A/N: I shudder to think of the amount of time you all have had to wait for me to update. A thousand apologies. I promise that love will never inhibit me from writing again - though that is not likely to ever happen again anyway, for I do not plan on going through that many emotional ups and downs for a LONG time. -bittersweet smile-
On a happier note, here is the chapter you all have been waiting for, and that I have been slaving over for what feels like forever! I really hope that you enjoy it; a lot of work and effort was put into it. Thanks to all my lovely reviewers; were it not for you all, this story would not exist - or, it would not have come this far. I would also be remiss if I did not credit Ashley MacIsaac for his lovely rendition of the song "Sleepy Maggie", which inspired one of the key scenes in this chapter, and my little sister for introducing me to the song. Also, if I could thank all the people that maintain and contribute to Wikipedia, I would. This is a shout-out to you all for creating what has become my main source for what research I do that keeps this story together and saves me from looking like an idiot. You people are awesome!
The songs used in here are NOT mine. "Let Me In" is property of Kurt Bestor, and the Jewel Song was written by Gounod. While we're at it, Phantom of the Opera is not mine - otherwise it would have turned out much differently - neither is Rigoletto - same - nor is North and South (quoted below), though I highly recommend reading it.
Now, on with the show!
Chapter Seven:
Some Enchanted Evening
-Christine/An Anonymous Stranger-
"…a young lady came forward with frank dignity, – a young lady of a different type to most of those he was in the habit of seeing...He did not understand who she was, as he caught the simple, straight, unabashed look, which showed that his being there was of no concern to the beautiful countenance...
…he looked on her with an admiration he could not repress…"
- Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South
Christine
June 21, 1881
My dear Diary,
I never knew until today that it was possible to be as excited as I am about tonight. There's no obvious reason why I should be; this will be the third year that my family and I have attended the Summer Solstice festival. Perhaps it is because I am singing in the contest…but no, that's not it, though I certainly feel nervous about singing papa's song in front of everyone.
No, I simply have this amazing, indescribable, and completely unreasonable feeling: like something both significant and exciting is going to happen at the festival tonight.
Oh, this will not do! I only came out of doors to escape such jittery feelings – goodness knows I was no good with them while inside – not to dwell on them!
I will instead write about tonight's proceedings. It is to be a masquerade, as usual. Every citizen of Rouen, from the humblest stableboy to Philippe de Chagny himself will be dressed in their finest regalia, their identities only to be guessed at until the unmasking at midnight. At least, that is the idea; for some of us – my family, Gisèle, Michel, and I, to be exact – it was next to impossible to keep the nature of our disguises a secret. Gisèle's and Michel's costumes especially took much time and effort, as it was difficult to find something that they would like to wear and also lay within their means – but, after some bargaining, raw materials, and help with the sewing from Aunt Giry and Mme. André, we were able to fashion a set of costumes that I would defy even Carlotta to find fault with. Gisèle is to go as an angel – which many feel is very appropriate –and Michel will be dressed as Moses. Meg and my aunt, being the practical-minded creatures that they are, will be dressed as ballerinas, and my uncle will go as Napoleon Bonaparte.
It is rather a daring move for him; more than a few still remember the rigorous authority with which Napoleon ruled, and the deep divisions that he caused to exist throughout Europe. However, when my uncle first expressed his doubts on the matter, I assured him that his costume was so nondescript in comparison to the old Emperor's ostentatious clothing, that most would likely think him a general. He laughed, and that was the end of that.
It took me a long time to think of a costume that I would like to wear – it is hard for me to imagine dressing as something other than myself for anything besides the stage – but at last, my choice became clear: Gilda, from Rigoletto. However, when I informed my aunt of my idea, she was sad to say that, even if she could remember the costume design, she did not think that such a dress was quite within our means, improved as those were. She hastened to inform me, though, that she was certain she could help me with a simpler version of Marguerite's costume, and…well, Faust is one of my favourite operas.
