Chapter 7

Maybe this is all an empty dream,

the self-deception of an inexperienced soul...

But so be it!

-Eugene Onegin, Act I

Song suggestion: 'Caresse Sur L'Ocean' by Bruno Coulais

They met often - almost every day. Strictly speaking, that was more often than necessary, but she did not mind. She liked him. He was a horrible, deceitful man, but he was also intelligent and witty and musical - and, curiously, despite all his deceptions, there was something deeply honest about him.

Over the next few weeks she developed a peculiar sort of trust in him. Theirs was an arrangement full of secrets on both sides, especially on his, but their interactions were somehow fully genuine and heartful in spite of it.

Christine began to notice something curious. Against all reason, she liked him even better now than she had when he was the Angel. She found herself thinking how glad she was that she knew the truth about him now.

Her lessons with him were the highlight of each day; Mondays, when she rested her voice and so they didn't meet, seemed to drag by. And what was curious, he often contrived to find a reason to meet those days anyway, and though it could not have any possible advantage to her artistry, she always accepted.

It doesn't make sense, she often found herself thinking. I should not trust a man who insists on wearing a mask everywhere he goes. Honest people don't do that. It isn't natural. And yet I cannot keep away from him.

Perhaps people are right about me. Perhaps I am wrong in the head after all.

Music suggestion: 'The Carnival of Venice' - Niccolo Paganini and Joshua Bell

The Opéra Populaire's new production of Il Muto was to open in a month. Following an unusual decision by the managers - one that threw the entire company into disarray and sent Monsieur Reyer and the artistic director into paroxysms - La Carlotta would be sharing the role of the Countess with Mademoiselle Christine Daae, who would be her alternate during matinee performances and on Saturdays.

La Carlotta thought about objecting, but in the end, she accepted the arrangement without a murmur. She was much too shrewd a businesswoman not to find a way to spin this into an opportunity, and took to declaring to everyone what an extraordinarily delicate and rare instrument her own voice was, deducing, correctly, that this would add to her mystique.

Christine, for her part, was happy too, once she had been reassured that Erik was not disappointed in her for not getting the lead all to herself as he had been hoping for (quite the contrary; he arrived at their next lesson with a bottle of excellent champagne).

Privately, she could not help agreeing with him that the opera was rather insipid. But she didn't much care. She was being given the chance to sing, and that was all that really mattered to her. She would have sacrificed almost anything for that.

However, the city's rumor mill assumed another reason for her happiness.

They had read in the gossip columns that after her first night in the role, a certain Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, had thrown a party in her honor in a private dining-room at no less than the Café Anglais, in which the crème de la crème of Parisian society had assembled to fête her gifts.

How could a young lady - a penniless foreigner, no less - who had attracted the attention of one of the richest and most celebrated young men in the country not be glad? Nothing else could possibly be required for a woman's happiness.

And indeed, Christine was pleased with his attention - delighted that he remembered her, even if a bit shocked that he wanted all his illustrious friends to meet her.

Though the occasion fell on a Saturday, when the opera ran the production twice and she was certain to be exhausted well before nightfall, there seemed no way to say no.

And so, as soon as the opera was over that night, she hastily sponged off her makeup and threw aside her costume, and a few minutes later she found herself drawing up to the elegant façade of the Café Anglais, decked out in a rented gown and jewels.

The evening did not get off to a promising start.

A superior maître d'hôtel escorted Mademoiselle to 'our best private dining-room' at the back of the restaurant, and just as they arrived, the clasp on her bracelet came undone.

He bowed her inside and a horde of distinguished-looking and attractive guests, garbed in elegant black and white and silver, looked up just as she was struggling to refasten it.

Then Raoul noticed her, and pushed his way through the crowd to claim her, and the eager smile on his amiable face dispelled the awkwardness for the moment. A moment later she was circulated from guest to guest, names she had read in the papers flying through the air as she struggled to remember everyone she was introduced to. There were businessmen and their wives, great artists, aristocrats, politicians, even minor royalty.

All had ingratiating smiles for the Vicomte de Chagny and honeyed words about what a 'fortunate young lady' she was.

All, too, had the most polished of accents and were more expensively dressed - and, she felt, better-looking - than she was. There more diamonds in that single room than she had seen in the whole course of her life.

