Last updated: August 17, 2006
Chapter 2
Many Meetings
Barely half an hour's ride from the heart of Paris, three-quarters of the boundary of the Fell estate consisted of a curving creek that flowed beyond the meadows and lawns of the estate. The rest of the boundary consisted of a medium-sized forest that pressed against the gardens at the back of the mansion. Dark-leafed ivy grew over the entire front of the house, binding the stone in a lover's embrace. The lawns and gardens were well-kept, but they were not extravagantly manicured: the more colorful flowers were kept out of sight behind the house. The Duke did not like to attract unnecessary attention.
Nor do we need to, his wife thought as she rode towards the estate in a taxi. We're getting enough gossip as it is. You would think that new nobility would no longer be such a surprise to Parisians. Old-style feudalism had long ceased to exist and the current price for a title of nobility was now no more than a decent amount of well-directed cash or the goodwill of a highborn friend. A noble name no longer held much importance in society, not ever since the war.
She supposed that their appearance in Paris had caused so much gossip because of the rumors concerning the mysterious disappearance of the former Duke and Duchess whose house they now owned…
The woman smirked as the jostling taxi drove over the stone bridge crossing the width of the creek. Let the gossips talk. They would discover nothing that the Duke and his Duchess did not wish to reveal. She turned her face to the west just in time to see a flock of pigeons rise from a lawn to fly towards the setting sun. She sank into her taxi seat with a sigh of contentment. She had been uneasy about moving to Europe since the very first time her husband had raised the option. Of course, she had known that it was for the best. It would have been unwise to stay in the States for much longer.
Now she felt as if she belonged nowhere else.
Her heart leapt within her as she spotted the strange carriage parked outside the front gates. They had not had visitors since they had moved in a week ago. The stab of fear faded after she realized that if they were here for her husband, there would be a lot more of them. Curiosity replaced her fear as she stepped from the taxi and paid the driver.
She approached the visitor's carriage as she made her way to the gates and stroked the restless black horses. Their eyes flashed even as they whickered softly and accepted sugar from her palm. These were horses of a young nobleman: proud and full of spirit. Even more intrigued, the woman pushed open the wrought-iron gates in front of the stone mansion and walked up the front steps.
Mariana, the Spanish maid, came forward immediately to take her shawl and parasol and said, "Your husband is currently seeing a guest in the study. They have been there for about fifteen minutes now."
The Duchess nodded in acknowledgment as she crossed the hall and pushed open the door of the study, announcing her arrival with a soft knock.
The two men turned to look at her as she entered. One of them, a dignified older gentleman dressed in full eveningwear, came out from behind his desk and extended his hand towards her. He did not look at all annoyed that she had interrupted their session. In fact, his maroon eyes positively danced with devilish amusement as he bent to kiss her left cheek, right above the black smudge that was not dust. "Welcome home, my dear. You're early."
She smiled at him, her eyes telling him that she would tell him of her day later, and he nodded in return, satisfied. He then turned towards the other man in the room, who had stood when she had entered and was now shifting uncomfortably on his feet, not sure how to react to this strangely intimate scene. The man was perhaps a decade younger than the Duchess, with bright blue eyes and a boyish face that lacked the hard lines that graced so much of the aristocracy.
The Duke indicated the young man with his right hand. "Cassandra, I'd like you to meet Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, a fellow patron of the Opera."
Raoul's lips touched the back of the Duchess' proffered hand. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madame Fell."
She smiled. "Cassandra, please. You are a friend of my husband's and therefore, I think we can dispense with formalities."
"Cassandra then," Raoul laughed as he turned to face the Duke once again. "You made no mistake, monsieur. She is a worthy lady indeed."
She raised her eyebrows at her husband who did nothing but fix a blank and utterly unreadable expression on his face in return. She shook her head in amusement. Typical of him, really, walking circles around strangers, implanting flawless first impressions in their unsuspecting minds. Might as well play the role. The Duchess smiled and said with bright domesticity, "Perhaps some drinks, gentlemen?"
Her husband took a glass of water from his desk and lifted it towards her. "We're quite well, but you look as if you could use some refreshment."
She accepted the drink wordlessly and settled herself into a comfortable armchair. Raoul had also reclaimed his chair and sat calmly, his posture straight and respectful, waiting for the conversation to resume. The Duke remained standing, peering out the study window at the blood-red sunset on the horizon.
"How did you first become interested in opera, Monsieur le Vicomte?" he asked unexpectedly. Apparently the two men had not yet dispensed of formalities between themselves.
