Author's Note/Disclaimer: All right, I admit it: I was wrong about the time frame. At the time of this and of the previous chapter, the year is 1878. Many apologies :-/ This chapter has some endnotes, but since this site won't allow the use of asterisks, "(insert appropriate number here)"s are used. Thank you so much, silvergenji, for being my beta and going over this when your life is already chaotic enough! Oh, and before I forget: neither Rigoletto nor The Phantom of the Opera are mine. There. I said it. And now, mes amies, I present to you the next installment of this wondrous tale of Rigoletto...

P.S. Les Miserables fans might, to use a common phrase, get a kick out of this chapter...

Chapter Two:

Mere Speculation

-Annette Giry-

"We are the trees whom shaking fastens more."

– George Herbert, 'Affliction V'

"Maman, maman!"

I started in my seat at the sudden exclamation. Christine and I looked up from our breakfast plates, and then exchanged significant glances.

"What is it, chèrie?" I called as I began to rise from my chair.

My daughter Marguerite - who much preferred to be called Meg - swept dramatically into our small dining room. Her wild blonde curls were all in a disarray - undoubtedly mussed by the wind - her usually calm blue eyes were snapping, and her rosy skin was flushed a dark crimson.

"That Sorelli from down the way didn't believe me when I told her that you're the head ballet mistress! She called me a liar, and she said I'm making up foolish stories just to make myself popular! Just because her maman was the prima ballerina for one season decades ago, she thinks she can lord it over the rest of us..." Meg trailed off into dark muttering as she circled the table to her chair. Her acidic words irritated me, as if they truly had been formed of some degenerating liquid. I sighed, and then pinched the bridge of my nose.

After seating herself with no little alacrity, Meg looked up at me with piercing, blazing eyes.

"Well?"

Oh, that child could...I returned her piercing stare while placing my arms akimbo on my hips.

"What, Marguerite?"

Meg could never quite stand up to the sharp tone of voice that I had perfected in the corridors of l'Opèra Populaire. That, coupled with the use of her full first name, was more than enough to communicate to her the extent of my annoyance. The fire in her eyes diminished considerably as she wilted under my gaze.

"Um – aren't you going to tell her that I was right?" she asked hopefully.

My lips seemed to tighten of their own accord.

"Meg," I sighed, "I know that you and Sorelli don't get on at all, but I cannot come running to put an end to every argument between the two of you! Moreover, Sorelli's mother is a highly esteemed patroness of the opera; the last thing we need is for you to insult Sorelli and cause her mother to withdraw all of her funds!"

"In other words, no," Christine uttered sotto voce.

"Besides," I continued as I slid back into my chair, "Sorelli's mother often attends rehearsals and always sees me with the corps de ballet. I have confidence that she will soon put Sorelli to rights – without my interference."

Despite the ample amount of eggs, bread, and cheese I had dished out onto her plate, Meg persisted in sulking. I refused to be drawn any further into her conflict, and so we ate in silence as tense and uncomfortable as any stalemate – that is, until Christine mercifully broke it.

"Meg," she said softly.

With a slight frown, I noticed that Meg's lips were still down turned in a childish pout.

Sullenly: "What?"

"You shouldn't be angry with your mother, or with Sorelli either."

Meg quickly opened her mouth to protest, but Christine spoke first. "No, listen to me, please?"

Meg was hesitant, but after gauging the expression in her cousin's wide dark eyes, she nodded reluctantly.

"Merci. Now, I completely agree with you: Sorelli should not have called you a liar, nor accused you of trying to advance yourself. If she was my younger cousin –" and Christine leaned in conspiratorially, dropping her voice slightly so that it would just carry to Meg's place across the table "– I would be having a special talk with her right now."

Meg giggled, and even I had to smile at the image in my head that her words presented. Christine Daaé, related to a goose like Sorelli? Indeed!

