A/N: There have been accusations of Raoul bashing. I am pleased to admit that they are all perfectly true. However, since one cannot remain an AWOL teenage impressed seaman living on your brother's money and at your sisters' every whim forever, in this particular chapter of the story, which is hereby entitled 'Raoul,' Mssr. De Changey will become the most dashing handsome swordfighting hero ever to cross the silver screen. And it's all a matter of pronounciation. 'Rahouuuul' instead of 'Rowl'.

It has also come to my attention that some of my reviewers have amazing things to say:

RE: tritones. You're right of course, I forgot what they were called. Behold the jazz musician. What I meant was that if Erik was singing in 'C' then Christine would start her e-i-e-i-o on F# and continue from there. Voila! West Side Story!

RE: LUCRIAZA BORGIA wasn't written by Mozart; It's by Donizetti. Holy crap you knew this off the top of your head? (stares in wonderement and awe) I suppose I should fix the mistake. Sorry about that, I just grabbed Leroux's novel and picked the first two names I saw.Behold the jazz musician.

NOTICE: In following chapter(s) I shall be repeatedly ignoring the linear properties of time, the real names of Raoul's sisters, and probably just about everything else. Be prepared for a stretch. Maybe the best thing to do would be to visualize a world where everything exists at once and most of the major fictional heros are out there somwhere. ALSO it is very important for you to understand that NO HABLO ESPANOL and there shall be some Espanol in fic. If you don't understand it, fine, neither do I. If you do. PLEASE correct my grammar/spelling/delusions of grandeur!

Raoul looked at the curtains and wondered if they should have been mauve after all. He was quite proud of the avant garde furniture, but the chartreuse curtains seemed to lend an air of brightness to the room that the mauve would have warmed significantly. Maybe he should have had both colors together. Raoul snatched a champagne flute off of one of the nearby waiter's trays.

All of the sudden Meg was clinging to one of his arms, "Can you sense him Raoul? He's here!"

Raoul coughed over a mouthful of fizz, "Who?"

"The Phantom of the Opera!"

Raoul laughed, had his diaphragm decide that was not a good idea, and came down with the hiccups. "That's ridiculous hic."

Meg slapped his back encouragingly. "Just keep your hand at the level of your eyes. That's what mama always says. Then you're safe from his Punjab lasso." Meg's wide eyes crinkled up a little, "Do you know what a Punjab lasso is?"

Raoul thought about trying to explain, but he couldn't decide if it was a noose, a lariat, or a little rope with two knots in it that would crush your windpipe when wound together with a stick.

Meg shivered and clung tighter to Raoul's arm. "Ooo I'm frightened of him."

"Have you actually seen him here?" Raoul looked around. There was a painter who was composing a still life out of miniature figurines on the piano lid, and there was a man with two brightly feathered mademoiselles on each arm who were each demanding that he kiss them, but other than that, there weren't any people that Raoul would consider 'Phantom of the Opera-like'.

Meg was looking wildly up at the ceiling.

"Oh bother it." Raoul said as he dropped his champagne flute on the carefully aged whitewashed floor. "Well come on Meg, I want you to meet the Fashion Designer of Fabulous. This whole party is his inspiration."

Meg arched an eyebrow, "Oh come on, you don't believe in the Fashion Designer of Fabulous."

"Well you believe in the Phantom of the Opera."

"Yes, but he's real."

Raoul was getting uncomfortably hurt by this assertion that his guardian angel was a figment of his imagination. He tried to push Meg off his arm, but she was uncommonly sticky today.

"No don't make me go." Meg said, "I want to meet your Fashion Designer of Fabulous."

Raoul looked at her doubtfully.

"Besides, I love the curtains. I think that limey pukey sort of green really makes everyone's skin look cadaverous and Pre-Raphaelite."

Raoul's breath caught in his throat, "Really? Pre-Raphaelite?" He smiled warmly at Meg and decided that after all, she was an uncommonly brilliant woman.

"I love it." Meg announced.

"It's called chartreuse." Raoul offered her his arm properly and purposed to give her a tour of the dyed yak-skin chairs.

"Ah Madame Daae."

Christine flinched and spun around into the gently waltzing arms of Andre Moncharmin. How he could waltz to this bizarre musical quartet, she didn't know. But she did her best not to step on his toes.

"Monsieur Moncharmin," she said in her best alto-diva voice, "It is not Daae anymore. I am Madame le Fantome de l'Opera."

"My apologies," Moncharmin said in mock mortification, "I was under the impression that the Madame had some musical matters of grave urgency to discuss with me."

