A/N: Finally, the moment we have all been waiting for! I feel like the story moves a little fast from this point onward though, since I have the next few chapters written already. It feels too unoriginal ):
Anyway, important things first! I will have no internet access next Monday, which brings me to the question: Do you guys want me to post up a new chapter this Sunday, or wait a whole week until the Monday after next?
Savannah White: Our dear friend Buquet will be gone soon, fret not! But he will be making more nasty appearances, you can be sure of that...
Masked Man 2: Yes, yes! Raoul will definitely be in here- we can't be missing our favourite opera house patron, after all. Honestly I wish I could have brought the Persian in earlier, but there was really nowhere I could fit him into and I must admit I sort of forgot all about him, until now. Hehe.
Nikki1991: Everyone (including me) wants Buquet out! It's such a pity he's only slated for his death during the production of Il Muto... And yep, the appearance of the Persian will definitely add a bit more depth to Erik and make us all fall in love with him a bit more, I'm sure.
Lydia the tygeropean: Thank goodness Erik's not silly enough to make that mistake!
Wild Concerto: Those bruises on her knuckles took forever to heal! Hmm... Buquet's death... will be an original writing of mine and will not follow the musical exactly, so I hope it will not disappoint.
ZabuzasGirl: Updates are here! (And every Monday thereafter!)
Many thanks to hauntingchristine & ZabuzasGirl for the favs! (:
Chapter 31: Christine as Elissa
Paris, 1896, a few hours before the production of Hannibal
A horse-drawn carriage with the de Chagny coat of arms sped to a stop before the townhouse, and a liveried footman leapt down to open the door for his young master.
Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, stepped out of the carriage, his blond hair tousled and clothes slightly dusty from travelling. As he made his way up the front steps of the townhouse, the door flew open, and the housekeeper bustled out.
"Oh good heavens! My lord, you are back!" She curtsied hastily. "Welcome home, my lord!"
Raoul de Chagny raised his hand in greeting. "Thank you, madame. I apologize for being rude, but I am in somewhat of a rush. If you would show me to my rooms?"
The housekeeper bowed deeply, and bustled off, gesturing for him to follow her. "Please, this way, my lord. Though if I could be so bold as to ask, where might you be rushing off to when you have only just arrived?"
Raoul smiled, a brilliant smile that brightened his face and made the housekeeper swoon a little on the inside. "No harm done, my good madame. I am due for the closing production of Hannibal at the Palais Garnier tonight. It will start in a couple of hours and I must be there as the new patron of the opera house. Indeed, I am very excited for this."
When Raoul arrived at the Palais Garnier not long later, freshened up from his long travels, the new managers were awaiting him on the front steps of the opera house. There was no crowd, as most of the opera goers had already made their way to their seats. Raoul hurried up the front steps, unwilling to be late for the first production he would be watching in the Palais Garnier as its new patron. The new managers were waiting at the door, dressed in all the opulent finery they could manage, with embroidered waistcoats and heavy satin coats, their hair slicked back with pomade and fingers grasping enameled silver canes.
"Monsieur le Vicomte! Welcome, welcome to the Palais Garnier!" The shorter manager stepped forward to bow, and grasp his hand, pumping it furiously in a tight grip. "May I introduce myself—Richard Firmin, and my partner Giles Andre. We are the new managers of the Palais Garnier, and we are so, so delighted to have you here with us tonight!"
The taller manager, Andre, waved his hand toward the door. "Shall we, monsieur? We have reserved the best box in the house, Box Five, for you."
He walked into the opera house, adding as an afterthought, "Though it was rather strange that nobody else requested to purchase seats from Box Five."
Raoul walked through the opera house, delighting in the feeling of being in the very place he had always dreamed of walking through. The marble floors gleamed beneath his boots, and he ran his hand along the polished metal railings of the staircases. When they reached their destination, the managers unlocked the door to the box, gesturing for Raoul to enter with a flourish of their dramatic hands.
It was apparently the best box in the house, with an unrestricted and clear view of the stage. But as Raoul entered the box with the managers, he felt an uneasy tension within the box, as though someone was watching him. But that was not possible, as there was nobody else within the small room that housed the theatre's finest seats. When Raoul looked around the box, he noticed a fine layer of dust on certain surfaces, and what looked like cobwebs in corners of the room. Surely the finest box in the house should have been more properly maintained? Or at the very least, kept clean of dust, if guests were meant to view performances almost every night in the very room?
He nodded distractedly at the managers' excited chatter and numerous questions, but could not shake off the uneasy feeling that made the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand. He did not have time to give it much thought, for the audience was already clapping, and the curtains covering the stage were lifting slowly. Raoul sat back in his seat, intent on savouring the performance.
