Music is Love in search of a word...

Sidney Lanier

Chapter Four

The Vicomtesse De Chagny held her breath as the Hansom carriage slowly meandered down the winding road which led to the De Chagny estate. Her body was tossed about like a rag-doll as the spoked-wheels negotiated numerous indentations in the road, and she clutched Raoul's hand to steady herself.

As much as she loathed to admit it, Christine found herself dreading the solemn affair dinner was bound to be. Raoul's aristocratic parents were far from thrilled with his choice of bride – a lowly chorus girl. After all, his chosen companion would be destined to continue the lineage of a respected Parisian family; now their blue blood would forever be tainted with that of a commoner.

Christine thought back to the conversation she had inadvertently overheard in the parlour. The Comte was furious, and it had taken all of Raoul's persuasive efforts to prevent his name being disinherited.

'I will not have some painted whore bearing you an heir! You know as well as I that the De Chagny's are nothing but respectable in every sense of the word! Marry this wench and you will be a smear on this family's good name!'

The force of Laurent De Changy's words could be felt in full by Christine, who stood, mortified, behind the door. Unable to tear herself away, she was forced to listen to the argument being played out in front of her as though by cariacatured puppets. Unfortunately, there was no higher force manipulating the Comte De Chagny's words. His sentiments were entirely his own.

With a heart full of guilt, she was struck with the realisation that a marriage between her and Raoul would cause a permanent rift between he and his family.

'Father, I love Christine!' Raoul's normally controlled voice was steadily rising. 'I will not have you disparaging the woman I plan on spending the rest of my life with! Christine is nothing but an angel…she is gentle, kind, loyal…for God's sake father, were she an aristocrat she would be the toast of Parisian society!' Raoul's heated words caused a stir of pride in Christine's heart. 'I don't care if you think her an unworthy match – if marriage is not based on love then it cannot be called a marriage at all. I would rather spend a lifetime as a bachelor than marry a woman simply because my social obligations required my doing so!

'Now, disinherit me if you must, but I will be damned if you forbid this marriage from going through!'

A tense moment of silence lingered in the air between the two, before the Comte gave a begrudging sigh.

'If you wish to make a fool of yourself, then by all means, you have my permission.'

Christine could almost hear the smile erupting on Raoul's face.

'But hear me now – the days when you are welcome in my house will be few and far between…'

The irony of these words had not been lost on Christine, in whose memory they had been etched with an iron pen. She and Raoul had not been married three months, and already his mother had invited them to tea.

Not that she really wanted to, Christine supposed. But motherly obligation and a sense of moral responsibility had obviously become overwhelming in their weight, and an invitation to dinner was the only way to quell the raging waters of maternal guilt.

Up ahead, the vast iron gates of the De Chagny estate loomed in stately foreboding. Involuntarily, Christine drew a sharp breath, and Raoul glanced at her understandingly.

'Don't worry, Little Lotte. I'm sure they will adore you, once they see just what a treasure you really are!'

Do you really think so Raoul? Christine silently screamed. How could he be so ignorant? How could he not know that coming here was a mistake…that the evening was destined only to be disaster?

But just how much so, neither had any idea.

Christine'smind wandered. Since returning from their honeymoon, life between her and Raoul had been relatively peaceful. They lived in a large townhouse on the fashionable side of Paris, and relied upon a whole host of servants and maids to keep their life running as smooth as clockwork. Christine never had to lift a finger – meals were cooked, clothes pressed, hair styled, house cleaned…compared to life at the Opera Populaire, she now found herself settled quite comfortably in the lap of luxury.

Of course, it was not all ease and perfection. Nearly every weekend there was another gala to attend; another party to frequent; another ball to go to. These affairs were surprisingly draining…women were expected to preen like affected peacocks and tell witty stories to their stoic male counterparts at the dining table. It was a world that Christine knew she would never belong to, but for Raoul's sake, she made the effort to fit in.

After dinner, the guests would be graced with an extraordinary display of musical talent by the young ladies upon the pianoforte. From these proceedings, Christine would always excuse herself. It was one thing to play the violin alone, within the confines of her own music room. But to perform in public simply for entertainment value – like some trained animal – was inconcievable. Never again would her voice grace social gatherings…to open her mouth and let music pour forth was a luxury she could never again enjoy, at the risk losing herself to the darkness of her dreams.

If only for Raoul's sake, she would never sing again.

'But Christine, darling,' the women would fuss in a cloying, saccharine manner. 'You simply must give us a display of your musical talents! Surely no girl so pretty as you can be without aptitude in the department! Indeed, you are bound to be superbly confident in all things musical…it is quite the fashion, nowadays!'

But Christine would politely excuse herself from their painfully artificial patronage, and take her place beside Raoul.

'I'm so sorry Raoul,' she would whisper. 'Perhaps one day I will become the wife you deserve.'