Christine gave a small smile, then straightened herself as she sobered the tone of her voice and words. "But you can't go back and change what she did, and being angry or bitter isn't going to make things better, is it?"

"No," Meg said quietly, a new pink flush tinting her cheek. "It'll just make things worse."

"Exactly! You can't control what she does, but you can control what you do and how you feel. What Sorelli did was wrong, but you are the one who chooses whether to forget about it and be happy, or to be angry and act just as bad. You don't like being angry, do you?"

"Well – no," Meg admitted sheepishly.

Christine raised her dark, slanting eyebrows a fraction and continued to look at Meg steadily. My daughter's eyes flickered back and forth between Christine's face and mine, as she seemed to deliberate. Then, in one fluid movement that made my dancer-mother's heart proud, she rose from her chair and walked hesitantly around to mine – almost like one of the members of my own corps de ballet who has danced differently and anxiously anticipates either praise or admonishment.

"Good morning, maman," Meg said, all trace of petulance and selfishness gone. Two toned, creamy white arms wrapped lovingly around my neck, and I tilted my head to present her with my cheek.

I promptly received a tender, if somewhat wet, kiss.

"And a good morning to you, my Meg," I responded as I turned to face her, cupping her soft cheek in my hand. I let open approval colour my voice and smile, letting her know – without saying the words – how much I appreciated her choice to take Christine's wisdom to heart.

Meg smiled back at me, then – to my dancer-mother's heart's dismay – fairly bounced back to her seat on my right-hand side. Without fuss or preamble, she began to chatter vivaciously to her older cousin, who continued to look at her with the same steady light in her eyes.

Such scenes were not very unusual in this house. Meg was often a very considerate and sweet-tempered girl, but – even at her young eight years of age – I could see that she had the beginnings of a fierce loyalty within her. This, combined with a hasty temper and a sharp tongue, was more than enough to put her into a fiery passion when provoked, which she often was (no thanks to the inept mothers in our district who spoiled their children into ignorance). Unfortunately, Meg had inherited her irascible temper from me, and so, when she chose to bring her latest arguments to my notice or demand my interference, I would become irritated within a matter of moments.

I am not usually in possession of what some would term "sang-froid", neither have I ever been very calm in anything I do: when one is the head ballet mistress at the largest and most renowned opera house in all France, one must learn to take everything life gives you in a hot-iron grasp.

Because of our similar characteristics, Meg and I could be like flint and firewood: if we came together while one was in a hot temper, the other would inevitably ignite and thereby escalate the conflict.

Christine was different.

From what I had seen of her as a child, I knew her to be in possession of a formidable temper as well – all the members of this family had inherited it from my grandfather – but she was much slower to anger than Meg and me. Little annoyances – ones which were enough to elicit dark looks and resentful words from the rest of us – were only ever met with a sigh or a tightening of the lips on her part; very rarely would she even speak out against such grievances.

For a fourteen-year-old girl, she was remarkably patient.

I stole a glance at her from underneath my eyelashes. Christine still seemed to be listening to my daughter's cheerful babbling, but her eyes were slightly unfocused, giving them a soft, dreamy look. A smile played at the corner of her lips, as transient as sunlight upon the water: it was as if she were amused by her cousin's limitless energy – or as if she were dreaming of some far-off, perfect place that she would much rather be.

I could never be too sure of that.

Though Christine had been living with my family per Gisèle's will for about four years now, I still did not quite understand my niece's character. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that her parents had – for the most part – been so different from me, and thus had passed on their inscrutable qualities to their only daughter. I recognized Gisèle's dreamy, romantic sensibilities in Christine. She seemed to have inherited both of her parents' unusual kindness, thus granting her with a sweet and innocent spirit…but there were instances when I saw glimpses of Esbjörne's natural sternness looking out through her eyes. I instinctively knew – though I'm not quite sure how – that she relied on this latent iron will to hold herself together, in case she felt that her emotions might control and weaken her.