And so, I shall be attending tonight's masquerade in the guise of Marguerite.
As for Raoul, I have absolutely no idea as to what costume he shall be wearing. He's been oddly secretive about the whole thing, despite my roundabout efforts to discover the truth. Why must men be so frustrating sometimes?
My goodness, how did I digress so far?
Well, the whole city will be ablaze with merry-making and revelry tonight. There will be games, an inestimable amount of food – all prepared and donated by the many wives and daughters of Rouen, and no two dishes alike – and dancing all night. There will be a contest as well, and anyone who wishes to showcase a talent of theirs may enter. I have stood by and watched these past two years, but this year I am entering. I do not know if I will necessarily win – Carlotta has won every year that she has entered, to the surprise of no one – but I would still like to sing for everyone. I certainly have not had as much training as Carlotta has, so I know that my voice is not as strong as hers – but neither is mine horrendous.
As it is, my friends and I plan on enjoying ourselves as much as possible. And, since I have just seen that the sun is a little lower in the sky than I would like – for I would still like to enjoy this walk instead of rushing on home – I must wait until tomorrow to write again, when I shall write a full and detailed account of tonight's proceedings.
I remain, in all affection and excitement,
Christine Daaé
I blew softly on the paper, drying the black, curving lines that formed my penmanship. After I had closed my diary – I noted with a slightly frazzled look that only a few pages were still blank – I dried my ink pen by wiping it firmly against the grass next to where I sat on the hilly ground. Capping the small inkbottle that I had brought with me – tightly; I had heretofore avoided stains made by leaking inkbottles, but one could never be too careful – I pushed it into one of the hidden pockets in my walking gown, gathered my diary and pen into one hand, and tenderly stretched my slightly cramped legs as I stood.
I had come outside with the intention of escaping the close quarters of the cottage. Much as I had come to love the place, it had been too enclosed for my high level of energy. Even Aunt Giry had been eager to have me out and away from her, as my hyperactivity had made her a little more nervous than she thought she could stand.
I had brought my diary out with me, as it had been nearly a week since I had last written in its pages; I thought too that taking some time to write in it would calm my high spirits.
It had done the trick, to some degree; sitting under the wide sky – today a fabulously clear robin's egg blue in colour – on a grassy hillside that afforded what was, in my opinion, the grandest view of the valley and the Seine had helped to restore me to a temporary state of serenity: temporary, as I knew that my high spirits would be easily restored at the start of tonight's fête.
The place was a favourite haunt of mine. Gisèle, Michel, Raoul, and I had often come to this area when we were younger to talk – or, as was more like the case, play – and enjoy each other's company. Even after Raoul had been packed off by his brother and sent to university, the André siblings and I still liked to come here, though we felt the loss of our playmate while his school was in session.
We all spent less time together now that any of us would like. Raoul could only be away from the University of Paris during the summer and winter holidays, and then he was forced to spend almost all of his time in the shop with his brother. Gisèle and I had finished with our general education at the school of Rouen; and as we were female and at prime marrying age, we were expected to either stay at home and practice the art of housekeeping, or mingle in our respective circles of society in the hopes of "catching" a husband. My friend and I sometimes kept up an appearance of fulfilling these expectations, but we were still able to take time every now and then to meet either out here or at the city library: another favourite haunt.
Michel, being about a year younger than Gisèle and I, had one year still before he had completed his general education, and so – aside from holidays – his mornings and afternoons were spent in the schoolhouse, with only Meg for friendly company. Thankfully, my young cousin had taken a liking to Michel; who would not? He was not disposed to be very trusting, for he had every reason to – but once that trust was earned, one saw that he was in possession of a kind heart, a quick understanding, and deeper feeling than one usually met with in a member of his age and sex.
I smiled in half melancholy at the wide scene below me as I began to meander down the hillside.
Why did growing up seem to make things so much more complicated?
Well, complicated or not, things had certainly changed since our first arrival in Rouen.
