Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. Well, in this chapter, I suppose I own all of the characters, save for Christine and Erik. And Raoul. And his family. I guess I own about half, then.
Side Notes:
Readers and reviewers –I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please do not give any secrets away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers! You all have been so wonderful, thus far :)
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions and wonderful eye for catching mistakes – you are the best:)
White KnightPapi stared with incredulity at her mistress seated across the table, her mind struggling to comprehend everything that the Comtesse had imparted. She could only shake her head, her mouth gaping in mute amazement at the inconceivable story that had just been told to her. She glanced over at her father, Norry, and saw that he too had been rendered to a speechless stupor.
The Comtesse's face flushed under their dubious stares, her fingers toying nervously with a bit of trim at her sleeve. She grabbed up another crumpet to keep her hands busy, and nibbled on the corner. Setting it back on her plate, she lifted her teacup with a trembling hand and tried to bring it to her lips, but set it down again after sloshing lukewarm tea onto the tablecloth.
"The whole affair is not so unusual, really, when you think about the rather unconventional life one leads when part of an opera house…" The woman glanced about nervously, not daring to look at the doubtful faces of the old caretaker and his daughter.
"But Madame," whispered Papi hoarsely, at last finding her voice. "To pretend that one is a ghost?…"
"An' live under an opera house," Norry added gruffly, his hackles rising at the thought of putting those dearest to him into the protection of some madman. "If this group—the Nardyin—I can't even pronounce it—if they are as dangerous as you say, are you sure he can look out for you?" The old caretaker grabbed up a bit of cheese and popped it into his mouth, as if to emphasize his question.
Christine put her head in her hands, frustrated that her explanations had not been received as she had wished. Of course they are skeptical, she thought wryly. Who would not be after hearing such a tale?
"Yes," she replied, pleading for understanding. "I know that it sounds bizarre, and…well…insane. I promise you, though, that he is a genius, and an extremely cautious one. And though I don't know the particulars, he has a bit of experience in…this type of thing," she finished lamely, not knowing exactly how one referred to the art of revenge and murder.
The Comtesse glanced to each of their faces, and saw that her latest revelation had not, in fact, helped her cause. She sighed, dejection and despair written throughout her countenance. Tapping her nails nervously against the tabletop, she reached for her crumpet again; this time, she did not even put it to her lips. She instead stared at it nauseously, her fingers playing with the flaky crumbs, as food was now the last thought from her mind.
Papi's soft brown eyes studied the woman intently, and recognized the weary look about her. The way her shoulders slumped in resignation and the dark circles under her eyes betrayed that she had had a long, sleepless night, in spite of the reassurances this strange masked man had apparently given to her.
She really is trying to be strong, the maid considered, and taking pity on the poor woman, reached across the table to pat her hand comfortingly.
Christine gave the woman a weak smile, exhaling heavily. "I don't know what else to do…" she whispered with gravity. "If the two of you wish to return to the estate in Paris, I shall not argue – that is your prerogative. Jean-Paul and I, however, shall remain here in London. And from here…I don't know where we shall go. But I do not imagine that we can remain hidden forever."
The caretaker grunted at her words, shaking his grizzled head. "My lady, you don't think that we would up an' leave you an' the little tyke here, all alone? Now I won't pretend that I'm in high spirits about the idea of living with this odd fellow, when we don't know anything about him— yes, even you, Madame, if you beg my pardon," the old man interjected as Christine opened her mouth in protest. "Other than the few things you told us, you don't know much, either. An' what you do know is not very pleasant. If you ask me—"
"Enough, Papa," the little maid said gently, sensing the indignation that was rising in her mistress. She squeezed the woman's hand and looked directly into her eyes.
"Madame de Chagny, can you swear to me that this Erik will help us find the men that killed my little Perri?" Her eyes were as hard and cold as stone now, and glittered brightly at the thought of revenge.
Christine met her gaze, the anger and desire for justice reflecting that of her friend's. "Je vous promets, Papi. I swear to you, we will do whatever is necessary."
Papi nodded in acceptance of her words. "Very well, Madame. Then I shall accompany you wherever you decide to go, until we can make those monsters pay," she uttered resolutely, and rose from the table to begin the preparations to once again flee their home.