Like this morning. Not long after I had called her name, Christine had entered the dining room silently, like a cold draft of wind upon the stage. I had been shocked into silence for a few moments when I first saw the steel in her eyes, for it had been nearly a year since I last saw it there. However, when she noticed my rigid stance and wide eyes, she relaxed visibly, and the morning carried on as it usually did.

I knew the reason why it was so, with Christine. But, foolish coward that I was, I dared never speak of it to her. She reminded me too much of my own dear sister – God rest her sweet soul – and far be it from me to willingly cause my niece any unnecessary pain. It had been years since I had seen those dark brown eyes well up into tears, and I knew that I would not know what to do, were I confronted with such a sight.

Besides, was it not better to keep one's sufferings to oneself? I knew from personal experience that it was better to exert rigid control over one's emotions – and thereby avoid enemies' malignant triumph, and family and friends' weak pity – then to give in and be open to the censure and ridicule of the world. (1)

Christine did not need that, not along with everything else in her life.

I tried to send her such signals of comfort as I felt I could – but I often wondered whether they were ever truly enough…

"Bonjour, my family!"

"Papa!"

I nearly dropped my fork at Meg's loud reply to her father's joyous greeting. In almost the same moment, she pushed back her chair – its legs protested loudly against the wooden floor – and ran into my husband's waiting arms.

I smiled contentedly at the picture they cut in the doorway. Though Meg was considered tall for her age, she could only just reach high enough to wrap her arms around her father's waist. To compensate for this difference in height, he bent over her until his face was nearly on level with hers. They hugged tightly for a moment, then he took her small face in his large hands and kissed both of her cheeks, while she did likewise.

When he looked up, his blue eyes alighted upon Christine, who had risen slowly from her chair in anticipation of her morning greeting. Her face was lit with the soft glow of a warm, personable smile.

"Uncle," she greeted softly.

"Ah, here is my niece," my husband returned warmly. They kissed each other's cheeks as well, and then he lingered a moment to smile into her eyes, as if to reassure. She smiled back at him, and then his gaze finally turned to mine.

"Annette," he sighed.

"Jules," I returned, a smile in my eyes.

He glided quickly around to my seat at the head of the table – if a square table can have a head – leaned over, and presented me with a sweet good-morning kiss. I continued to smile against his warm lips.

My husband's name was Jules Giry, a fact which he would often jokingly deplore upon forming new acquaintances. In fact, he frequently tried to find the humor in day-to-day situations and keep a more lighthearted view of things. It was one of his talents, and even better was the fact that he had the common sense to know when and when not to give it free rein. His humor and optimism were a safe harbor for the rest of us in troubled times, and he could always be counted upon to listen and give advice when one needed it most.

I had yet to witness the adversity that could break my husband.

When we broke apart and Jules moved to take his seat, I glimpsed Meg's face screwed up in an expression of childish disgust. Glancing at Christine, I saw that her lips were again curved in a dreamy, almost wistful smile. I smiled back, trying to fight the girlish blush that would blossom in my thin cheeks, and then sent the food down to Jules's end of the table.

"So," he began briskly as he helped himself to some eggs, "what are my girls up to today?"

"Ballet lessons!" Meg exclaimed excitedly around a mouthful of bread.

"Well, a lesson and a rehearsal afterwards," Christine amended, masking my admonishment to her younger cousin to not chew with her mouth full, else she should resemble a cow.

Jules's brow furrowed slightly. "A lesson and a rehearsal? Aren't they working you a little too hard?"

"You needn't worry, Jules; there will be plenty of times for the girls to rest. Mme. Sainte-Victoire wants them to be ready for their recital next week, and I have to rehearse with the girls in the corps for their next performance as well. The practice may take some time, but I should be very surprised if we were not back in time for tea."

"Won't you be hungry at dinnertime?"

"Don't worry, papa!" Meg cried out cheerfully. "We're cooking our own dinners today!"

