Author's Note: I'm really so sorry that it took so long to get this up, I keep getting caught up with college and neglecting this, but I really don't want to be! Thanks for getting me going again ! Please review and let me know what you think, otherwise it might take me a million years to update again. Thanks so much for your patience and persistence!
Chapter 7: Something Called Hope
"Christine? Christine? Are you in there, Christine?"
"Oh- sorry, Meg. I was somewhere else for a minute." Christine turned away from the window and faced her friend.
"That's alright, Christine. Lunch is ready downstairs if you would like to come down and eat with us," Meg told her, looking at Christine intently from her place in the doorway, pleading written on her face.
Christine shook her head and looked at the ground. "Thank you, but I'm not very hungry, I'm afraid," she told Meg, who's face fell slightly, but not without anticipation. Christine had not ventured beyond the Giry's apartment since the day she arrived there nearly four weeks earlier. Remaining in the apartment wasn't as confining and impossible as it would seem, and every day when Meg or Madame Giry would invite her out or even to the dining room for a simple meal, Christine would reply that she wasn't hungry, or felt ill. These things were not fabrications or exaggerations either, since Raoul's death Christine had been pale, listless, and entirely without an appetite, causing the Girys to try even harder to comfort her, though Christine merely chastised herself for burdening them and their kindness even further.
Christine looked up again and saw that Meg was still standing in the doorway, looking at her. "Go on and eat, Meg. Don't you have a lot to do before Francois comes tonight, and I know it will take you all afternoon to get ready for him," she said teasingly, referring to Meg's newest amour.
Meg grinned back at Christine, but there was sadness in her eyes at her friend's strained attempts to make things easier for her. "Feel better, Christine, I'll send something up to you later!" She smiled again and disappeared behind the door, and Christine could hear the sound of her feet as she ran down the hallway in the same way that she had since they were girls, Christine always walking carefully and prudently with Meg, sprinting headlong down corridors, as her foil. Christine smiled again, slightly, thinking of Meg, so vibrant, joyful, and alive. It hurt her again to think of how she was casting a shadow over her best friend's carefree happiness, even if it was the superficial sort. As much as Meg enjoyed herself in her carousing, Christine knew that she was perceptive and took her friend's pain to heart. But there was nothing that Christine could do to stop it.
Moving away from the window, she crossed the room and walked over to her bed. She was tired, though she didn't know from what. All that she had done since she had awoken was bathe herself, read a little, and stare out the window. She climbed back under the covers, allowing the weight of the quilt on her shoulders to comfort her, and buried her face in the downy pillow. As she closed her eyes, she imagined that Raoul was in the washroom, getting ready to come to bed. It was the only way that she could fall asleep anymore.
Christine woke later to the pressure of someone else on the bed beside her. She blinked to clear her vision and then sat up quickly, startled, before recognizing that it was only Madame Giry.
"I'm sorry, Madame, I was a little bit startled," she apologized, meeting Madame Giry's solemn stare.
"Think nothing of it, child. You were not at lunch- why?" she asked, and Christine stared back at her. Didn't she know? After a few moments of silence, Madame Giry asked again, "Why, my dear? Are you not well?"
"I'm not, Madame," Christine replied, half-wondering if it was a lie to proclaim herself to be ill, when her illness was not of the body but an acute cancer of her heart.
"Well then I think it's time we take you to see a doctor, you've been like this for far too long. Get dressed now," she said, with such authority in her voice that Christine actually stood up and moved towards the trunk that held the few items of clothing she had brought from the apartment that still waited for her to return to it.
"Madame," Christine began, realizing that there was nothing any doctor could do to help her, but Madame Giry silenced her.
"No, Christine, you are coming. You need to leave this room, and what better reason than for some much needed attention?" She stared at her, and Christine knew that no amount of arguing could persuade the woman who had known her since she was a girl to do any different. Madame Giry flipped open Christine's trunk and pulled out a long and slender black dress, laying it down on the bed, before reaching to the back of Christine's nightgown and beginning to undo the buttons. Christine closed her eyes, but the gentle touch of the older woman's fingers against her back swiftly and unexpectedly brought back the memory of Madame Giry dressing her before Don Juan Triumphant, and she shuddered, causing Madame to pause her administrations and place a hand on Christine's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Christine whispered. "I've been a terrible burden to you and I can't even bear to let you dress me."