The leading lady stepped onto the stage, a petite girl with long brown curls dressed in all the finery of Elissa. Raoul was surprised; he had thought that the prima donna of the Palais Garnier was the much celebrated Carlotta Giudicelli, with her flaming orange locks and considerable girth. This girl was most definitely not Carlotta Giudicelli, but there was some very familiar about her upturned nose and her rosebud lips. Raoul leaned forward slightly to get a better look.
The opening bars of Elissa's aria sounded through the theatre as the conductor directed the orchestra, and the girl squared her shoulders, and opened her mouth to sing.
Her voice soared.
It rang through the large theatre like the clear chime of a bell, melodious and strong. She reached the high notes with an alarmingly precise clarity, and trilled the other notes easily, perfectly.
She sounded like she had been born to stand on the stage. She sounded like a songbird.
Raoul was enthralled.
Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye.
Something about the way she sung the lyrics reminded Raoul of a summer long past, of sandy beaches and the burning hot sun and a freckle-faced young girl with a red scarf wound around her neck. Of the salty seawater swirling around his ankles, then his thighs, as he waded through the depths of the ocean. Of the feeling of drenched red wool in his fingers as he reached out to snag the errant red scarf. Of the brilliant smile the girl had bestowed upon him when he had run back to her, panting with exertion, the red scarf in his hands.
Of happiness.
Before they had parted ways, the girl had told him that her dream was to stand on stage and sing.
No. It cannot be.
Raoul turned, and asked the manager beside him, trying to make his voice sound casual, but unable to disguise the urgency he felt. "I had heard that the prima donna of the Palais Garnier was Carlotta Giudicelli? Surely that cannot be Signora Giudicelli."
The taller manager—Raoul was too distracted at the moment to attempt to recall his name—gave a moan, and wiped sweat off his brow, seemingly unable to say anything. The shorter manager gaped for a few moments, before coughing awkwardly.
"Monsieur, we are so terribly sorry you were unable to hear Signora Giudicelli sing tonight. She was… indisposed… and we had to replace her. We regret that this may have brought down the quality of the opera." The shorter manager gushed, stumbling over his words in his haste. "The next production will star Signora Giudicelli, we promise that with all our hearts. Signora Giudicelli's angelic voice will grace the stage once more, of that we can assure you!"
Raoul frowned. He had heard stories of Carlotta Giudicelli's prowess, but surely there were few who could best the girl standing on the stage singing with all her heart. If anything, the girl had to be better than Signora Giudicelli.
"No," he murmured, never taking his eyes off the girl on the stage. "Indeed, I am enjoying myself. You need not worry, monsieurs. If I may ask, who is the leading lady of tonight's production-?"
As soon as he had said the words, a brief memory flashed in his mind.
My name is Christine Daae, and I love to sing. What's your name? Chocolate brown curls. A brilliant smile. Christine.
The manager beside him looked befuddled, as though he could not imagine why Raoul wanted to know. "Her name is Christine Daae. She is nobody of importance, monsieur, simply an understudy."
Raoul stared at him, unable to formulate a reply. He leaned forward, his hands gripping the railing of the box, knuckles white with tension. Christine? Christine Daae?
He spent the rest of the performance spellbound and starry-eyed, becoming increasingly enthralled with Christine as she sang, and when she took her final bows before a roaring audience, he stood and clapped as loudly as he could.
"Ah, Firmin, it was a dazzling success!" Andre mopped his brow with his handkerchief, quite obviously relieved at how well things had turned out despite the initial problem of Carlotta deserting them. "Mademoiselle Daae sang superbly. We must congratulate her at once!"
Firmin nodded grudgingly. "Quite right, Andre. I did not think for a moment that she could pull it off, but Mademoiselle Daae has done well. She was a passable substitute for Signora Giudicelli. Come now, we shall adjourn to her dressing room to congratulate her."
On the way to Christine's dressing room, Raoul purchased a single red rose from one of the flower sellers crowding around the foyer of the Palais Garnier, peddling their flowers to people who wanted to gift their ballerina of choice with a token of appreciation. He pressed a coin worth much more than the value of the single flower into the thin girl's hand, smiling gently and telling her to keep the change as she gaped at the coin in her hand. She beamed a toothy grin at him, and Raoul continued on his way, trailing behind the managers.
As they neared the dressing rooms of the cast, Raoul had a sudden thought. He needed to see Christine Daae alone, needed to know if she still remembered him. He wanted to know if she was still the same girl he had known all those years ago, the one he had harboured a secret tendré for as he watched her dance along the sandy shore of a beach, her brown curls flying out behind her. He wanted to ask if she remembered him, but he could not do that before an audience; certainly not in front of Monsieurs Firmin and Andre and their wives. There would be gossip, and besides, it would not be appropriate at all.
"Ah, gentlemen… if you please, this is one visit I would wish to make alone." He raised his eyebrows at Firmin and Andre, and gestured for them to leave. "I will be sure to convey your gratitude to Mademoiselle Daae."