Jules smiled fondly. "That's my big girl!"

"What about you, uncle?" Christine asked curiously. "What thrilling excursions do you have planned for the day?"

Jules leaned back in his seat. "Oh, I think today's going to be a heavy-duty 'business' day."

Meg mock-groaned theatrically, but her father carried on: "I'll be spending most of the morning in and out of my office, checking up on my accounts and expenses, inspecting the ships and their crews, those sorts of things. And then I have a meeting at 2 o'clock with M. Montparnasse," he added in an undertone.

I set my utensils down instantly, my gaze turning into a wary stare. I glanced at the girls to see if I had disturbed them, but they seemed to be contentedly eating the last bites of their meal.

"Christine? Meg?" They both turned to look at me. "Would you please head down to the kitchen and put together your dinners for today?"

Meg seemed ready enough to comply, but I did not miss the curious glances I was eliciting from Christine.

"I'll join you in a few minutes," I said, more softly this time. Christine paused, then rose and disappeared into the kitchen with Meg and their dirty plates.

I waited until the last sounds of their footsteps had died away, before turning what I hoped was a penetrating glare onto Jules.

"Montparnasse?"

He looked up – no doubt startled by the open enmity in my voice – then hastily put down his utensils and held up his hands in a supplicating gesture.

"Anne, I know you dislike him, but the man is a visionary!"

A visionary? I scoffed incredulously. Nearly every man in trade claimed to have some discernment of their business's future: whether or not this was true ever remained to be seen. I never believed any of their sham stories, but Jules had no such luck.

"Annette!" He sounded shocked. "I have a very high respect for M. Montparnasse! He handled the strike of '76 better than anyone else I know; in fact, he made more money off of that strike than he usually does in times of peace! We have him to thank for this house!"

I could only stare at him, sickened and momentarily speechless. No one, not even the landed gentry of Paris, could forget the strike of 1876. (2) Hundreds – if not thousands – of workers had turned out to protest their low wages and terrible working conditions. Perhaps the strike had seemed like a good idea to them, but when days had turned into weeks and weeks had turned into months, the whole city became tense from speculating the outcome of the stubborn battle of wills between masters and hands. This battle had even permeated the gilded walls of l'Opèra Populaire: several of my best dancers had had to leave the city as well as the company because their monthly funds were not enough to cover both the expense of their living and that of their family's. Others had had to move permanently into the ballet dormitories and work as seamstresses or stagehands so that they could afford to stay with the company, whilst their families left for other cheaper areas of France, and were often unable to visit their daughter or son more than twice a year, if at all.

The strike worsened when some of the masters – of which Montparnasse had been the leader – began to hire strikebreakers: poor immigrants from the further regions of France – and sometimes a few Belgians or Italians – who would do anything, even work for lower wages, to receive a steady income. When the strikers heard how easily they could all lose any hope of being hired – let alone winning the strike – the union leaders were sent to supplicate Montparnasse and the other masters, nearly begging to have their jobs back so that they would not be forced to hear their starving children cry another night. At first, Montparnasse resisted: why should he hire those who had already turned out? However, after he felt that he had robbed the union leaders of all their dignity, he agreed to fire the strikebreakers and hire his old workers again.

But on his terms.

"Are you telling me," I finally managed to choke out, "that you conceded to be a part of that scheme? Do you mean to say that – that this house, within which lives our daughter and our niece – whom we are trying to raise into good, honest young women – this house was paid with kickbacks?" (3)

All of the blood drained from Jules's face.

"No – Anne, it was not like that! It is not like that!"

I raised an eyebrow at him. "'Is'? What scheme has that man got you tangled up in now?"

Jules hesitated a moment, then plunged headlong into a short summary of Montparnasse's plan and his part in it. With each sentence he uttered, I felt my eyes widen more and more with shock.

"And you agreed to this?" I hissed when he had finished.