My uncle had risen somewhat in prominence as regards to the fishing industry. He was now a business partner with a relatively well-off man who arranged most of the catching and selling. Actually, my uncle was more of a business apprentice – which was what I believed, since M. Delarouche seemed to treat him as such, despite my uncle's previous experience in Paris – but since the pay was just enough that my aunt and I were able to leave off work at an out-of-the-way seamstress's shop in the real city, we could hardly complain.
Though she would have been the last one to admit it, my aunt missed teaching ballet at the opera house. After she and I had left our work, she had moped about the cottage – well, as much as Annette Giry can mope – unsure of what to do with herself, for she had never been much of a homemaker. It simply took one hint – guileless in appearance only – from my uncle that, in the real city, a warehouse of medium size had recently been vacated, and within a week my aunt had begun to teach dancing lessons there. She did not strictly ballet as she privately wished – after all, not every citizen of Rouen shared her same tastes and interests – but she was happy doing what she both did and loved best, and that was really all that mattered.
Meg had been ecstatic when her mother had announced to all of us that she had resumed her teaching. My little cousin faithfully attended each ballet lesson – or at least, those that she had had enough experience to qualify for; it was after all what she had missed most about our previous life in Paris. I also had attended lessons – more often than not with one of my friends in tow – but as I grew older, I went less and less. I have always enjoyed dancing, and I always will, but unlike most of the females in my family, it was not something that I lived for.
It was one of the small things that I had learned to let go of.
I smiled again, this time in rueful amusement. Yes, I had certainly learned to let some things go.
It had started the day I realized that the passing fancy I had felt for Raoul was simply that: a passing fancy. I had nourished this non-love for my best friend for several months after I had first officially met him. I had idolized Raoul: everything he did and said seemed to be so perfect. But one day, as I was reminiscing over the most recent conversation that we had shared, it had suddenly occurred to me that what I had been feeling could not be love. After a period of thorough reflection, I was sure that I had discovered why.
Love does not inhibit; it can only enhance. If I had truly been in love, then I should not have been as distracted as I had been. I should have been able to focus all the more on my daily tasks – for I would have had all the more reason to – instead of being distracted and obsessing over every detail and word when, at the end of the day, most of it did not matter. Too, it was all out of balance; I was so focused upon his good qualities that I would not allow myself to see his flaws, and so I could not see him as he deserved to be seen: as a human being.
Love is a driving force that adds a new vibrancy to all aspects of life, not simply one. True love, one that has been destined, can only bring about good. If there is any ill effect, then either something must be amended quickly, or it is not meant to be.
After this life-changing epiphany, my feelings for Raoul had dwindled – no, transformed. It was not sudden, not in the way a poor caterpillar will burst from its cocoon as a magnificent butterfly, but slow and sure. My feelings deepened as well – in a way that would have been impossible had I pursued my silly infatuation – into a mutual love and respect that even the most deeply connected siblings are lucky to feel.
We should have been born brother and sister.
As it was, I felt a comforting kinship with all of my friends in Rouen – though Raoul, Gisèle and Michel were certainly the closest. Though unaware, they helped to subtly alleviate the heartache and loss that I had never allowed myself to think of, yet could never forget. I had never informed anyone of what had happened, yet their love in and of itself was a healing balm, especially when compared to my – our – relative isolation in Paris. I could now think of my parents' names, remember their beloved faces, without recoiling in pain. I could watch parents play with their children without being overwhelmed with sorrow. I could listen to my friends speak of their parents without being lost in a whirlwind of grief.
Gisèle.
Esbjörne.
Maman.
Papa.
It may have been a small ration of peace, but it was certainly preferable to my previous state.
Perhaps it was no small coincidence that I should become friends with someone who bore my mother's name at a time when I was most lonely.