"Nonsense," she replied, and continued to unbutton the nightgown, and then lace up the back of Christine's corset. Christine's hands shook as she slipped her arms into the sleeves of the black dress, and her muscles tightened as Madame Giry finished tying and buttoning the back of the dress. She turned and faced the full-length mirror that hung on the wall, and if she could have felt emotion, it would have been surprise at what she saw. The dress, already an impossibly small size, hung loosely on her body, and she knew why, she had barely been eating! Her skin, which had been a delicate and much-admired ivory, was even paler than it had been, with a sallow tinge to it, contrasting sharply against the dark circles below her eyes. As she stared at herself blankly, Madame Giry took a brush to her curls, pulling them back with a black ribbon.
Christine half-hearted thought to herself that at least Madame Giry understood her need to mourn to some degree, but Christine thought that not even the most empathetic person could realize that she needed more than to simply wear black to convey her sorrow, she needed to cloak herself in darkness to keep out the sunlight of hope that she mustn't allow to enter. Because it wouldn't be real. She would only be deceiving herself, and she could never allow herself to believe that the world was good and beautiful, or that anything would be right in her life again. How could you descend into Hell and pretend to be happy once you had been in Heaven?
Christine did not speak as Madame Giry took her by the wrist and led her through the corridor, down the stairs, and to the carriage. Christine was forced into the carriage just by the gentle pressure of Madame's hand on her back. She took her seat, and began to stare out the window, remembering, against her will, the night that she had traveled to her father's grave through the dark so many years ago. It seemed so long ago, but was it?
The carriage passed quickly through the cobblestone streets of Paris and did not stop when it reached the edge of the city but continued down a small country road. Christine, looking out the window, wondered what doctor could possibly be located so far away from the rest of the population, but she didn't care enough to ask. All of the houses and signs of city life slipped away the further from Paris that they traveled, until all that could be seen was empty fields, trees, and hills. Christine found herself thinking unwillingly about the last time she had been in the country with Raoul before he had gotten sick. They had decided to go on a picnic, and instead of hiring a driver to take them, Raoul decided that it would be much more of an adventure if he drove the carriage himself. And he was right. She remembered laughing so much at his antics, as he pretended to be the driver and kept calling her Madame, despite her protests. He had held his head straight and high and kept a tight-lipped expression, in the perfect imitation of a Parisian carriage driver. She had laughed long and loud, almost falling out of her seat beside him as he played the role perfectly. The contrast between then and now was so acute that she had to put her hand against her chest and breathe in sharply. Madame Giry looked at her but did not speak. When the pain subsided, as it always did, without completely slipping away, she returned to staring vacantly out the window.
A little cottage appeared on the horizon, and as the carriage rolled over the bumpy road, Christine stared at it, transfixed. The cottage was petite and humble, with a thatched roof and a small garden, with an inviting stone path winding out to the road. The carriage pulled up in front of it, and for some reason, Christine wasn't surprised. From the moment she had seen the cottage only minutes before, she knew that it was her destination, as surely as she had ever known anything. She remained unsurprised when the carriage rolled to a halt before the cottage, and Madame Giry murmured a few words to the driver that Christine didn't bother to listen to. The driver opened the door and helped Christine out as she stared absentmindedly at the fence that closed off the cottage but remained inviting still the same. Madame Giry took Christine by the arm, hissing a curt "Allons-y, ma cherie," beckoning her to follow. Christine followed Madame, stumbling once on the stone walkway, but was held up by the older woman who was so used to being strong.
"What sort of doctor is this, Madame?" Christine asked after the woman knocked once on the door.
"One for the heart," Madame Giry whispered, and before Christine could respond the door flew open. As Christine stood dumbstruck, they were greeted by the enthusiastic cry of a woman who immediately kissed Madame Giry on both cheeks.