Papillon Nitot had lived and served the Chagny family all of her life, like those of her family that had come before. For more than a century, the Nitots had been loyal employees of the proud Chagny lineage, and had followed them throughout dark and volatile times: the French Revolution, the Napoleonic era, the Franco-Prussian war, and several Paris uprisings—the latest being the Commune but ten years ago. And amazingly, through each of these treacherous conflicts, every Comte de Chagny had weathered the storm like a massive, immoveable rock; the waves of chaos crashed upon him, and still he immerged from the sea unscathed.
Papi had been raised on the old tales of the near-legendary figure, Georges Léon de Chagny, who, in his foresight, was able to preserve his family and all those that served him during the French Revolution. He played a perilous game of roulette, but managed to ride the political waves and maintain the position of "silent observer." While giving lip service to the ill-fated King Louis XVI and his royalists, the Comte secretly used his brilliant tactical mind to quietly influence the National party and their rising celebrities, such as Lameth and Duport. By doing so, he was able to steer his family out of the bloody undercurrents of Robespierre's Reign of Terror and away from the guillotine, unlike so many less-fortunate aristocrats who lost their heads.
And more recently, there had been the Paris Commune of 1871. Papi had been a girl of fourteen at the time, and she still vividly remembered the Comte Philippe de Chagny relocating his entire household in a far-away corner of Brittany, to an estate neighboring that of his aunt's. The Comte then bravely returned to Paris to protect his holdings from the mob rule that threatened the government and its wealthy upper-class. During those two dark months of spring, he defied the Communards by living and working in the city that ran red with the blood of aristocrats and peasants alike. Yet the good fortune of the Chagny line once again prevailed, for Philippe miraculously managed to retain his life, as well as almost every franc of his wealth.
It was during this time that the young Raoul de Chagny and his governess were sent to live with the rest of the household at Lannion through the summer, his aunt serving as his guardian.
Papi remembered the excitement that buzzed throughout the estate the day the ten-year-old child arrived, for all the servants loved the handsome golden boy, their young prince. Never was a cross word uttered from his lips, as he always deigned to treat each member of the household with love and respect. He had a charming, polite way about him that would often earn him a hug from the housekeeper, or a sweet from the cook.
Papi had been a bit in love with the child as everyone else had been, but as she was only a few years older than him, she thought of him as her own special charge. And throughout that carefree summer in Brittany, the young Vicomte looked up to her as he would a sister, and often requested that she accompany him and his governess on his trips to the sea.
It was on one such walk that a lovely, clear voice had soared to them from a small inlet along the shore…
Raoul, in his curiosity, tripped along the golden beach until he found the owner of the voice—a little girl, perhaps eight or nine, with loose dark curls that whipped about in the strong wind. The deep red scarf wrapped around her throat was a stark contrast to the pale white of her face, and was the only splotch of color in the gray, overcast sky that served as a backdrop to her slight frame.
The boy raised a hand and waved it about wildly in greeting. He cupped his hands about his mouth and called to her above the thunderous roar of the waves, then jumped back as the blustery weather scattered sprays of salty water about him, as if scolding him for disturbing the peace of the inlet. The little girl giggled at his surprise, her laughter floating to his ears like the lovely song she had just sung.
"You sound like an angel!" he cried as a wide, toothy grin spread across his face. The young girl ducked her head shyly at the boy's compliments and glanced once more out to the sea.
At that moment, a brisk gust of wind whipped about them, swirling sand into the air. The little girl's hands flew to her eyes to shield them from the tiny pellets, and the slight movement sent her lovely red scarf fluttering away. She let out a small squeal of despair and started to chase after the cherished bit of fabric, but halted as she hopelessly watched it settle into the lapping waves of the sea. She stamped her foot in frustration, the tears beginning to well up in her eyes.
The young Vicomte hurried to her side, and grasping her hand, cried, "do not be sad, Mademoiselle; I shall fetch it for you!" Before the little girl could respond, the fearless lad rushed into the waves after the sinking red scarf, swinging his arms about to keep his balance as the choppy waves pushed against him. As he wandered deeper into the ocean, he leapt with the taller waves, trying to avoid being sent tumbling about in the undertoe. At last, when his shoulders were just above the water, he grasped the desired object and brandishing it about his head like a victory flag, waded through the water back to the shore.
The governess, who had been huffing and puffing to keep up with the children, at last rounded the corner into the inlet. Her eyes took in the scene with horror, and she crossly called to her young charge.
"Please, jeune Maître, come out of the water at once! You shall catch a chill—"
A loud snort interrupted the woman's rebuke, and the mousy woman looked sharply at Papi, who was doubled over in hysterical laughter at the antics of the young boy. The little Vicomte, now completely soaked through to the skin, was shaking his sopping head violently to rid it of ocean debris, sending small missiles of saltwater and sand flying through the air.