"Ah," Christine tried to smile charmingly, she knew she'd need all of the help she could get. "Oh but it is just a trifle."

"But to such a belle Madame," Andre kissed one of her hands, "her every wish must become my command."

"You sure?"

"For such a fair lady, anything."

"Really? Are you sure?"

Moncharmin gave one of his waxed mustache ends a twirl, "Oh but speak to me Madame. What is troubling you?"

Christine swallowed and tried to look confident, "I wish you to found a National Academy of Music in the unused offices on the third level of the Opera. You will search all of France for promising musicians, give them a stipend so they can further their musical studies, bring them to Paris, and encourage them to make a professional career with their art. In this way, the cultural level of France will increase and the fine young musicians of France may be trained personally by my husband."

Moncharmin was all smiles, "Why of course Madame! I should be delighted to comply. I could accomplish your desire at a cost to the opera of only five million francs."

"FIVE MILLION FRANCS!"

Moncharmin cringed.

Christine looked around and saw Firmin Richard running towards them holding a very sharp looking hors d'ourve. He was bellowing.

Moncharmin smiled suavely, "Isn't it a trifle warm in here? I believe we could speak more freely on the balcony."

Erik was hiding under the piano and having a miserable time. And to boot, it looked like Christine had the hots for Andre Moncharmin. Erik sighed sadly. After that narrow escape with the Raoul incident, he had understood that Christine would be a difficult woman to keep true. But Erik was quite content to be loved at all, even if it was just a little. Any piece of Chistine's heart was precious beyond worlds to him.

If only she wasn't so caught up in music and art and literature.

They could be at home under the Opera House if Christine didn't feel the need to micromanage the next season's productions.

Every ballerina, every member of the orchestra had to be in exact perfect union with her musical specifications. And it was not that those specifications were wrong per se, he had taught them to her, but Erik felt that Christine should possibly learn to be content with imperfection in other people. After all, no one was perfect.

Except Christine.

Erik leaned his cheek against his hand for a while and fiddled with the fringe on the piano cover. It was red and it sparkled in the light.

Erik was just about to make a mental comparison with the charming hue of Christine's lips when an affront to nature sounded loudly from across the room.

There it went again, some horrible cross between a piccolo and a foghorn. Erik cautiously pulled the fringe aside just enough to let a sliver of one eye see out across the room.

"Listen listen everybody." A voice was yelling over the din.

Gradually the room fell silent.

It was Raoul, the little twit.

"I wanted to thank you all for coming to my party." Raoul smiled and flashed his white teeth charmingly, "I would especially like to thank all of the wonderful artistes that have deigned to present their creative genius in my humble home." There was gentle applause.

So he had actually learned something! Erik perked up and leaned a little into the fringe. Raoul had actually used the word 'deigned' and 'artiste' in the same sentence! The lessons had to be doing some good. Maybe the boy wasn't as hopeless as he seemed.

"And now, Madames et Monsieurs," Raoul paused and took a dramatic breath, "The moment you have all been waiting for!"

Good showmanship, Erik thought, maybe he could get Raoul a part in one of the pantomime roles next season. Maybe as a magician. He certainly looked like he was about to produce a rabbit out of a cloud of purple smoke.

"The reason that we have been given this little fellowship today," Raoul raised his arms pleadingly toward the heavens, "The Fashion Designer of Fabulous!"

There was a puzzled silence.

"Speak to us O Fashion Designer of Fabulous!" Raoul's voice choked with yearning and emotion, "Speak so that we may learn the ways of the light."

Erik took all of it back. Raoul was a fop. Fops didn't change.

"Speak fair angel!" Raoul cried again, this time looking around a little nervously at the skeptical audience.

Erik wouldn't have, if that one radish of a man hadn't burst out into unconcealed laughter.

"Raoul De Chagney." Erik threw his voice high up into the ceiling and let in some resonance overtones so that the walls and furniture would shake.

Raoul gasped in relief and ecstasy. "Speak." He whispered, letting his arms fall to his side and closing his eyes.

"There is one among those here who knows not how to pomade the hair." Erik said, trying to keep his voice steady, godlike, and above all out of Christine's range of hearing.

"Yes Fashion Designer of Fabulous."

Erik watched as the radish man began to squirm in anticipated discomfort.

"Take him outside." Erik said, "And wash the grease out of his hair."

"Yes my angel." Raoul slowly raised his eyes and began looking around the room expertly, "But do you not have an inside fashion tip for us today?"