'Nonsense,' he would reply softly, squeezing her arm. 'You already are.'

Raoul and Christine were ushered by an grave, elderly looking butler into the vestibule of the De Chagny manor. The hall was cold and white, lined with the severe portraits of Raoul's anscestors. Christine could feel their condescending eyes boring down upon her; she could hear the souls of the deceased whispering in scandalized tones as this woman of the streets invaded their noble dwelling.

Relievingly, the silence was broken by frantic whispers as the Comte and Comtesse De Chagny made their way from the parlour and into the atrium to greet their son and his wife.

Christine's ears caught the deep, male voice of Laurent.

'A chorus girl? What on earth was he thinking…a chorus – ' the doors of the parlour swung wide, and Laurent De Chagny jumped, plainly taken aback at the sight of his son and daughter-in-law.

'Christine Daae!' he cried in a disconcerted manner, thrusting his cane into the hands of one of the servants, his smile too broad to be sincere. 'I cannot tell you how utterly delighted Louisa and I were when we heard you and Raoul were to be married! I couldn't have made a better choice of wife myself!' (This earned a stern glance from the Comte's wife) 'And what a marvellous event the wedding was – a real treat!'

Christine nodded gratefully. Although it was clear that the Comte's words were empty and meaningless, she was glad that he had at least made an attempt to be civil.

Raoul was greeted with a kiss on each cheek from his delicate mother. The Comtesse was a refined, elegant woman – the product of many generations of fine breeding. Everything about her bespoke wealth, from the poised stance her frame held, to the etheral quality of her finely wrinkled skin.

She was an intimidating sight to behold, Christine decided, and everything had to be done to ensure that no offense was made to the Comtesse. Christine made up her mind to ensure dinner was a flawless event.

The dining table was long and large. It seemed endless in its expanse and was covered by an exquisite display of gastronomic splendour. Crystal goblets were filled to the brim with blood red port; a vast assortment of meats were arranged on silver platters; the smell of exotic, steaming vegetables sprinkled with spices intermingled with the sweet, sugary scent of foreign desserts. Christine found herself with her eyes closed, simply inhaling the glorious scent. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced before.

For the most part, the elder De Chagny's were silent throughout the dinner. Every so often, one would glance at the other, with a gaze that held nothing but embarrassment. Imagine! They had actually invited their son and his scarlet woman to dinner. A lowly, peasant-bred opera singer was seated at their table, dining on their food…basking in their presence.

It was nearly unfathomable!

Raoul was the first to break the heavy silence. He had tried in vain to endure the quiet, but his embarrassment for Christine soon became unbearable.

'Mother,' he said, wiping his mouth on his napkin, 'are you planning on attening the gala performance of Il Trovatore? I hear the composition is marvellous! The Opera Comique is apprently very excited about the opening night performance.'

Christine's head snapped upwards at the mention of the word 'opera'. Didn't Raoul realise what dangerous territory he tread?

The Comtesse smoothly took a sip from her wine glass.

'Ah yes, Il Trovatore…' her voice trailed off vaguely. 'Darling, you never did tell us exactly what happened to the Opera Populaire. All this talk of opera suddenly sparked the thought into my head!' She gave a mirthless laugh. 'Now, I know there was a fire, but…how did it occur?'

Christine stiffened.

'And there were rumours of an infamous Phantom, no? Where exactly does he fit into all of this?'

Christine's hands began to tremble.

'Do tell, my son,' the Comte joined in, placing his goblet on the table cloth. 'How was he involved?'

Christine's face turned ashen.

'I heard he was driven to insanity by love…' the Comtesse sneered. 'For a chorus girl, nonetheless! Infatuation is a strange thing…'

Christine fainted.

Raoul watched over Christine all night, as she fluttered in an out of dreams. Her dark curls were spread wildly across her pillow, and her breathing was slow and soft. He traced a finger across the supple swell of her breasts, and placed a light kiss upon her lips, begging her to regain consciousness.

'I love you Christine…so, so much. Please, don't ever doubt that.' He studied her face for a moment, and watched in astonished delight as her eyes flickered and slowly widened, and she returned to awareness.

'Christine!' Raoul let out a cry of relief as he swept her into his embrace. 'Oh Christine, I was so worri – '

'I love music,' she breathed with a contented smile, the drooping of her eyelids suggesting that she was not fully conscious.

'Christine?'

'Oh! How I love music…'

She returned to her dreams then. For a moment, Raoul sat in silence, pondering her sudden declaration. It had been sudden and unprecedented. What had inspired her to make such a statement? Perhaps delirium from her ordeal had set in...perhaps she was unconsciously uttering her thought...perhaps...

His eyes widened in horror as he realised that her words had an entirely hidden meaning...

A/N: And I'm sure you're clever enough to figure out what it is... ;)