His face now flushed. "Of course I agreed! This is an important opportunity for me to make things much better for us!"

I couldn't stop shaking my head. "All that money…and what will we do if you lose?"

"But that's the beauty of it, Anne!" Unable to contain his excitement, Jules rose from his chair and half-stumbled over to mine, almost like one who is intoxicated. He dropped to both knees and then raised his hands, placing one over both of mine – which had stayed clenched in my lap since the girls had left – and the other in a gentle grip around my left shoulder. "M. Montparnasse has assured me that, should we lose – which is highly unlikely – he will cover the expenses and help me to pay off my debt! How could I refuse such an offer? How could anyone refuse it?"

"I could!" I fired back, unable to control myself. "I don't suppose you received that promise from him in writing?"

Jules hesitated again. "I'm afraid…there just aren't any legal forms for that."

I scoffed again. "You mean that he wouldn't give it to you –"

"I wouldn't ask him! As a businessman, I trust him, and I would not offend him by demanding a formal agreement when I could see that he meant it!"

I couldn't look at him. I turned my head away, unwilling to hear any more of his weak excuses. I could not believe this was happening! How could he do this? How could he betray my trust in him, in his honesty? How could he risk almost everything we owned and naïvely put his trust in a greedy, gluttonous man like Montparnasse? How?

Panic rose like bile at the back of my throat, but I swallowed it down with force. With a steadying breath: "If you pulled out now –"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head shaking. "If I pull out now, we will lose everything."

The enormity of this took my breath away. I could only turn my head to stare at him and repeat, stupidly, "Everything?"

"Most definitely."

I could feel it, the weight of an uncertain future heavy on my chest, making breathing difficult. How I hated it!

Jules must have read this on my face, for his expression became animated once more as he tried to be persuasive. "But – think about it, Anne! If – when we get the money, I can do more for you and the girls! We could move into a proper house, away from these annoying neighbors of ours! We could – we could have our own cook, maybe even a maid! We could afford a carriage, perhaps a horse! And we could pay a proper singing teacher to teach Christine!"

I merely looked at him. This was too unlike Jules; not even he could become so outwardly excited over something so droll as business. It both scared and angered me how important he felt his scheme was, so important that he would set the truly important things in his life at naught.

"Couldn't you have been happy with what we already had?"

He wilted visibly under my eyes, but his gaze still held. "Is it wrong to want more for my family?" he whispered.

"If you 'want more' so much that you are willing to risk everything that we already own in order to have it…then, yes."

Jules dropped his head and the hand that had warmed my shoulder, finally ashamed. However, instead of feeling a wicked sense of justice, I only felt remorse, ragged as the crags of the Pyrenees. I reached out and placed my hand on his soft, full cheek, trying to close the distance between us.

"There must be something – something you can do. Are you full certain that you cannot pull out?"

"Yes, I'm certain," he replied quietly.

I tried to think of more possibilities, but I felt that I was grasping at stars. "But – if Montparnasse has enough to repay you in the event of a loss – surely he could pay you back now, and then we would not be at risk –"

"I could not ask him to do that," he whispered, his eyes still downcast.

I stared at him, bewildered. Could he not see how imperative it was to divert possible ruin? Could he not see how terribly this would affect us all if he lost – which he most likely would?

I did not like to beg, it would take my pride…but what else could I do? "Please, Jules, avert this disaster. Please pull out."

"No," he replied, a hint of a smolder in his voice. I pulled my hand away as if burned. "And even if I thought I could ask him, I would not." He stopped, and then looked me directly in the eyes. I was surprised and hurt by the cold iron in his blue gaze.

"I entered into this venture with full trust in M. Montparnasse; do you think I would have if I did not trust him? I didn't tell you at first because I knew you would react like this. But I believe that I have been acting solely for the good of my family, and no one, not even you with your prejudices and pessimism, will quench this hope I have for us, for an even brighter future."