Oh the possibilities were endless. Sheared hair dyed green. Socks with individual toes. Argyle. Anything Erik said would no doubt become the latest and most prized fashion in Paris. Erik could hear the guests hold their breath, straining to hear every word.

An elbow dug gently into his ribs. "Pink," Christine whispered gaily, "I hate pink."

Erik almost lost his concentration. But he didn't. He never did. "Raoul De Chagney I will give to you this one revelation. It is this: that the fragile delicate pink of a—"

"Snake Sripper from the Moulin Rouge."

Erik gave Christine a shocked look. "The vivid neon pink of a Dancer of the Can-Can shall become the haute couture color of the season."

The entire room burst into applause and gasps of admiration.

Erik turned to Christine and raised an eyebrow.

Christine turned a beautiful shade of pale delicate pink. "Mme. Giry used to work at the Moulin Rouge."

"Have you ever been there?"

"No, but—"

"Then kindly keep silent about matters of which you know nothing."

Christine's blush disappeared and was replaced by a dark glare, "Well have you ever been there?"

Erik thought that it was time to change the subject. "Why are you here with me when you should be accomplishing your grand scheme regarding next season's opera?"

"You haven't and I know you haven't." Christine didn't even blink. "No use playing worldly man about town with me, Mr. Phantom of the Cellars."

Erik looked at her for a while, deciding whether to become angry or to awknowledge that she looked delightfully appealing sprawled across the floor like that.

"Besides." Christine said, "I'm finished with Andre. I'd rather be with you, and you know that too."

Erik let his glare soften just a little, to see if she'd speak more, in that wonderfully familiar soft tone. It was just like they had been married for years instead of weeks.

"Don't make me plead now," Christine inched closer across the carped and propped her chin up on Erik's leg. "Let's go home. I'm hungry and it's certainly more comfortable at home than under a piano."

"Andre."

The words echoed like a death knell. Andre flinched and jerked his hand off of the small of the young ballerina's back. "Off then now," he whispered and sent her through one of the Phantom of the Opera's trapdoors.

Firmin rounded the corner just in time to see her little pink tutu disappear. "Andre Moncharmin I can not abide by this any longer!"

Andre tried to look innocent, "What, dear Firmin?"

"You, Monsieur are a dandy, a moron, and a lecher and I shall stand for no more of it in my opera house!" Firmin brushed by Andre and made for his desk. He began tossing papers around.

"Look here Firmin—"

"I shall hear none of it, you see! None of it!" Firmin shouted suddenly. "You, sir are no more than a pauper living on borrowed time!"

Andre thought it best to remain silent.

"Look at these figures! We did not even come close to breaking even last year. Where are all those society patrons that you are supposed to be acquiring? Hm? You sir are not doing your job, and I should have you fired if I had enough funds for a lawyer." He twisted his thumbs together in pique.

Andre thought that perhaps this wasn't the best time to mention Christine's demand for five million francs and a permanent staff position for the Opera Ghost.

"No Andre," Firmin pushed the papers petulantly away and stalked over to the window. He clasped his hands firmly behind his back. "I will not let this Opera House be bankrupt. Which is why we must declare war on the Opera Ghost once again."

"What's his twenty thousand francs a month to us? It's not all that much considering what we pay his wife." Andre pointed out.

"Ah but it's not the money." Firmin turned toward Andre with a sickly smile on his face that made the bones creak. "No, he is unquestionably going to consider our next move an undeniable act of war. Oh Andre," Firmin chuckled. "We must be ready for him. Smoke him out of the Opera, drive him into the open where we can be assured that he cannot harm us, then we will be free to produce profitable performances with panache, precedence and principle."

Andre wondered if he'd written his little speech himself or had hired one of those hacks from L'Epoque. It would do no good to naysay such determination from Firmin thought. He asked the inevitable. "What are we going to do then?"

Firmin straightened his back, "We shall create a spectacle such as the world has never known." He said quietly.

Andre had never heard him speak like that. He felt a sudden thankfulness that he was not the Opera Ghost.

Firmin pulled a newspaper clipping out of his waistcoat. "Here Andre, take a look at that."

Andre was thoroughly enchanted. Yessssss Sir. Yessssss Sir.

I know I promised to post it all at once. However due to a plot twist involving vegemite, it is not quite all finished. So I took the scissors and cut it up into chapters of widely varying lengths which shall be posted, hopefully every Wed. until this particular episode is finished.

Forgive the next two chapters while the plot thickens.