It was overwhelming. She kept wanting to turn to Meg or some other of her friends to whisper wry remarks in her ear, and remembering with a jolt that they were not here.

Above all, she wished Erik could be here. He deserved to share in the praise. And indeed, that was not the only reason. Suspicious though he was, his peculiar, curt behavior would have been strangely comforting to her. She could practically hear his sneering remarks. She would have relished them. It would have been a kind of buffer between her and these supercilious strangers.

She felt utterly alone here. She knew she was not one of them. For all their smiles and compliments and polite questions, they did to make her feel otherwise.

And indeed, they were scarcely on the fish course - a tender sole dijonaise, which Christine picked at with disinterest; she had not eaten fish in years - before they turned on her.

A moustachioed marquis, apparently the luminé of the event - Christine had a pet theory that the more dramatic the moustache the higher the social status of the bearer - grilled her on her origins and upbringing, and for the sake of not giving Raoul's brother reason to shout at him later for turning his attentions on such an unsuitable young lady, she was obliged to heavily gloss over her origins.

Once he had spoken, the horde was turned loose. Most of the questions she did not mind, though she sent a silent apology Heavenward to her parents for hiding where she came from.

But when the table demanded to know why she had come to Paris and what she thought of it now she was here (as though she had arrived yesterday, rather than over a decade ago), it took her some moments to collect herself.

All at once she wanted to run out of the room. Her real opinion on the city where her father had contracted the typhus that killed him, where she had spent the past thirteen years of her life freezing and starving, was not fit to be spoken aloud. She only managed to restrain herself by thinking of poor Raoul, who had tried so hard to make this a splendid evening for her - and by reminding herself that she was hungry and several excellent courses still lay before them and she wanted a chance to try them.

At length, she managed to produce a smile. "Who could resist the glitter and excitement of the most beautiful city in the world?"

This was the expected answer, and she was at last awarded a brief respite.

However, later on, as the meal was drawing to a close and the guests were standing around in groups eating elegantly molded ices, another subject came up that she liked little better.

One of a whirlwind of celebrated musicians who had been presented to her that evening wove his way through the crowd and cornered her by a potted palm.

This one was a composer, illustrious in the extreme - the Légion d'Honneur, his works played at the Opéra, commissions from the Emperor. He had lately premiered an opera that had sold out for weeks and had been universally praised by critics.

And excoriated by Erik. He had waxed very poetic about it. She had to hide a smile at the memory. Erik raised scathing criticism to an art form on a level with painting or sculpture.

"A triumph this evening, Mademoiselle," the composer said with a genial smile. "Truly a triumph. I've never heard the Countess sung better. And for someone so young to sing such difficult music - it is remarkable."

She flushed with happiness. For all Erik might think poorly of this man, she admired his career, and praise from him was not something to be taken lightly. "I thank you, Monsieur. You are very gracious."

"Well, the credit does not lie solely with you, of course."

She started, a little taken aback. "No, certainly not - I have excellent castmates, and Monsier Reyer is the very finest of conductors, and our orchestra are the best in the world-"

"-But what of your instructor?" he said. "I have never heard you speak of him. You must have found a very good one indeed."

"Well-"

"-You must tell me his name - my daughter wishes to become a singer, and-"

Christine flinched. Erik had made her promise she would not tell anyone about him. She should have fabricated some story for occasions like this. The question had been bound to come up at some point. Indeed, it was a miracle it had not before.

She tried to divert him, throwing out several more pieces of conversational bait than was reasonable or necessary, until she began to sound rather foolish. "-Oh, how delightful! - If she has inherited your gifts she will go far - How old is she? - Does she know her fach yet? - Has she sung your music? - With whom does she study at present?-"

Like most important men, he was not to be turned away from his purpose so easily. "Now that she has heard you, she will not be satisfied until she studies with whoever taught Mademoiselle Christine Daae." He smiled. "Where might I look him up? Is he accepting new students?"

"You are very kind," she said, "But I fear you must disappoint her. I..." She tried to think of a satisfactory explanation, but could not. "I do not have an instructor." Too late...

His brow furrowed alarmingly, as though he were conducting her and she had bungled an important passage. "But you must."

Raoul, perhaps sensing some tension from their expressions, came up to them and put his arm defensively around Christine. She smiled at him appreciatively for a moment before returning her attention to the composer.