"Antoinette! Bonjour, bonjour! Ah, I see you've brought your friend! Come in, I've made tea!" Christine was immediately taken aback by an energy and passion that she hadn't encountered since before Raoul's death.
"I used to be like that, in love with life," she thought to herself, with a tinge of regret.
They were ushered into the cottage quickly, and before Christine could think her coat had been removed and she found herself sitting in a comfortable parlor, with a cup of tea in her hands.
"There, is everyone happy for the moment? Good!" the woman asserted with enthusiasm. Christine took that moment to look at her in a way she hadn't been able to in the hurried moments at the door. The woman wasn't what Christine would consider young, she had laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, undoubtedly from the wide smiles Christine could see that she was accustomed to giving. Her brown hair, darker than Christine's own, was piled on top of her head in a loose arrangement, and Christine decided that she was the type of woman who would leave her hair down, but had chosen to attempt to tame it due to the visit of Madame Giry, whose hair was never out of place. Her clothes, though pressed and neat, were in a stark contrast to the Madame's black attire, as they were lightly colored and didn't seem to portray austerity in the same way that Madame Giry's clothing seemed to do. There was something about this woman, from the sparkle in her eyes to the smile on her face that made Christine want to know why she was this way.
She was jolted out of her reverie by the pressure of Madame Giry's hand around her wrist. "Christine, pay attention, si-te-plait, for one moment," she whispered, a tinge of irritation in her voice.
"I'm sorry, Madame," Christine replied softly, turning her eyes away from the woman she had been studying intently to stare at her hands.
"Come, Antoinette, don't be too harsh. We haven't even been introduced yet!" the woman said good-naturedly. She leaned towards Christine and took one of her hands, shaking it gently, "My name is Mathilde D'Arcy, I'm a friend of the Madame's. I used to frequent the Opera House. In fact, I recognize you as one of Madame's ballerinas," she told Christine, smiling.
"I'm very pleased to meet you, Madame D'Arcy," Christine said with a small smile of her own.
"Please, please, just Mathilde," she assured her. Christine nodded in affirmation, and then looked at the woman expectantly, even more confused by her casual disposition. Her apathy had temporarily subsided and was replaced with curiosity at what this woman could possibly offer her, and Madame Giry's purpose at bringing her here.
"If you please, Mathilde, I don't quite understand why Madame has brought me here to you," Christine offered, finally desiring answers to her questioning.
"You were always impatient as a child," Madame Giry muttered.
Mathilde just laughed. "You must have questions, if I were in your position I'm sure I would too. In fact, the reason I believe that you're here is that I was in your position a number of years ago."
"What do you mean?" Christine asked, wondering if she too had been lead throughout France by Madame Giry, or, as Christine suspected was true, if she meant something more personal.
"My dear Christine," Mathilde began, her tone compassionate, "Antoinette has told me of your past, your career at the Opera House, your marriage to the Vicomte de Chagny, and his recent death."
Christine could feel her face pale at the mention of the Opera House, and her eyes instinctively welled with tears at the remembrance of her happiness with Raoul, and the fact that her heart was breaking for the millionth time as she became aware of the constant pain she felt simply because he was gone forever and she missed him in a way that was indescribable and yet still desperately needed to be expressed. "Yes, all of those things are true," she said so softly that her voice was little more than a whisper.
"Well, my dear, you have been through so much for one so young," the woman offered with kindness, and Christine looked down at her hands, knowing so acutely that she had. "Let me tell you a little bit about myself, if I may." Christine nodded, as she was obliged to do, and Mathilde continued. "I was once a dancer in the ballet, a young child when Antoinette was a teenager." She grinned, "I looked up to Antoinette as an idol, as she was the most talented of all the older dancers, and the most beautiful, if my memory serves" Madame Giry grumbled at this, causing Mathilde to laugh almost raucously, and Christine's eyes widened as she watched. "I lived in the dormitories of the Opera House well into my teenage years. I know what it meant to grow up there among so many girls my own age, to train, to dance, and to perform. I adored life at the Opera House, but I knew that there was more. There always is, you know." She paused as if to see if Christine was still listening, so she nodded in agreement with Mathilde's statements.
