Author's Notes: Hota- Umm... We suck at life: D Sorry for the centuries between the updates, but yeah. Have fun reading, and if you guys can guess what the original idea for this chapter was, I love you. If you review, I love you. A big thanks to loupe-de-sang of PPN and POL for drawing us a leetle drawble, and to Polly, the Saintly beta/midwife. : D
Sporky- Nope. I don't have an excuse. Thanks to Polly for betaing. Oh, if y'all are interested, we made a LJ where you can check up on us in future absences: http / Spota . livejournal .com . Minus the spaces, of course. Enjoy the chapter.
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Simon Stryde was a respectable sort of fellow. His family came from England, and they were well connected in France. Several months ago, he had been sent to France by his to keep these connections happy and pleased with their family.
It was also in France that he met the woman he wished to marry. Christine was the most beautiful creature he had seen, and he's seen a fair few beautiful women. There was something about her that was different than all the other painted peacocks of her country. She had no rouge on her lips, nor any kohl lining her eyes. She was, quite simply, an angel to him.
He was walking to her guardian's house on this brisk autumn morning. True, for the past five days he had come and inquired after her, only to be told that she was very busy at the Palais Garnier. His sweet little songbird now sung to all of the Parisian upper-crust, and she illuminated their façades with her pure innocence of the most delightful kind.
"Oh, my sweet Christine, some day we will be married, and I shall show you off to all of the chaps in England! They will love you, I know it!" he hummed softly to himself.
To be completely honest, Simon Stryde was never overly fond of music or passionate about any of the arts. The only reason he saw for an opera company to exist was so that the aristocrats could go to their performances to see and be seen. To him, the arts were created for social conquest.
Simon jaunted up the steps of Madame Valérius' home and pressed on the buzzer. A meek young woman answered the door. She had a few bright red curls escaping from her cap, and there was a smell of household cleaners wafting from inside the door.
"Oui, monsieur?" she said tonelessly.
"Ah, mademoiselle, I would like to call upon Mlle. Daaé," he replied jovially.
The maid controlled the urge to roll her eyes at the overly-happy man. After all, this was the sixth day in a row that he had come to their doorstep asking after her mistress.
"I'm sorry, monsieur, but she is—"
"Marie-Louise, who is at the door?" a voice called down from the stairs.
"Monsieur Stryde, madame."
"Tell him to come in. I would like to speak to him."
Marie-Louise nodded to Simon and opened the door wider. He stepped into a modest foyer; narrowly avoiding a mop propped up against the wall. The maid led him through a small drawing room and up an old wooden staircase. There were a few closed doors on the landing, but Marie-Louise led the Englishman down a hallway that was parallel to the staircase. She then fully opened a half-open door.
"Come in, M. Stryde," commanded an elderly woman from a chair by the fireplace.
Suddenly, Simon Stryde wasn't feeling quite so happy. Cautiously, he walked over to the old woman.
"Sit."
He sat.
She watched the fire for a little while, ignoring the nervous-looking young man sitting on the floor by her feet. Feeling a little wicked; she waited as long as she could before talking to him, enjoying his squirming and obvious discomfort.
"So, Monsieur Stryde, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"
"Oh! My dear Madame Valérius, I was hoping to see the beautiful Mlle. Daaé today, and speak to her about some private matters that we left unfinished at an earlier date. Perhaps she is not busy today?"
"Well, I shall have to ask. Christine, dear," she called, "Are you busy at the moment?"
Simon's heart stopped beating as he waited for his doll's response. In a terribly cliché way, it grew wings and started flapping around in his chest when he heard her light voice call from across the hall.
"No, I am not, Mama. Do you need another blanket?"
"My child, come in the library for a moment, would you?"
With a light patter of feet, her head popped around the doorway, wreathed in brown curls. Simon found himself being drowned in the depths of her crystal blue eyes, which were framed in an equally lovely face. She was a bit pale, he noted, perhaps she had recently been sick. He chided himself on being so inattentive to her needs. He would atone for that, he thought, putting his hand on box in his pocket and growing a little happier.
Christine blanched at the sight of him in a horrid blue suit, his moustache slicked in an English fashion. As she fought disgust off her face, he stood up hastily to greet his love. "Mlle. Christine!" he swept himself into a deep bow and accidentally graced Mama Valérius with his rear end. She made noises and told him to keep that thing away from her, it would be a scandal should anyone see. He made profuse apologies, and then requested permission to take Christine for a stroll through the park.
"No."
"I'd suppose that we'd be about two hou- what did you say, Madame?"
"Monsieur Stryde, if anyone here has a hearing problem, it is me. You asked for permission to take Christine out, and I said no. Anything you have to say to her may be said here."
Christine leaned up against the wall, brushing a wrinkle out of her dress, grimacing with the memory of their previous encounter.
She had been trying to get into her dressing-room after Hannibal, which was proving to be quite a feat. The crowds were simply enormous, filling the hallway. Everyone was brandishing some sort of weapon, whether it be a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers. As she meekly followed Madame Giry, who was parting the Red Sea with her staff, she was assaulted several times by aforementioned weapons. When she finally had reached her room, Mme. Giry having beaten away most of the crowd, she found one man standing by her door, waiting. Madame backed away politely, allowing one fan to talk to Christine.
"Would you be Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, a goddess of song, a nymph escaped from mythology, a rose in a field of thorns?" he said suavely, flashing overly-white teeth before grabbing her hand and showering it with kisses.
Christine stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. "Well… Monsieur, I certainly am Christine Daaé, but I cannot claim such origins as you give me."
