I Did it All for Love
Chapter One
A.N.: The song "Lullaby," comes from the Original Cast Recording of "The Scarlet Pimpernel." The music is owned by Frank Wildhorn, and the lyrics are the property of Nan Knighton.
Angelique de Chagny knew very well that Papa would not want her climbing in the attic. This didn't stop her from doing it, mind you, and she sometimes had a guilty conscience afterward, but she decided that it didn't hurt anyone, so, therefore, it was alright. Besides, there wasn't any rule against it. Papa just seemed upset whenever Angelique proudly showed him the latest thing she'd fished from the attic. He'd smile and rustle her hair, but the smile was sad, and he often went and locked himself into his bedroom.
But, for boring summer days when school was finally out, the only solution of entertainment seemed to be the attic. Angelique had friends, of course. Lots of friends from school, and a few in the village near where the de Chagnys lived – half way between the town of Nantes and the ocean - but Angelique wasn't always especially keen on playing with them. She was terribly shy, you understand.
"You're just like your mother," Papa would praise whenever she did something that reminded him of her, or was shy when he tried to introduce her to someone. But yet, he always said it sadly, though he smiled proudly at his only child.
Papa tried not to think of Mama too much. It broke his heart.
The grounds were extensive, perfect for a small child to run and play in, but Papa refused to let her unless someone was watching, and that took all the fun away from the game.
"What would I do if you fell from a tree – which, I might add, you are not supposed to climb – and broke your neck?" he'd asked when she pouted. "What would I do then, Angelique?" Sighing, she would not respond, but, instead, crawl onto her father's lap and into his strong arms. She would whisper "I won't get hurt, Papa, I promise," but knew that the argument was over and that she had lost.
Angelique's favorite chest in the attic was a large, faded green one, with brass handles and pretty much no design. She liked to pretend it was Mama's, and she would sit upon it, as Mama might have sat, and pretend to talk to her sometimes. Papa promised that Mama was watching them even now, because she loved them.
And Papa had loved Mama very much.
Today, she was rummaging inside said chest, and knew that Papa was very likely to be furious with her; if they were Mama's things, she would do better to leave them alone. And if they weren't, she still shouldn't have been in the attic.
The only things Papa kept that reminded him of Mama downstairs in the rest of the house were a few photographs and a few paintings, though Angelique suspected there were more things in his room. But she was very rarely allowed into Papa's room.
She gave a small, happy cry as she found a new treasure in the faded green chest: Sheet music! She gently pulled out the worn, slightly old pages and glanced over them. Happily, she closed the lid and scurried to the steps. The ancient wooden steps creaked under her small weight, and once she reached the door, it opened and then closed with a long, mournful creak. She then happily skipped down the hall to the main set of stairs, and from there she went down and into the parlor, where the piano was.
It was the piano Papa had given Mama as a wedding gift. He'd had it brought all the way from Sweden.
Excited as a tiny child – which she still might qualify as, seeing as she was only twelve – Angelique set the sheet music on the stand, settling herself onto the black piano bench. Carefully, she experimentally ran her fingers over the keys, listening to the light sound of the piano as it awoke. She practiced a few of the bars without vocals before finally deciding she could do the song justice.
Go to sleep
Say your prayers
Rest your head
Upon my shoulder
Slumber deep
And breath your
Cares away
It was, as the sound of the piano gently rang through the house, and the small child's voice – a born soprano – accompanied it, that le Viscomte Raoul de Chagny walked down the hall that ran to the parlor as well as other rooms.
"Angelique," he called, "did you finish your…."
He stopped short as the sound of the music floated like an angel's chorus to his ears. He stood in the doorway of the parlor, silent, his heart beating wildly as his head sent him a thousand memories that he would rather forget.
If I die
Before I wake
May I look
Upon the angels
Standing by
Come to take
Me Home
Christine……
Surely it was Christine who was sitting at that piano bench, fingers flying expertly over the keys, her streaming golden hair reflecting in the sunlight that poured through the window. His little child looked like her in every way, except that she was younger, smaller, and had her father's eyes.