"To tell the truth, my choice of patronage has not been primarily motivated by any cultural interests. I fear you would laugh if I told the truth."
"Try me."
"My childhood friend and I…we used to listen to the stories that her father told about the Angel of Music. Since then, she wanted to do nothing more with her life than to sing. She could have done so quite easily; she had the voice of an angel." Raoul's eyes grew distant before rapidly refocusing and, realizing what he was confessing and to whom, blushed slightly before he continued. "I haven't seen her since her father died. I support the Paris Opera now because I believe that is what she would have wanted."
"What was her name?" asked the Duchess, knowing the answer before Raoul spoke.
"Christine Daaé."
"Interesting surname," said the Duke, "Not French, I presume?"
"Swedish. Her father was a violinist; he was employed for a few years at the Opera Populaire."
"I see. Well, monsieur, I must confess that my own motivations for dispensing my resources into opera stem from nothing more than my individual pleasure. Would that I had a more noble reason as would befit people's expectations."
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, monsieur. You have already established a rather formidable reputation amongst the gentry and nobles."
"And what do they say about me?" The cold gleam that appeared suddenly in his eyes was imperceptible to all except the Duchess.
Raoul continued speaking, innocently unaware. "They say you are rich. More so even than the kings of old. They also say that you are brilliant in your profession and that you moved to France after becoming disgusted with American culture. If I may ask, monsieur, what exactly is your profession?"
"I am a doctor, monsieur, specializing in both physical and mental maladies. And the gossip mill is surprisingly accurate about why we left America. Have you heard of a man named Andrew Carnegie?"
Raoul looked surprised. "Who hasn't?"
"My wife and I were guests at his mansion for one of his many parties. I had helped his fiancée Louise through a particularly nasty bout of pneumonia the year before. Do you know what the main entertainment was? My wife and I were each given a small pail and shovel, much like the ones a child would use to build a castle on the beach. We were invited along with all the other guests to go treasure-hunting in a massive sand pit Carnegie had constructed in an old rose bed. The 'treasures' consisted of precious stones and gems; any one of which could have paid a lifetime's wages for one of his workers. We were instructed to keep what we found. My wife and I decided to move to Europe within the same month."
"But monsieur, surely you did not think that the nobles of Paris would be any less extravagant."
The Duke smiled. "Of course not. But at least they produce more with their extravagance than the steel, oil, and barren wastelands of America."
Raoul nodded, slightly mystified by this proper man's forthright manner. Changing the subject, he asked, "Have you had a chance to meet the Opera's new managers? I'm sure they would be most eager to acquaint themselves with their newest patron."
"Not yet. In fact, Cassandra might be more familiar with them than me. She has just returned from visiting the Populaire. I know of only their names. Darling, what was your first impression of Messieurs André and Firmin?"
The Duchess drained the last drops of water from her glass and cleared her throat. "Efficient, reasonable and utterly boring men. They will serve their positions well. As for what I truly think of them, I hardly think what I have to say would be appropriate for the ears of its two finest patrons."
"Now now, my dear," said her husband, his eyes glittering with mirth. "First impressions can be deceiving."
She caught the teasing look in his eyes and chose not to react. "Perhaps."
"I would be happy to arrange a meeting if you wish," said Raoul, still completely oblivious to the wordless exchange between the couple.
"By all means," replied the Duke, returning to his desk to consult his ledger.
"I believe I will leave you gentlemen to your plans," said the Duchess, rising from her chair and hastily making her exit. She had learned enough during her week in Paris to know that the next few minutes would be a tedious flurry of formalities, headache, and paperwork. Instead, the Duchess ascended the main staircase and entered the bedroom where she proceeded to strip off her dress hurriedly before reaching behind her to unfasten the hooks of her corset. She put the dress back on after removing the restrictive object, and, for the next minute, she did nothing but savor the uninhibited flow of air through her lungs.
Downstairs, she heard men's laughter and the sound of the front door opening. She crossed to the window and peered through the drapes at Raoul's carriage departing through the front gates, his horses dancing a bit more heartily than was necessary.
She turned at the noise in time to see her husband closing the bedroom door softly behind him. He smiled at his wife's relieved expression and leaned casually against the doorjamb. He had removed his suit jacket and undone the cravat. Moreover, the stiff formality and austerity from his eyes were gone as if they had never been. "Tiring day, my dear?"
"You might say that. It's a new experience as Madame Fell. I keep thinking that my introduction needs a scythe and a skull to be complete…you don't think anyone suspects?"
Her husband scoffed. "Of course not. New nobles are made every day in France, and you should hear some of the outrageous titles that they create for themselves. No, everything is quite well, Cassandra, except, I believe, you."