He strutted over to the young girl, his blonde hair wildly sticking up about his face, and held out the rescued treasure for her to claim. She took the scarf delicately between her thumb and index finger, watching as seawater dribbled from the sandy, grimy miserable bit of fabric. Her lovely red scarf was obviously ruined, but she said nothing on that, choosing instead to laugh merrily and stand on tiptoes to plant a small kiss on the boy's salty wet cheek for his efforts.
"Thank you," she whispered, now flushing furiously at her boldness. The Vicomte de Chagny offered her another winning smile.
"What is your name, Mademoiselle?"
The girl stuttered a bit under the boy's open gaze. "C-Christine Daaé, Monsieur," she said softly, and dipped in a quick curtsy. "My father and I live not far from here, in Perros-Guirec."
"Jeune Maître!" cried the governess sternly, stalking over to the two children, and grasped the little Vicomte's ear. "What nonsense that was, all for a bit of scrap! Your aunt will be very displeased when she hears of your actions today." The harsh woman turned to Mademoiselle Daaé. "Run along home now, child—you should not be wandering about aimlessly, with no one to look after you."
The girl abruptly turned to do as she was told, but on a whim, called over her shoulder to the little boy. "You must come to the home of Professor Valerius, and my father shall play the violin, and tell you stories." She smiled shyly, grabbed up her shoes and stockings, then lifted her skirts and scampered over the hill, away from the beach.
And that was the way it had always been with regards to Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny. His kind attentions and willingness to come to the rescue made him a favorite to all who met him. With his handsome face and genuine, unassuming smile, no one could deny him anything.
Papi remembered the frightful, dark day seven years ago when she found that she was with child. Foolishly, she believed that her lover, a well-mannered doorman employed by a neighboring estate, would take her in his arms and propose marriage at once. Sadly, the man was gone the next morning, without even the courtesy of a note to explain his abrupt departure. Papi had been left to pick up the pieces and to explain her predicament to her employers.
It had been Raoul that had found the poor woman weeping miserably in one of her father's gardens, and after a bit of gentle prying, she had been unable to resist spilling the entire sad story to the young Vicomte. He, in turn, interfered on her behalf with Philippe, convincing his older brother that the maid was indispensable to the family and should be allowed to stay on at the estate. The Comte, though often a proud and haughty man, loved the boy dearly and usually gave in to his whims (as long as they were sensible and practical). The aristocrat really had no desire to turn the faithful servant out onto the streets, either, so the decision had not been a difficult one.
From that day forward, Papi was so grateful to her rescuer that she silently pledged loyalty to the young Vicomte and his family until the day she died. And not three years after her little boy, Perri, was born, she found her devotion tested…
"Papi," the Vicomte peeked his head into the old caretaker's kitchen, calling softly to the young maid, careful not to wake the sleeping child in her lap. The woman started at the sound, then exhaled in a rush as she saw who was at her door. She quietly bade him come in, and motioned to the chair across from her. He strode into the room, pulled out a wooden chair from the table, and settled into it.
"I have some news to impart to you, but I must have your word that you say nothing of it to my brother. Can I count on your loyalty?"
"Yes, Monsieur," she said quietly, suddenly brimming with curiosity. "You know that you have it."
His eyes fell upon a bowl of red apples sitting upon the table, and Papi gestured for him to take one. He grabbed up the large round one on top, noisily bit into it, and chewed it slowly and thoughtfully. Noting Papi's impatience for his news, his eyes crinkled teasingly and he leaned forward on his elbows in a conspiratorial manner.
"Do you remember the little girl from Brittany—the one who lost the red scarf in the sea that I retrieved?"
Papi laughed softly, the happy recollections of that long-ago summer stirring in her memory. "Yes, how could I forget? Your cross governess gave you such a scolding when we returned to Lannion, that I had to run for your aunt to intervene."
The young man's handsome, white smile spread across his face. "Christine is to be my wife, Papi. I spoke with her two nights ago at the opera, where she sings. But no one can know of it yet. There are some…obstacles that must be overcome before we can wed."
Though she yearned to ask what kind of obstacles he hinted at, she held her tongue, not forgetting her place. "What can I do to assist you, Monsieur?" she instead questioned, desiring to be of some service to the man that had, in a way, saved her life along with her reputation.