And, with that stinging ultimatum, Jules rose and left the room, his shoulders shaking.

I could not have been more shocked than if Jules had slapped me across the face. My hands were shaking with shock and anger, and I almost forgot how to breathe. I stared unseeingly at the empty threshold, trying to gather my whirling thoughts, willing my burning eyes to stay dry.

Never in my life had Jules spoken so harshly to me, or I to him, and – though I would never admit it – it frightened me to see how passionate and defensive he was. I was afraid that he had placed too much trust in Montparnasse: a man spoken well of by those whose purses he had lined in exchange for what he wished, and spoken much worse of by the growing number of innocent souls whom he had cheated in order to line those purses. I could not understand how Jules could trust such a creature! How would Jules react when – if it ended badly?

For it most likely would. The idea of speculation had taken the business world by fire: with promises of quick riches only at the expense of a little fast thinking, who would not be tempted? Many were the tales told of those who had suddenly landed themselves with a substantial fortune – courtesy of the latest scheme they had been a part of – but even more than those were the rumors of families who had lost everything and were, for all intents and purposes, ruined. However, these stories hardly ever saw the light of day and, because of these selective "results", many had been deceived into believing that speculation was always effortless, foolproof, successful, and even honourable. More often than not, it was the exact opposite.

I thought that Jules knew better.

And now, he trusted this slippery, oily, money-grabbing schemer more than me, his own wife! Why? What had that man done to Jules to gain such pure, blind devotion? How could Jules be so willfully deaf to what could happen? Did he not trust me anymore? Did he think me only a nagging woman whose sole purpose was to hurt and annoy?

And yet I still could not push away the memories of the gaunt faces of my former students and petite rats, telling me that it would be the last time I would ever see them, all because of the manipulation of a thing called money. It made me sick to think that my family had lived off of what was rightfully theirs – as well as that of countless others – and it made me more sick to think that we might end up like them. I did not want to, but if Jules was determined to lead us down the road that had led so many to ruin…was it not better to be prepared for the worst?

But, was Jules prepared? It had seemed to me that he had not even allowed the notion to enter his head! Everyone always makes the incorrect assumption that any bad thing, be it a robbery or a natural disaster, will happen to someone else.

Unfortunately, we are all "someone else" to someone else.

Jules seemed to have no such foresight. What would he do, when he found out? Would he be sad, or angry? Would he blame me?

I suddenly sat bolt upright. What would we do? Would we really have to sell everything to cover our losses? For I did not trust a man like Montparnasse to be so unselfish as to pay a ruined man's debts…where would we live? Would we be able to afford the bare essentials, such as clothing, food, and so on? There was so little time!

I tried to breathe deeply, to calm myself. There was no sense in panicking now, not when the outcome would not be known for about another six hours. Until that fateful time, it was best to stay calm and think rationally about what to do after the news was made known.

Faintly, I could hear the sounds of Meg's chattering in the kitchen, interrupted every now and then by Christine's maturing voice. Jules must have joined them, for I could also hear his laughter rumbling down the hallway.

So, then. For six hours, I would set my teeth on edge. For six hours, I would think of the future when I could not think of the present. And, at the end of those six hours, I would return to Jules; I would crawl my way out of the opera house if I had to.

I only regretted that I could not be there to receive the news with him.

I could hear his lumbering footsteps leave the kitchen and head for the front door. My eyes tightened as I rose and left for the kitchen, a malediction ready on my lips.

Curse that Montparnasse for taking my husband away from me!

(1) This part, though not taken word for word, was very much inspired and influenced by the sayings and thoughts of Elinor in Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility.

(2) From the research that I have done, there was no strike in Paris in 1876. I only wrote this part in here to further characterization.

(3) From an online dictionary - kickback (n): a percentage of income given to a person in a position of power or influence as payment for having made the income possible: usually considered improper or unethical…the practice of an employer or a person in a supervisory position of taking back a portion of the wages due workers.

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