She rolled her eyes. "You can stop with that as well. I would like to be linked as little as possible to that suffering prophetess."
Her husband's expression grew serious. "Of course, Clarice, I realize that today must have been…interesting."
"Indeed. Whoever came up with this invention deserves to meet a long, suffering death." Clarice gingerly held up her whalebone corset in her hand, as if it were a particularly rotten, dead thing.
He took the repulsive object away from her, his lips twitching in amusement. She truly was irresistible when she was irritated. "I am sorry. I suppose I should have had you practice walking around in it for a few days before letting you go."
"No, thank you. Honestly…" she sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, shooting her husband a look out of the corner of her right eye. "I know, I know I shouldn't expect any of this to be easy but…" Her mood changed completely and she flopped down on her back. "I had the most wonderful day, Hannibal."
He crossed the room to sit beside her on the mattress. "I trust the Opera House was to your liking then?"
"I didn't believe you at first, Hannibal. You talked about it for days, describing it in such detail that made me think of it as a playroom for the rich and snobbish. Yet, you spoke of it with so much love." She sat up. "Nothing prepared me for it. If you had told me seven years ago that I would experience a moment of eternity by walking into an opera house, I would have laughed at you."
Hannibal smiled. "In that hideous accent too, I imagine."
"I have no doubt of it." Her eyes grew more somber. "However, there are certain things that need to be changed."
His smile grew wider. "And am I do conclude we are to schedule a night at the Opera as a result?"
"I migh—." The words froze in her throat as Hannibal leaned forward and unzipped the back of her dress.
When he spoke again his voice had changed completely. Its smooth, hypnotic quality had been replaced by a rasping, metallic harshness. "I have come to believe that the French made women's clothes so uncomfortable so they would be all the more eager to be rid of them." He bent to kiss the nape of her neck and Clarice drew a very short breath. "Wouldn't you agree?" He gripped the back of her head and looked into her fiery blue eyes. She felt herself drowning in his gaze before he pulled her close for a brutal kiss.
A long time later, Hannibal lay with his head pillowed on Clarice's shoulder and listened to her ragged breathing slowly quieting. "Have you ever seen the Opera, Clarice? Really seen it?" His finger trailed over the pulsing artery in her neck. "I believe it is time that you did. Only this time, I insist on accompanying you. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Raoul had scheduled Hannibal's meeting with the new managers to take place in four days time. In that time, Hannibal drove her in their carriage all over Paris, covering both Banks, taking care to make a special stop at the U.S. Embassy. She emerged from the building with a list of account numbers and aliases that her husband instructed her to memorize.
When they entered the Opera House arm-in-arm on the appointed date and time, Clarice glanced over at her husband and was pleased to see that he could not completely hide his delight. "How long has it been since you've been here, Hannibal?"
His eyes lingered over the intricate designs of the Grand Staircase and she could almost see the structure of his memory palace shifting as he added yet another beautiful room within its hallways. He blinked, satisfied, and looked back towards her. "Sixteen years." Then he took her hand and led her through a side passage into the managers' office.
Clarice raised an eyebrow at the disarray. The room was elegant enough, with thick plush carpet and two dark wooden desks. Yet, the place was obviously occupied by people familiar and desensitized to luxurious surroundings and therefore treated it like any other office. She could see stacks of papers weighing down the cushions of elegant armchairs and sofas roughly shoved against walls to make more floor space. Hannibal sighed in exasperation when he saw the overflowing cup of coffee set directly atop an unprotected table, and, seeing as neither of the errant occupants were present, folded a makeshift coaster from a piece of paper.
After a minute of waiting, Hannibal turned his attentions away from the coffee cup and, with a secretive smile directed at his wife, began tapping on the walls of the room.
"What are you doing?"
"Surely you have heard of the famed Phantom of the Opera?"
"It seems as if I'm the only one who hasn't."
"Well. You need to know that he exists then. After all, every good Opera House must have a Ghost. And this is the finest one in Europe."
Clarice came up alongside him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who is the Phantom?"
His hands continued to move over the walls. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," he said simply.
"Oh yes you do. You don't believe in things you haven't seen with your own eyes, as a rule."
"No, I don't."
Her hopes for an explanation of his plain but ominous statement were put on hold when Hannibal rapped a certain place on the wall and was rewarded by an answering echo. "Hollow," he said with a smirk, running his hands over the deceptively solid wood. "The managers would do well never to speak too freely in this office."
Clarice's eyes were wide with wonder. "What do you know of the Phantom, Hannibal?"