"I do not," she said to him. "That is what it says in all the papers."

He smiled without warmth. "I know that is what they are saying in the gossip-columns. But you cannot fool me - you are not speaking with an amateur."

"Of course not," she said, trying to sound as meek as possible.

"It is impossible to obtain such a faultless technique without a knowledgeable instructor," he said.

He was right - no-one could sing the kind of music she had without instruction. Really, Erik, she thought, I don't know how you expect me to cover up for you. He might as well have signed her like a painting, so obvious was it that an expert had worked on her singing. "Thank you for the compliment, Monsieur. But my technique is not faultless-" As Erik reminds me with every note- "and I am indeed self-taught."

His face hardened. "Mademoiselle, I don't think much of performers who keep secrets in order to impede the progress of others. You are doing a disservice to your instructor and to other aspiring singers."

"But I-"

"-You were not always a celebrity, after all."

"Monsieur, I really must-"

"-And I think still less of artists who imagine that their success is due entirely to their own genius."

"I don't-"

"-Your instructor deserves better than to be denied by his pupil."

Yes, he does, Christine thought sadly.

Raoul finally broke in - several minutes too late, in Christine's opinion. "Monsieur, I do not like what you are insinuating. If Mademoiselle says she has no instructor, then it is the truth. And your choice of time and place to make such accusations was extremely poor."

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Finally, the composer nodded curtly. "I hope Mademoiselle will forgive me," he said. But his expression was dark. He spun on his heel and walked away.

"How dare he speak to you thus?" Raoul said. "It was a mistake inviting him. I am sorry."

"It was kind of you to leap to my defense, but he was right," Christine said weakly. "He can tell when a singer is professionally trained."

Raoul stared at her with a lost expression. "Yes... But you would not lie." He looked as though the idea were unimaginable. "Surely not."

Life for me has become a great deal more complicated since we were children. "Thank you for your faith in me. I am not at all sure I deserve it." Christine sighed, weighing a difficult alternative in her head. Erik had insisted so forcefully... But she could not bear to lose Raoul's regard for her. "I want you to know the truth. But you must not tell anyone of this. I know I can trust you with this secret, my old friend."

"Secret?" Raoul said.

"I do have an instructor," Christine admitted.

He blinked. "But you said-"

"-I know what I said."

"Why have you been telling everyone that-?"

"-He does not want me to tell anyone about him," Christine said. "He is very strict about that."

"Why should teaching you be a secret?" Raoul said, looking annoyed. "He ought to be proud you are his pupil."

"But he is proud. He tells me every day how delighted he is with my progress. He said he wishes everyone could know that he is my teacher." She smiled at the recollection.

"Then why-?"

"-I don't know," she said. "All he'll say is 'wait and see - we shall astonish Paris'."

"But you have been applauded by the Emperor. Surely by now you have 'astonished Paris'."

"Thank you. I don't quite understand myself. He shrinks from society," Christine said, explaining as much as she could understand of the matter herself. "He is very shy, I believe. And... rather eccentric." Another immense understatement.

"Some crotchety old fellow?" Raoul said.

"He isn't old."

Raoul's frown deepened.

"He certainly is irritable, however," Christine said, laughing to herself. "He despises the whole human race."

"I don't see why a genius like that should have to be shy, or a misanthrope," Raoul said.

"He had a tragic history, I believe."

"Oh, yes, of course." Raoul barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "All these mysterious geniuses have a 'tragic history'."

"You think me a simpleton," she said, incensed.

"No, indeed. But I think most people who set themselves up as recluses have no good reason to shun society. It is easy enough to make friends. One merely has to make one's self agreeable, which isn't nearly as difficult as some people seem to think."

Christine smirked. "That is easy for you to say. You come from one of the best families in the country. And you are handsome and charming. Everyone wants to please you - of course it is easy for you to make friends. Everyone finds you agreeable."

Raoul heard only one part of this speech. "You think me handsome?" he said blissfully.

The look of happiness on his face was so open and artless that Christine could only smile. "Everyone does, you know."

"But your opinion is more worth having."

"Thank you," she said, touched.

"Or perhaps you think I would not make friends easily if I was not a de Chagny?" Raoul said with a sudden look of irritation.

