnant expectation as she realized that that moment in the watching corridor was the first time that they had touched—and almost imperceptibly, he shifted and reached past her to the nearest armoire. When he spoke, it came as a command, and his voice was even. "Close your eyes." She did, and waited for his permission to open them. Straining to listen, she almost heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "what will you wear, Christine?" Smiling a bit, she opened her senses as she had done just a few minutes ago to feel the air again. The air game, Christine thought suddenly and nearly laughed. She felt the rustle and sigh of cloth, the heat from him where he stood, and the ever-present darkness of the corridor. She felt, and waited. At last the command came.
"Open your eyes, Christine Daaé. Now, is this what you had waited for?"
Cream and peach. Carnations. The stomacher was nearly covered with the kind of abstract floral designs she had so envied the rich noblewomen out for day strolls, but this…silk, and the finest. The neckline would sweep low, and leave her breath to sing. She let out an almost involuntary sigh of pure pleasure, and her companion nearly had to turn away. "Erik, it is—perfect, but I can't wear it! Please sir—all this, for me?" Voice trembling, she continued, "all this kindness; it is too much." She tried to drop the whispering pearl-and-gold embroidered heap of cloth back into his arms and fought to stem the tears that pushed to spill, but he stepped back and waved a hand in lazy dismissal.
"No, ma cherie. We had agreed you needed new clothes: Here they are. Did you not care for them—or perhaps you wished to explore your dressing room?" Impatience had begun to creep into his voice, but she was still pondering the possibilities of "clothes." He had said "clothes," not "dress." Even Erik was almost surprised at the alacrity with which she dropped the peach confection to fling open the doors of the wardrobe that the gown had come from. In that wardrobe—three more, and shoes, hair ornaments for the dresser to put in, and gloves to match.
They were all of different colors and cuts, but Christine noticed after the initial shock that all worked the motif of a particular flower into the overall design or embellishment. Besides the carnation gown, in the next wardrobe there were three more, and all with flowers: lavender with forget-me-nots; a brilliant red, orange, and yellow court gown with snapdragons worked in tiny glass beads into the sleeves, stomacher, and forepart; one Italian-styled, of all things, yellow and black with poppies surreptitiously animated in the brocade. In the third armoire were two day dresses and one blue gown, with hibiscus. Christine blushed and closed the last wardrobe quickly when she realized that it was filled with undergarments and night things, and that he still watched her.
"What do you think, mon ange?" He seemed to be waiting for something.
"Oh, God, monsieur, thank you. For the time that they are in my care I promise, monsieur, I will treasure them and—"
"That is good, then, as they are yours. The peach is most suited to your debut; understated, yet becoming enough to draw attention to you, where it ought to be, non?" Christine felt simmering, tiny bubble-pops of doubt at the use of the word "understated", but well enough. She was in no position to complain. "You will wear that tomorrow. It is late—you had best stay here tonight. The Girys will have you, I am sure. Yes, girl! You will be able to look more closely later, but for now you will rest. Come." He charmed, and cajoled, and manipulated her in the most delightful way to get her out of the orange room and downstairs to the two rooms Mme. Giry and her daughter shared. She was nearly asleep on her feet by the time she was out of the upper corridor, only awake enough to register the quiet murmur of voices as she was discharged, a soft plucking of little hands at the laces of her stays, and then soft, starch-smelling rest.
It was only when she lay, tucked into a sweet, simple room with the light breathing of Giry's daughter, Meg, beside her, that Christine realized belatedly that there were no gowns with roses. She did not hear the slowing of familiar footsteps outside her window before they continued on.
Mornings have vastly different feels to them. Some arrive, full of promise and golden sunlight and dew or laughing rain, to reclaim with mirth the soul of the sleeper from Death's benevolent half-brother. Some come cawing vindictively with the fell crows of dread, and some are a curious and paradoxical mix of the two; this morning was one of these.
Christine woke slowly, and more at the unfamiliarity of her surroundings than the patient ministrations of the day itself. She was to sing tonight. What did that mean for her? Her career? Her tutor? Ought she really be so nervous, and why was she so perturbed by the gift of the room full of dresses? They must have cost a fortune, and all new; gifted to her with a word—and what did her teacher want in return? The court gown perplexed her the most. Like the others, it could only have cost a fortune, but it was rendered unwearable by the (striking) yet unfashionable colors. What person would gift her something that expensive that she could never use?
Questions harried and beat at her like so many mosquitoes as Meg chattered her to the bath. Meg—she was a nice girl, really, and a dancer for some sort of noblesse entertainment or other (Christine politely refrained from asking what kind of dancer), and she felt herself slowly relax in the face of the other girl's animated small talk, loosely centered around the troubles and woes of performing girls. After the first shock, she found that she very much enjoyed the hot water and bath salts.
Christine had really never been pampered, and she found the situation more and more enjoyable as Meg took her first to the jeweler's (to have another set of earrings made), to the perfumery's (where the youth winked confidentially at her and murmured something about girls too good for babies, making Christine start with a chill of fear and wonder how close of professional bonds apothecaries and high-end perfumeries did keep), and finally to a hairdresser.
It was later that afternoon while Mme Giry was lacing her into her stays that she was still enough to once again fell prickles of apprehension, and Erik's voice was not there to fill her with the quiet peace of the spiritual.The cream dress closed around her, and excited whispers and rustles emanated from its silky folds as Meg began hooking and lacing. Now, when even her gown seemed more excited about the proceedings than she did, she felt sick with fear…especially as, now that the dress in question settled on her, the neckline seemed immodestly low.
She felt him come before she could see him. "Magnifique. The color—it is good, non? Oh, you have not looked yet. Go on." The very sound of him was a comfort; his voice filled her, to drive out the demons of doubts. She looked in the mirror, and nearly fainted. She Christine Daaé, street singer and violinist's daughter, could pass for…a countess. Or perhaps a lesser nobleman's daughter, at the least, and she did not feel like herself. That was good—Christine could not handle what was she was about to do. This other mirror-girl could. Despite her heightened awareness of him the previous day, she scarcely noticed the man behind her as he moved forward, or the light brush of his fingers against her neck while placing her necklace and threading her earrings through the skin.
She did not notice his tight concentration on her, and the way he did not let his gaze shift once to the mirrors. It was his voice, though, that broke her from her reverie. "Mon ange; shall we not try your scales? If there are any…kinks, they are best worked out here." (Neither did she notice any slight inflections or deeper meaning to anything he may have said.)
Though Erik steadied her in the last hour before the carriage came, time seemed to gather hopeless, heedless momentum until it was time to leave. Christine turned to comment something inane to the masked figure at her side about the unmarked carriage waiting, but he was gone. Instead stood was Mme Giry. Still scrambling for something to buy a few more seconds, she mumbled, "Where has he got to—where is his room anyway, I haven't seen it"--and turning to the window again—"and aren't those horses fine?"
Giry smiled slightly, and played along with the girl. "Didn't you know? He doesn't live here. Good luck, Christine Daaé…and yes, those are fine horses. I have always preferred grays for a smart carriage team."