"There was a young man, there always is one of those too, a banker, who would come to the Opera with his family. He was quite rich, very handsome, and I dare say that I caught his eye." She winked at Christine, who blushed, though she didn't know why. "One day he approached me after a performance and asked my name. His was Francois D'Arcy, and I didn't think much of it, I never did, those rich young men only wanted one thing in those days, in general they weren't quite as romantic as men today seem to be. But this one was different, he was quiet in his boldness, and got to know me so gradually that before I had even realized it we were familiar acquaintances. We began meeting each other at cafes in the city just to talk as friends. I had never known that someone of higher social standing could laugh at the same things that I did, or would be able to humble himself enough to spend time with someone like me without becoming ashamed of himself. He never made me feel lower than him, though I suppose I always had some degree of class, and watching how contained he was in public helped me to do so as well. Before either of us knew what had happened, we had fallen in love." Mathilde smiled and blushed as if this love had occurred yesterday, instead of years ago in her youth.
"I had met Francois when I was sixteen, and by the time I turned nineteen he began talking about marriage. I knew that his family would never approve of their successful and promising son marrying a ballet dancer from the Opera House, and he knew the reputation that dancers bore as well as the next. That didn't stop him from proposing and giving me the most gorgeous ring I had ever seen. It was one of his only expensive gifts to me, and I appreciated that he recognized that love should not be bought with trinkets. He introduced me to his parents and I behaved as graciously as I could. For one moment I thought that they were actually happy for us, but instead they exploded at Francois the moment I had left. He stood by me unwaveringly and we stood up in church together six months after he spoke to his parents. Everything that happened since we met was like a dream, no one understood me like he did and I loved him unconditionally, despite the flaws that he had. I never doubted his love for me either, despite how truly imperfect and unsuitable I was." Mathilde stopped and looked closer at Christine to see if she was paying attention. Instead, she noticed that the girl was crying silently, tears slipping almost imperceptibly down her white cheeks. Mathilde glanced at Antoinette, who shook her head, and so the woman continued.
"We were married for five years, and we fell more in love with each other every day. I knew that what we had wasn't usual; none of my married friends seemed completely infatuated with their spouses in the same way that Francois and I were about each other. Our life together wasn't perfect, we had our disagreements and our hard times. But I knew that in the long run nothing would tear us apart and I fully expected to grow old with him beside me." Christine suddenly let out an audible sob, but she covered her mouth tightly and waved for Mathilde to continue. After looking at Christine with concern, she went on. "I learned, tragically, in our fifth year of marriage that things don't always work out exactly as you plan. One day two solemn officers appeared at my door. They had come to inform me that the bank that Francois owned had been robbed, and he had been killed. The officers told me that the robbers were talking about, to be frank, forcing themselves upon the women that they had taken as hostages, which Francois, ever chivalrous, would not stand for. When he protested, they shot him in the head." Christine stared at Mathilde in horror, partly at the appalling nature of Francois' murder, but also at the calm and matter-of-fact way in which Mathilde relayed the story.
"I know what you must be thinking, my dear Christine, how can I speak about my husband, the love of my life, in such a detached manner? Truth be told, at the time of Francois' death, I was inconsolable in my grief. I felt as if death would be a welcome release from the pain I felt at being without him. Nothing would be right in my world again, nothing had ever been right. I raged at the murderers that killed my brave husband in the prime of his life, depriving us of many more happy years together, the children we had yet to conceive, and the story of our lives that we would be unable to continue writing. I raved at God, who I felt had treated me more cruelly than any person deserved to be treated. I questioned His existence, His sanity, and the right that He had to take away from me the one person who was the most important to me. My immediate family thought me to be insane as they could not speak to me, could not reason with me. Now, I'm almost ashamed of how I conducted myself, but I know that at that time there truly was nothing that I could do to control my passions. I felt utterly and totally lost and alone." Mathilde stopped, and Christine could see the grief that still hid behind her eyes, which she was somehow unafraid to express but able to do so with control all the same.