The man nodded his appreciation at her friendship. "When I bring her home as the Vicomtesse, she will need someone—a woman—to show her the ins and outs of the estate, the aristocracy, and so forth. She is not familiar with our way of life, and I think she would very much like to have you as a friend, and a guide of sorts. Would you be willing to be a lady's maid to her, Papi?"
The woman sighed in relief, glad that she was not being asked to do anything that might anger the Comte. "Oh yes, Monsieur, I would be honored to help your bride in any way that I can!"
In the end, however, secrecy proved to be unnecessary. For when Raoul returned to the estate with his lovely new wife, he did so openly as the new Comte de Chagny. Instead of bringing her home to a household overflowing with joyful celebration at the marriage, however, they settled quietly into their new positions out of respect for the now deceased Philippe. The Comte had drowned in the lake under the opera house amidst the chaos of that night—the very same night the couple had eloped.
And just as Raoul and Christine's marriage had begun in the shadow of death, so death seemed to follow them throughout their short years together, until it eventually called to claim one of them. Papi began to tear at the sad memories that forever plagued her; the loss of the young Comte de Chagny, then her son, Perri.
Perri…
She shook her head fearfully against the unbidden image of her precious little boy's body, lifelessly crumpled upon the cold floor of the stables, discarded with as little care as one would take when throwing out an old shoe, or dirty cloth.
No! She would not think on it, not now, not yet; it was too soon. And she still had her father, the Comtesse, and little Jean-Paul to care for. Her loyalty, her duties—they would be her life, fill her mind until that inevitable day when she would have to face her demons.
Papi's thoughts were interrupted by the Comtesse's cry from the stairwell.
"Oh! Its beautiful! Papi, come and see…"
The maid heard the rustle of fabric as she drew closer to the room, and entered to find her mistress holding up a lovely, deep blue dress to her person, admiring the fine fabric.
"Just look at this—it is perfect—absolutely perfect." She carefully laid the dress on the bed and spread out the sleeves and skirt to admire it. The material, though minimally trimmed, was elegantly pleated about the hem and dramatically draped into a bustle in the back, revealing the lighter blue skirting underneath. Satiny blue ribbons were woven about the bodice, then ran the length of the skirt in a crisscross pattern.
"There is one for you, as well!" Christine pulled another dress from the large box atop her bed, and laid it on top of the blue. This one was done is a mossy green color, also with minimal frill; understated and practical, yet still stylish, just as she preferred. In fact, if she had been at the dress shop, she would have picked this over any other.
"Where did these come from, Madame? Surely my father did not pick them out." The maid eyed the dresses suspiciously, already knowing the answer before the Comtesse responded. The thought that someone could sum her up so thoroughly after one brief meeting sent shivers up her spine.
Her mistress reached into the box and pulled out a crisp, white note that was tucked inside a fold of tissue. Papi immediately recognized the same scrawling red ink that had graced yesterday's missive.
With hands trembling in excitement, Christine ran a fingernail under the wax seal and opened the note. Clearing her throat delicately, she read:
"My dearest Christine,
It is time to put your mourning behind you. I ask that you and your lady's maid refrain from bringing your current black wardrobes with you to my home, for several reasons: the first and foremost being that you are more easily tracked when you are in mourning. All of your needs shall be provided for at your new residence, so have no concerns in this respect. Until this evening,
I remain yours…"
The young woman's voice trailed away as she read the last few words in silence, then smiled gently. Papi could only wonder what had been written. She cautiously fingered the soft green material of the dress, running her fingers lightly over the seams. It was then that she noticed a blood red rose atop the nightstand, where the Comtesse had carefully placed it so it would not be crushed amidst the folds of fabric and tissue. An uneasy feeling settled into her chest.
What does this man truly want? the maid secretly wondered, not at all comfortable with the subtle way he exuded his influence over the Comtesse. Oh, Papi could see the sense of ceasing to wear the distinctive black veil of mourning, to be sure. That was a dictate of society, and they were no longer amidst their friends. But his choice of words, the rose, the rich hue of the blue dress, so similar to Christine's eyes…all signs of feelings that ran much deeper than friendship.
No, in spite of the Comtesse's reassurances to the contrary, the maid could not quite bring herself to put her faith in this man. However, she had placed her faith in Raoul de Chagny, and if he had sent this Phantom to them…
Well, only time will tell. Papi sighed as she responded to her mistress' exclamations over the gift, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad
If you are itching for more Fraternité and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "Frat party" on my website for some interesting story-related diddies. See my profile for details. Don't forget to sign the guest book, when you are there!