"I didn't say that," Christine said, annoyed in turn. "When I became friends with you, you told me you were just little Raoul Martin from the village, do you recall?"

Raoul laughed. "Yes. A habit I acquired very early. It is a habit I have had to give up, though, I am afraid."

"If only things were still as simple as they were in childhood."

"Yes, but they aren't. We all have to give up our childish habit of hiding whenever it strikes us as convenient," Raoul said irritably. "Someday this mysterious instructor of yours will have to as well. That is precisely my point."

"Perhaps he may," Christine said. "I hope he may choose to come out of hiding, someday. But I cannot force him to."

"Why do you use his services if he forces you into dishonesty and concealment?"

Christine did not mention that Erik had been teaching her for free. She had a feeling Raoul would be further infuriated if he knew - and this interrogation was already beginning to make her uncomfortable. "I could not find another instructor like him," she said.

Or another man like him, said a voice in her head.

Enough! she told herself sternly.

"What do you mean?" Raoul said.

"I believe he is a genius. He does things that I do not think any other man could do."

"What?"

"He taught me to sing exactly the way I always wanted to," she said. "It is uncanny. As though he reached inside my mind."

"You speak of him as though he were a god or an angel or something!" Raoul cried.

"No, he certainly is no angel. I am very aware of that," Christine said, a private joke to herself that he would not understand.

How glad she was that she had not told Raoul of the Angel. She hated to think how he might have reacted.

"If he is not of a respectable age," Raoul said, "Then I take it there is a lady present during your lessons?"

She blanched. "Yes, of course. Mère Giry, sometimes. Or, when she is not available, Monsieur Masson's assistant, Madame Charpentier, comes in."

"Charpentier?" he said. "Didn't you say that is the name of one of the cleaners at the Opéra?"

She sighed to herself, annoyed at his quickness. "Yes."

"But it is not the same person?"

"...No." She could not say it was, and risk having him interrogate the real Madame Charpentier and find out about her little fiction. The good lady could probably persuaded to go along with the story, but only at a price, and then Christine would be in her power. She wasn't going to risk it.

"An interesting coincidence," Raoul said tartly.

Christine scowled. "It is a common enough name!" she said irritably. "You French seem to have about five surnames between you!" It must have been the restaurant's ample supply of wine that prompted her to add, "You sound jealous. Well, there is no call to be. He is not the sort of man I would fall for."

He is exactly the sort of man you would fall for, you little liar, said the voice in her head, startling her. You know that perfectly well. That voice of his... And when you hear him play...

That is enough! she told herself sternly. I shall confine my interests to men who do not go about in masks all the time, thank you!

"I am here with you, after all, am I not?" she said aloud - to convince herself as much as Raoul.

"Yes," Raoul said, softening at once. "I was not jealous." Then, "What did you say his name was?"

"I didn't," Christine said. She paused. For some reason she did not want Raoul to know anything more about Erik.

Raoul squinted.

Christine hid a sigh. If she refused to tell him, he would think it suspicious. "It is Alphonse Joseph Masson, if you must know."

"Hm. Rather a curious name."

"It was remarkable how much I learned from him even in a short space of time," Christine continued. Her raspberry ice sat forgotten in her glass. "Soon I hardly knew myself when I sang with him..."

Though he couldn't put his finger on it, something about the look in her eyes as she said that disturbed Raoul deeply. From that moment on he began to feel an unreasoning grudge against Christine's mysterious teacher, and formed a sudden resolve to find out more about him.

End of Chapter 7.

Notes:

If you were wondering about the characters' ages in this, Christine and Raoul are in their early 20's, and the Phantom is in his early- to mid-30's, as he appears.

In most respects I'm trying to be as faithful to the movie as possible. But I had to make a couple alterations. I know Christine was played by a 16-17-year-old and Patrick Wilson was in his thirties when he played Raoul. But this can't be the actual ages of the characters, because...

1. as someone astutely pointed out, it doesn't make sense that they could have been childhood sweethearts if they weren't the same age or very close

and

2. Even in that era, it would be extremely unlikely that a wealthy, aristocratic man would be thinking of getting married if he was still in his teens.

With regard to appearances, I'm having Raoul and Christine look more or less the same as in the movie, although I'm picturing Raoul younger and a little less modern-looking, and I'm hoping he got a haircut... :)

French:

Mademoiselle = Miss