"Did I say that it had been sixteen years since I've seen this place? Well, that is mostly the truth. I was here, but it was still being built. I was enjoying a summer vacation in Paris at the time—"
"Ah! The Duke and Duchess. Please excuse my tardiness."
Both turned to regard the tall, goateed man who had just crossed the threshold into the room. He was dressed in elegant clothes that fit his bearing well enough, were it not for his slightly stooped shoulders. He walked behind one of the desks and began to shuffle papers around somewhat randomly. "I am Monsieur André. I apologize that my partner cannot be here at the moment. He told me that something of the most pressing importance required his attention and would not say anything more. Please, have a seat."
They walked out from the office barely half an hour later, Hannibal noticeably irritated. "This André seems capable enough of running the place but Monsieur Firmin…well," and here he grinned at his wife, "I will reserve final judgment until I meet the man, but I am beginning to trust more and more in your assessment."
"They could care less for the opera," Clarice said with a huff.
"Oh they care very much about it. It is, after all, their livelihood. And they care enough about that so that the art of this place will not suffer too much. Not all of Paris is blind to talent, fortunately. This building is evidence enough to the fact."
"Speaking of which, what were you going to say about your experience during the building's construction?"
A smirk. "Another time, my dear." Catching the familiar stubborn, skeptical look in Clarice's eyes, he continued, "Some things are better if you discover them for yourself. Surely, you know that by now."
"You do know him then. Very well, very well, I will subject myself to this inexplicable mystery and suffer from torturous curiosity. Has anyone ever told you that you are the most exasperating man in existence?"
"Most definitely. And many times not in such nice terms. Will you take the carriage home with me then?"
"Not yet. I think I want to stay here a little longer. There is someone I wish to find."
"D'accord. The gate shall be left open until you return." And with that he was gone, humming the overture from Carmen as he walked through the swinging front door without a backward glance.
It was a simple gesture of complete trust; so commonplace now, that Clarice did not ponder further upon its significance. Although she could have probably counted on one hand the number of husbands in Paris who would so casually leave their wives to their own devices, she had accepted by now that nothing in her relationship with Hannibal would ever be considered normal. And this made her happier than she had ever been during her life. She hoped that one day someone else would be able to share this same feeling of glorious freedom. This feeling of wholeness.
Christine sat in her dressing room taking down her hair after a particularly grueling rehearsal. However, as bone-weary as she was, she could not remember looking more forward to her private lessons with her Angel. I've done it, she thought, I finally have the chance to make him and my Papa proud. Carlotta had not shown up at all since the incident with the falling backdrop. Rumor said that she was taking a brief vacation in her home country of Spain before she chose to grace the Opera House with her presence once again. For once, Christine breathed eternal gratitude towards the diva's insufferable arrogance.
Whether or not the mysterious Phantom of the Opera had anything to do with Carlotta's departure was of no concern to Christine. Since the incident, there had been no more accidents, although Joseph Buquet had not tired of spreading his tales and gossip whenever he could. The backdrop incident still humored him greatly, and even now, he would tell the ballet girls of how upon inspection, the rope that had held the backdrop had never been untied nor had the hook moved from its place in the wall. How then? The girls had asked, their eyes wide with wonder. Magic, Buquet had replied…the same magic that allowed the Ghost to move around the Opera House unseen.
However, Buquet had admitted with great disappointment when Christine had inquired, he could not tell her anything about his companion that day that Christine didn't already know. The wife of our newest patron, she is. Wouldn't say anything else about herself though.
Mysterious. And elegant. And alone. Christine realized now the reason why the sight of that woman had struck her so at first. She was alone, and perfectly comfortable and poised in her independence. But a woman of that social class had to be married; she was too young yet to be a widow.
Christine finished undoing her hair and let the light blonde curls cascade around her shoulders, where they immediately lent a healthy glow to her drawn face. She turned upon hearing the knock on her door. There was only one person that could be.
"Come in, Meg."
The door opened all the way. "I apologize, Mademoiselle. I am not Meg, but may I have a word with you?"
Christine nodded, dumbstruck with wonder. "Come in, Madame…?"
"Cassandra Fell. The new Duchess, if you want to know. I believe we have met already, Christine Daaé, although you may not remember me." Clarice smiled as she entered and sat upon a chair by the door to the dressing room.
This conversation should prove interesting.
Cassandra: a prophetess in Greek mythology gifted with extraordinary powers of foresight but no powers of persuasion. Therefore no one ever believed her. Foreshadowing? Maybe, maybe not…;)