Firmin frowned. "But that cannot do… we cannot have our patron entering the dressing room of a lowly opera singer alone! What business could you possibly have with Mademoiselle Daae? You have never met her before."
Seeing the slight frown on Raoul's face, Andre took Firmin's arm and guided him away, saying, "Oh come now, Firmin, they seem to have met before."
Raoul waited until they were out of earshot, before stepping up to the door with a piece of paper stuck to it, proclaiming Christine's name. He knocked sharply on the door, and entered the room without waiting for a reply.
"Christine Daae, where is your red scarf?" He boomed excitedly, walking toward the brunettes sitting before the dressing table mirror. Christine turned quickly, half-standing, looking shocked and flushing guiltily, as though she had not heard his knock.
"Monsieur…?" She said uncertainly, wrinkling her brow at him. Raoul felt his heart drop. She does not remember?
When she made no move to acknowledge him, or even move forward toward him, Raoul decided to jog her memory, praying that she would remember their past together. He moved toward her slowly.
"Surely you remember?" He ventured cautiously. "I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin, that first time we met."
Her brow furrowed again, as though she was thinking hard. He stood awkwardly, silently willing her to remember. He observed her even as she stayed silent. Her hair, now free of the powder and pins that had held it up, tumbled around her creamy shoulders in a mass of brown curls. Her skin was pale, and freckled slightly, and her eyes were molten pools of chocolate. She had grown from the adorable little girl he had once known to a most beguiling young woman. Raoul realized he himself had changed; his face was no longer round and childish, and he was much taller than he had once been. Perhaps this was why she could not remember him.
She kept glancing back toward a large mirror at one end of the room, and Raoul bit his lip, unsure of the situation. Then her face brightened slightly.
"Oh, my red scarf! You were the boy who fetched my scarf back for me from the ocean!" Christine cried gaily, the memories flooding back. "I remember, Raoul. Papa and I were staying in a little cottage by the sea, and one day the wind blew my scarf away. It had been my favourite scarf, made long ago by my mother, and I loved it so. You waded into the ocean without a second thought, and you retrieved my scarf for me, a complete stranger. And when you brought it back, I met you for the first time."
Raoul looked exceedingly pleased that she had remembered. "My nurse was not happy with me at all, I can assure you. I received a stern scolding as soon as we were back home. Ah, little Lotte… how time has passed."
If Christine's face had brightened slightly earlier when she had remembered him, now it was positively alight at the mention of her old nickname. "You remember that, too?"
Her smile was beautiful, and Raoul found himself slightly mesmerized. Her smile had not changed. It was still as wide and vibrant as it had been so many years ago.
"I remember—the times we spent in the attic of your house, devouring chocolate and talking about goblins and frocks and just about anything under the sun, and your father—"
"Papa used to play the violin for us, as we—"
"As we read to each other dark stories of the north," Raoul said in a mock ominous tone. "How we loved those stories!" They grinned at each other as they realized that they had finished each other's sentences, their shared memories of a distant, warm past rekindled in their minds.
Raoul moved forward to daringly grasp Christine's hands. "Oh, little Lotte, it has been far too long. I missed you so terribly when we had to leave that darling beach for Paris. We must go out for supper; I must hear all about what has been happening to you. What of your father? Is he well?"
"Oh Raoul," Christine whispered sadly. "Papa is dead. Papa left me quite some time ago."
She held up a hand when Raoul opened his mouth to speak, to recite the consolatory words she had heard over and over too many times from people. "I have managed, Raoul. I still miss my dearly beloved papa, but I have gotten by. I had my friends at the opera house, and I had my music teacher."
He patted her hand gently. "How brave you must have been to get through this, all alone in the world. Come now, we shall go to supper, and you can tell me all about it. I must admit I am rather excited to be spending more time with you, Lotte. We have not spent any time together ever since we were children."
Christine bit her lip uneasily. "Raoul, things have changed. I cannot go for supper with you. My music teacher is very strict."
"Oh, I shan't keep you up too late! Surely it is already too late for music lessons, besides."
Christine opened her mouth to protest, but Raoul shushed her by grasping her hand again. "You must not deny me the chance to speak with you again after so long, Lotte. I have not seen you in years, and how I missed you back then! When I first saw you on the stage tonight, I believed myself to be dreaming. But this is no dream; it is a wonderful reality, and now you are standing before me in the flesh! No protests, little Lotte! You must change, and I must get my hat and call for my carriage. Two minutes, Lotte. I will come back to collect you."
Before Christine could say anything else or even react, Raoul had swept out of the room, all exuberant charm and vigour, and the door shut ominously behind him with a thud.
A/N: 'Insolent boy, the slave of fashion!' - teehee. What will Erik's reaction be? I guess you'll have to wait for the next chapter! As usual, please read/review/fav/follow/let me know what you think! xx hazel