There was an awkward silence, in which Christine eyed her doorway, tantalizingly close, yet so far away. With a sigh, she turned back to the man, who was staring at her, enraptured. "Do you have a name, Monsieur, or shall I be doomed to call you Monsieur for eternity?"
He started, and then sidled closer to her. "My name, dear mademoiselle, is Simon Stryde. I am one of your most devout fans, and your performance tonight was simply astounding."
"Thank you, monsieur," Christine murmured as she took a step backward, wondering how she had such a large fan base after only one performance. Unfortunately she promptly found herself against a wall. "Now if you'll please, I really must return to my dressing room…"
M. Stryde opened his mouth and closed it again. Christine took this as an appropriate dismissal and walked briskly past him, trying her damnedest to avoid running into him.
Coming back to reality, Christine realized that Simon had been talking to her and that she should pay attention.
"…ever since I saw you, I have been enraptured by your heavenly voice, your selfless character, your pure heart, your angelic looks, why, Christine, I would be willing to bet that you hide a pair of splendid wings underneath your beautiful hair!" He laughed too loudly at his joke, and Christine gave him a thin-lipped smile.
"Monsieur Stryde, I have heard that you have been asking after me for the past week. What have you been seeking?"
He shuffled his feet around the floor, and then glanced at a staring Mama Valérius before looking Christine in the eyes. "Christine Daaé, I came here today to ask if you would marry me."
Christine gaped at him for a moment, watching him go down on one knee and pull a ring box out of his pocket. With horror, she realized that he was speaking, yet again. "I know I have not known you long, but ever since I laid eyes upon you, I knew you were the one for me!"
"Er, monsieur, I surely cannot—"
"You are a goddess of song and have the kindness of the Virgin Mary herself! Your beautiful visage is the essence of divinity upon this earth—"
Christine looked helplessly at Mama Valérius. The elderly woman, looking slightly annoyed, rolled her eyes.
"—You pity the small people and I daresay you would never kick a man while he's down! In fact, I doubt you would ever pain your delicate nature (or feet) by kicking anything! Christine, my sweet beauty, I love you with all of my heart!"
M. Stryde looked up from his sleeve (where he had conveniently hidden his speech) at Christine. Indeed, his beloved was acting true to her innocent and demure nature. Her hands covered her face and she was shaking.
She turned to face him with tears in her eyes, her hands still trembling. As she opened her mouth to say that she loved him in return, her face turned as red as a crimson rose and she stifled a sob of happiness as she dashed out of the room.
M. Stryde remained kneeling, smiling happily with his hand on the box that contained his future.
Mama Valérius moved about on her divan. She grasped her walking stick, a nice walnut staff with silver tips. M. Stryde remained delightfully unaware of her presence in the room.
Shmack!
"Get up, you good-for-nothing fop!"
Confused, Simon Stryde stumbled to his feet, rubbing his rear with one hand. He turned to face Mama, looking rightly offended.
"Get out of my house, monsieur; I don't want to hear of you bothering my Christine again. She's had quite enough, you're lucky that I let you in here to see her today, you scum! You had your chance to redeem yourself, and unless you care to tell me why she came to me in shuddering tears yesterday," she pointed a very direct glare at him, "then you'd better leave before my stick finds your rump again!" she commanded, brandishing the weapon. M. Stryde took one look at the staff and decided that it would be best to leave.
Scampering out of the small library, down the stairs, and back into the brisk autumn air of Paris; M. Stryde was not pleased. The gall of that hag! She hit him! Some unknown dying old witch dared to strike the renowned secretary to the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital's Board of Governors? And what's this she said about him driving Christine to tears the day before? Why, he hadn't seen her the whole week! His notes that he had sent with the flowers had been very complimentary and he had done nothing in their first meeting that would have provoked such a reaction!
Finding himself without fault, the only logical reasoning was that either Christine had gone insane, or someone else was causing her pain. Angels were perfect, and certainly not insane, which left only one option. With a solemn vow, Simon Stryde looked to the clear sky and promised to avenge her suffering.
He was a very gallant, very dramatic sort of man.
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Christine shot from the room, flopped down on her bed in a most unladylike fashion and started to laugh hysterically, wiping at the tears streaming down her face. It was too much! First the unexpected arrival of her childhood sweetheart, and then her promotion from a chorus girl in the corps de ballet to the Prima Donna, all of it happened in one day. What's more, her Angel had revealed himself to her! Oh, Glory, how lucky I am! But no, he was not her angel. Her demon, her tormenter, her very own Lucifer. Erik.
For five days she was trapped below the opera house with him. She had stayed, cornered with his cold fury that had lasted until she stumbled through her mirror, stubbornly keeping her chin up until the mirror's click had resounded through the room. Throwing herself down on her chaise, she had fought back memories of tense suppers spent pushing her food around on her plate, feeling the cold silence wrap its fingers around her, choking the life out of her. Memories of quiet nights by the fire curled up with a book, trying to ignore the unrelenting gaze from the mask. Memories of Erik towering over her in the laboratory, memories of waking up at night feeling his eyes on her, memories of a childhood dream cruelly shattered, but most of all, memories of the music room and his burst of rage followed by his angry kiss. Brief as it was, Christine felt as if he had invaded some sanctum of her privacy and stolen something exquisitely hers. It was as if she no longer was alone; some lingering presence followed her, always a step behind.
One week. She had promised him one week of his hell every month in exchange for her freedom for the remaining three.
Shaking her head, Christine wiped her eyes on her quilt. She was being a silly, dramatic little girl. She checked her composure in the mirror, and went out to face Mama and possibly a disappointed M. Stryde.
But even little girls deserve to be silly and dramatic when they've got nowhere else to turn, right?