Monsieur le Viscomte remembered being a child of fourteen years, swimming into the sea to fetch an eleven year old's red scarf. He remembered taking violin lessons from Monsieur Daae, and then, once the lesson was done, of sitting with Christine at the piano, much like the one he had given her, and playing song after song after song.
Don't you cry
My darling
You are home
He remembered seeing her again when he was nineteen and she was only sixteen, after he'd joined the navy. He remembered walking alone with her in her garden, whispering sweet nothings in her ear while she blushed and held his hand.
"Christine Daae, I think I am in love with you," he'd told her.
"You can't be, Raoul!" she protested. "Because you are a Viscomte, and I am just a girl who's studying to be an Opera Singer." That was the last time he had seen her, until his brother had taken him to the Paris Opera House, to his private box, three years later. And then, it was only a year after that that she…..
Without knowing it, his own voice now rang out with the child's, harmonizing the song he and Christine had sang together at Angelique's age.
You and I
Together
Make our home
Startled, Angelique turned quickly to see her father, still standing in the doorway, silent, stunned.
"Good afternoon, Papa," she said, nervously awaiting the reprimand that was sure to follow.
"Where did you get that?" he asked her, taking a step into the room.
Angelique paused guiltily. "I found it."
Raoul rolled his eyes. "Yes, but where did you find it?"
"…In the attic."
She waited for the stern sermon, and for the punishment, but they never came. Instead, her father made a sort of a grunt noise and nodded. He turned to leave, but then decided against it, facing his daughter once more. "Did you light a candle for your mother at Mass yesterday?"
Every Sunday, Angelique religiously lit a candle for her mother, while her father lit four of his own: One for the mother that had died birthing him, one for the father that had died when Raoul was a boy, one for the brother who had so lovingly raised him, and one for the wife that he would worship till he died. And every Sunday, Raoul would ask his daughter "Did you light a candle for your mother?" And every Sunday, the answer was the same: "Yes, Papa."
"You asked me that yesterday," responded Angelique, still worried.
"Well, did you?"
"The answer is the same as yesterday." She was being cheeky, a rare occurrence, but becoming steadily more frequent for one simple reason: Angelique was growing up, she was becoming a teenager.
"Angelique…" Monsieur de Chagny said slowly, with warning. Angelique was a smart child, she knew when to back down.
"Yes, Papa, I did."
He walked into the room, sitting next to his daughter at the piano bench. He looked from her, to the keys, to the music, and back to her again. "Good," he finally replied, stroking her soft, golden head. Finally, the very gentle reprimand came. "I don't want you going up in the attic again, alright?"
"Yes, Papa."
He took the music from the stand, gently running his thumb over the text; fading, just like the memories. He stood and took from his pocket a key. He left the room briefly, telling his daughter to remain there, he would be right back. He walked to his own room and entered. Carefully, he inserted the small brass key into the lock of one of his dresser drawers. He slowly opened it and placed the sheet music inside, along with countless other little treasures; things that reminded him of Christine. Raoul wanted them always near him, but he wanted them locked away, so that they might not hurt as much. He then returned to the parlor, sitting back down at the piano bench where Angelique had remained.
He sighed, gently petting her soft head. "You are so much like your mother."
"Thank you, Papa."
They remained silent for a while, the small girl snuggling into her father's loving arms whilst his heart broke remembering his wife.
Finally, she asked "Papa, would Mama have been proud of me?"
He paused, his voice chocked. He fought back tears and replied "Oh yes, she would have been. She is very proud of you." The silence continued until he finally delicately shoved his daughter off the piano bench. "Now, go and play outside." She gave her father a small kiss and ran out the door. Realizing that he might have implied that she could run free, he quickly shouted after her "And stay in the garden!"
Needless to say, Angelique's joy was dampened.
To Be Continued…