I closed my eyes, savoring the feel of the cool breeze kissing my upturned face and whisking through my curls: unruly as ever. I stole a glance underneath my eyelids at my surroundings. A sudden need to relieve my mind of its heavy thoughts overpowered me, but it was better that no one be around to witness the manifestation of my sudden whim.
There was no one about. I spread my arms out, as wide as an eagle's wings; despite a little more time spent out in the sun than society deemed proper, they still glowed pale in the bright light. After taking a deep breath, I dashed down the rest of the hill, speeding towards the bottom until I felt that I would take off and fly the moment I reached it. The sun shone at a diagonal slant to my eyes, and I felt full of its blinding light, sure that it must be reflected a dozen times around me. The wind roared through me, deafening me, whipping my skirts about my legs and streaming my hair behind me like a holy banner. I laughed and gasped by turns.
A creature of wind and light.
I fairly skipped along my way home, brushing against the verdant grass and ageing wildflowers. My little adventure down the hill had shortened the time I needed to reach home, not to mention that it had revived my spirits considerably.
Seized with a sudden impulse, I delineated from my path to a route well known.
Across an old dam and the slope of another hill, there exists a large yet sadly abandoned mansion. Neglect has caused it to continually fall by degrees into a state of ruin. It is for this reason that Philippe de Chagny has held onto the place for so long, for there is no one who is both rich and interested enough to buy it.
Though there of course has been no activity to prove such fanciful stories, the children still take a morbid delight in spreading dark rumours about the place. Not a month goes by without some new tale being told of moaning ghosts shaking the sashes while clamoring to be free, or the yellow eyes of bloodthirsty werewolves glinting through the overgrown trees on the grounds. Hardly anyone truly believed these tall tales, but the property had acquired an almost foreboding aura of mystery all the same.
It was called Silaton Place.
Despite its forbidden nature, my friends and I were not strangers to the area. Though we never went after sunset, nor approached any further than the rusty iron gates that fronted the house, Meg and her playmates could never be prevailed upon to accompany us very far. Raoul, Gisèle, Michel, and I would sit upon the grass just next to the lane, still chuckling good-naturedly at the faintheartedness of the younger girls.
If we were feeling particularly daring, we would at least attempt to climb the trees just outside the iron fence – Gisèle and I making doubly sure that no one else was about to see our unladylike behaviour – and try to peer into the house. We formed our own game: each of us would try to come up with the best explanation of the place's dark history.
Raoul and Michel were sure that the house had been a secret hideout for outlaws or pirates when they had still held sway over the Seine and beyond; and that the house's grand appearance was the result of their pride as they stole more and more, waiting for the king from their legends to return someday.
Gisèle had spun for us a dark tale of treachery and deceit, of fortune and family honour, of jealousy and passion, with two star-crossed lovers fated to never understand each other at the center of it all. Despite the tragedy, I would smile to myself as she held us spell-bound with her words, but I could not blame her. The house certainly did look a promising candidate for Wuthering Heights.
I was never as good a storyteller as the rest of them; my imagination was more of the kind that was stimulated by that of others, as opposed to what it could create of its own volition. Silaton Place never filled me with the feelings of great excitement or terror that seemed to make everyone else so eloquent – though perhaps this was because I only set eyes on it during the afternoon.
Instead, it made me think of an enchanted place, one put to sleep at the behest of a powerful faery. It was not dead, simply asleep…and yet, that was a sort of death too, for it could not awaken and save itself, and so it was decaying and dying by degrees. Had Sleeping Beauty not been a princess, but the daughter of a semi-wealthy vicomte in the seventeenth century, Silaton Place could easily have been her castle.
But then, I have never really cared for Sleeping Beauty.
I frowned slightly as a small current of water lapped up just over the top of the dam, wetting my boots along with almost an inch of the hem of my walking-gown.
Speaking of things decaying and dying…
The quickest way to get to Silaton Place from almost any point in Rouen is to follow the road that leads the way to our home. When it turns towards the cottage, one must leave the path and follow the Seine in a northwards direction, cross the dam, and then follow the foot of the slope to Silaton Place, where it stands grandly between two hills.