"What did you do? How did you deal with the pain of such a loss? If death was so welcome to you, why did you not embrace it? Were you ever able to trust in God again?" Christine spoke suddenly, startling Mathilde, whose expression immediately softened as she saw how Christine trembled with emotion as she implored the older woman to impart this knowledge upon her.
"It was simpler than I thought that it would be. And it took time for me to realize what it was that I was meant to do, but once the thought occurred to me I felt foolish for never realizing it before. I simply thought of Francois. During his life he had been happy despite the difficulties he encountered, and he only wanted me to be happy as well. In turn, I decided to live each day for him, living the life that he would never be able to live, and taking care of myself for him, so that he would be proud to have left me behind as his widow. I never forgot him, and there is never a day in which I wake without wishing him to be beside me. I know without a doubt that Francois is with God in Heaven, as your Raoul must be. Where I had once turned away from God in anger, I turned towards Him in my grief. Francois would not be happy to see me barely living, and he deserves so much more than merely a ghost of the woman he loved." Christine shook as she cried, and Mathilde put her hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "Don't you see, Christine? All is not lost. It is alright to grieve; I understand it more than anyone, perhaps. But it is not fair to the ones we love to let ourselves wither away in sadness and despair, as tempting as it may be. He doesn't deserve it, Christine. He deserves to see you happy, healthy, and making something of yourself, for him."
As Mathilde looked at her, waiting for her to speak, Christine looked down, the thoughts that flew through her mind clearly written in the expressions on her face. After a moment, she looked up at Mathilde. "I want to be happy. Really, who wants to live out their days in despair? But he was my happiness. I feel like there was nothing else."
"No one can tell you what your happiness must be now that Raoul is gone. It needs to be something that you do for yourself," Mathilde told her. She paused, then spoke again. "Tell me, are you going to remain at the Opera house or return to the place in which you once lived?"
Christine shook her head. "I can't go back there. There are too many memories that I suppose I can no longer allow myself to dwell on. But the Opera house…."
"There are memories there, too?" Mathilde finished for her.
"Yes. Though I wonder if it has changed as I have."
"You may always remain there, Christine," Madame Giry interjected, speaking for the first time since Mathilde had relayed her story.
"I know Madame, thank you," Christine replied quietly. "But I don't know if I can…"
"If you can what, my dear?" Mathilde asked. "Sing?"
Christine looked up and met the woman's eyes, a little startled. "Yes. Raoul wanted me to. I promised him that I would before he died but it was something that I put out of my head until now. I suppose I was too grief-stricken to do anything but mourn. Even now, I feel as if I have only seen a ray of light as opposed to coming out into the sun." Neither Madame Giry nor Mathilde spoke, choosing to let Christine come to her own conclusion. "I did promise him, and I cannot break my word, especially not as it was his dying wish. I wonder if they would take me back," she wondered aloud.
"Don't even question that, Christine. With a voice like yours," Madame Giry began, and then saw a flash of pain come over Christine's face. "No need to rush though, my child. No one will pressure you. There is a new musical director, new managers."
"You're right, Madame. There's no reason why I cannot audition for the next opera as any singer would. The name of Christine Daae has not been spoken in the Opera House for years, I suppose." Madame Giry almost smirked at Christine's naiveté, her name would always be a legend in the Opera House.
"Are you ready to take on the world now," Mathilde asked. But Christine still looked hollow, broken, and empty. As perhaps she always would a little bit, but. something had changed in her.
"Perhaps not the world. But I think I'm ready to leave my room," Christine replied, and she attempted a half-laugh that was forced, but she knew, somehow, that next time the smiles and laughter would come easier, and be less painful.
"That is all that you need to do right now," Mathilde stated, and rose to her feet. Christine and Madame Giry did the same, and they followed her to the door. Madame Giry and Mathilde embraced, kissing both cheeks. When Mathilde came to Christine and Madame Giry had begun walking towards the carriage, Mathilde looked at the younger woman with tenderness and compassion.
Suddenly, Christine had wrapped Mathilde in a tight hug. "Thank you," she whispered into her ear. Then she pulled away, smiled, a little sadly, and began to walk towards the carriage, a different woman than the girl that had stumbled into the cottage in a daze. Something had changed her; something called hope.