Scarlet Ribbons: A Christmas Tale in France
- by Laliel
Disclaimer: I do not own the tale of the Phantom, nor the song Scarlet Ribbons the other characters are mine.
On the street corner of the Opera Garnier's square, which was known to attract the poorer ribbon and flower sellers, sat a young woman and her two little ones. Her eldest, a little girl of six clung tightly to her mother's tattered clothes, her own frock horribly worn. A limp red ribbon held her brown, curling hair from her face, a reminder of a time when things had been better. The other child, a boy who was no more than two, sat on a snowy blanket playing with a well-worn elephant, the toy's stuffing hanging out one side and his glass eyes having fallen off long ago.
Their mother shuffled her feet, a basket of red roses sprinkled with snow held carefully in her arms. Her object in this life was simple, to sell enough of her flowers to the rich class so that her children might have a decent home, food, and warmer clothes. Her husband, having died before their son was born, had left her with some money, but the courts had claimed most of the young couple's belongings.
Her daughter tugged at her skirt and whispered "Why don't you sing, mommy? The upper class likes that, they might buy a rose or two." She gave a weary smile. "And what song do you think they would like, Veronique?" The little girl's forehead wrinkled as she thought. "What about Scarlet Ribbons? It matches the one in my hair." Her mother nodded her approval. "Very well, Scarlet Ribbons 'tis be. Now you hold the basket while I give it a go."
In a clear soprano she warmed her voice up, and then started her song:
I peeked in to say goodnight,
When I heard my child in prayer.
"And for me some scarlet ribbons,
Scarlet ribbons for my hair."
All the stores were closed and shuttered,
All the streets were dark and bare.
In our town no scarlet ribbons,
Not one ribbon for her hair.
Through the night my heart was aching,
Just before the dawn was breaking.
I peeked in and on her bed,
In gay profusion laying there.
Lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons,
Scarlet ribbons for her hair
If I live to be two-hundred,
I will never know from where,
Came those lovely scarlet ribbons,
Scarlet ribbons for her hair.
Her voice slowly faded, and many of the other sellers around her cheered their thanks, and a few gentlemen in evening dress and shiny top hats came over to purchase some flowers for their ladies, as well as the buttonholes. A young man with longish hair, neatly pulled back, walked by with a very pretty young lady. Both were dressed well, and the lady wore a lovely, silvery cloak with a red scarf.
"Buy a flower for the lady, sir?" She bobbed a curtsy, and taking the basket from Veronique, smiled at them. The fellow peered into the basket for a moment. "You have no white roses?" A nice face he did have, but a rather whiny quality seemed to be in the voice. "No sir, 'tis Christmas time, and folks such as you wish for red things." He straightened himself and took his lady by the arm. "Well, I am not one of those "folk", so I must pass, terribly sorry."
Veronique whispered at her mother, "Did you see her dress? It was so beautiful, just like her!" Her mother put her hand on her daughter's cold hair. "Beauty out does not mean beauty in, my dear, and undoubtedly, she is as stuck up as he." Another lady hurried over, dressed all in black with her dark hair wrapped over her head in a braid. "Six roses if you please, I need them for a performance." Veronique carefully put a bunch together, and took the lady's money. "Merci, and have a Merry Christmas." Veronique called after her "You as well!"
"Ooo, it's getting colder, mama. Can't we go inside like those nice people?" Her daughter pointed to a side door of the Opera House where the actors were going in. "Dear, we do not belong there. We cannot go in without permission." Darkness slowly started to settle, and the lamplighters came out to employ their trade. Some of the sellers in the square packed up and left, but some remained, having nowhere else to go. "Is it Christmas Eve, mama?" Tears began to form in her mother's eyes as she thought of all those fine people out there who had a Christmas. How very lucky they were, without even knowing it. "Yes dear, it is."
"Mama? May I decorate that little tree over there with my ribbon?" Veronique pointed to a scraggly little pine tree growing in a patch of dirt near the gate. It was only a foot and a half high, and it was horribly lopsided. Her mother, trying so hard not to cry, nodded and pulled out some roses that had fallen from their stems. "Yes, make us a little tree." Her daughter took the contributions and laid them inside the branches, then pulled off her ribbon and tied it in a bow in place of a star.
The roses glistened with snow, and the even the limp tree topper seemed to stand a little straighter. Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks as she wrapped her son and daughter in a hug, they did have a present, even if it was themselves. They all sang the last refrain of the song with shining eyes as the watched the tree.
Lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons,
Scarlet ribbons for her hair
If I live to be two-hundred,
I will never know from where,
Came those lovely scarlet ribbons,
Scarlet ribbons for her hair.
A tap on her shoulder made her jolt as she turned around. A tall man stood there, elegantly dressed in a black cloak and wearing a half mask. Something seemed to glisten from his eyes as well, but he was able to say what he wished. "Might I have some roses?" "Of course, sir, here." She pulled out several all with fresh petals and a bright blush at their breasts. The gentleman pulled out several francs and held them out to her.
She shook her head, dark hair flowing over her shoulders. "They are a Christmas gift. All that I can give." His eyes, golden and like two lamps, once again filled with liquid. He took the roses silently, then looked at her closely. "What are your names?" She smiled as she answered. "This is Frans, and Veronique, and my name is . . . Christine." He stared at them all for a few moments before reaching in and pulling out a little bag with a wad of money.
He did offer an explanation as he handed it to her. "I know another Christine, but perhaps I have observed the wrong one. You truly have the heart of Christmas, and you and your children need never worry about anything again." Her brown eyes grew large as she opened the bag. "There's a fortune in here. You can't give this to me." She attempted to give it back, but he pressed it more firmly against her palm. "Please, let me do this one right thing in my life. Now, goodbye . . . and Merry Christmas."
He turned and started to walk toward the opera, his cloak flowing behind him and his mask visible from one side. Veronique peered at the money, then at her mother. "Mommy, was he an angel?" Christine reached into the bag and pulled at another thing, folded in a little paper package in the bottom. Two bright scarlet ribbons fell into her palm and rested there, shining in the darkness. "Maybe, maybe." She carefully threaded them into Veronique's hair and took Frans cold hands in her own. "Now let's go home." They started to walk down the street and all three stopped as a rich voice from above started singing:
Lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons,
Scarlet ribbons for her hair
If I live to be two-hundred,
I will never know from where,
Came those lovely scarlet ribbons,
Scarlet ribbons for her hair.
Christine's Christmas wish was answered that year. She went to the country to live with her mother, and never wanted for anything. Veronique decided when she was old enough to become a nurse, and she wound up marrying a doctor. Frans, however, went on to become a great Opera singer, and was well renown under another name: Buldicelli Angelis. Christine died at the age of ninety-four, having never married again. And at her funeral, as instructed, Veronique placed one of those scarlet ribbons in her mother's white hair. The other she kept, and it passed down from one generation to the other, and the tale became a favorite in her family. They never forgot that strange angel, nor his kindness on that cold December night. And they never will.
Fini