However, quickest does not always mean safest.
The dam had been built many years ago to keep a rogue tributary of the Seine in check, (1) when some farmers had still made their living this far north. However, as that area had lain abandoned for some time now, so the dam had also been abandoned as far as upkeep and maintenance.
It had probably been a sturdy structure in its day – though not many people could agree on what day that was. But now, one could see the ominous cracks that were starting to form along its sides, and the wild vegetation was growing daringly close to its edges.
I held my skirts closer to my legs and walked briskly across the remaining distance, taking care to remain within the center of the dam and away from the unsteady sides. There was a safer, albeit longer, way: instead of turning left to reach our cottage, one could follow the road to the right, where it curved painstakingly around the large hill and then led the way to Silaton Place.
But where would be the fun in that?
I walked up slowly to the gates, standing just on the left side of the road that led up to the house. The gates themselves had been left open, which was not uncommon. Jean and his fellows had a nasty habit of testing a younger child's bravado by goading him or her into meeting them at Silaton Place in the dead of night. If they did arrive, they were to prove their courage – I was sorely tempted to call it foolishness – by walking unaccompanied as close to the house as they dared.
Of course, no one could be bothered to erase any trace of their presence there.
However, instead of closing the cumbersome gates, as I was generally wont to do, I allowed myself to look upon Silaton Place without the elegantly cold barrier of iron to hold me back.
My gaze roamed over the wild grass and flowers, the gnarled and twisted trees, the colourless stone, the cracked and boarded windows, the grand and imposing architecture that made up the mansion itself. For all of its years of abandonment and neglect, the place still had an inner beauty that shone through: a proverbial diamond in the rough. I was once again forcibly reminded of the tale of Sleeping Beauty. Like her, Silaton Place simply needed someone to come and awaken it.
All that it needed was a little love and care…
So lost was I in my musings that I almost did not hear the hoofbeats that were approaching behind me.
I whirled around, startled, and then retreated to a safe point just off of the overgrown path. A large black coach was steadily advancing, drawn by two pairs of elegant white thoroughbreds who seemed completely unaffected by their exertion.
Why is there a carriage here? This road only leads one way…
I raised my eyes to look at the driver. Though he wore clothing that was considered standard for our day, he would certainly have not looked out of place in a tunic and robe, perhaps even a turban – for he had the cinnamon skin and high features of the noble races of the East. His jet-black hair glinted brightly in the afternoon sun, and his startlingly light green eyes followed mine in open curiosity as the horses began to pass by me in a clipping trot. It did not look right; he should have been out in the deserts of Arabia or Persia, fighting against a rogue band of outlaws or leading a pilgrimage to Mecca, instead of driving that black leviathan towards a deserted mansion in this green, wet country.
My gaze slipped from his face to the interior of the carriage, when it became visible. At first, I believed it to be empty; I could see nothing inside, save that the curtain that hung on the opposite window had been drawn, and all was dark.
But then, a face swam out of the gloom.
It was the profile of a coldly handsome man. His skin was very pale, almost as if he had never been out of doors; it formed a stark, although not unbecoming, contrast to his thick dark hair, which blended seamlessly into the shadows. One long, large hand – encased in rich black leather – rested regally along the window's edge.
All of these observations were made in the fraction of a moment, for my curious gaze was almost immediately arrested by his. He did not turn his face to meet mine, but his one visible eye focused solely on me, the other side of his visage still disguised by shadow. His look was unnaturally piercing, as if he could know every colour of my soul, discover the secret story of my life, simply by staring at me.
I noticed that his eyes were a frosty ice-blue.
There was a strange, unsettling stirring within my heart, a desire to know more of this stranger…an attraction towards him. I could not tear my eyes away. Instead of being cowed or offended by his frank stare, I lifted my chin fractionally and stared right back at him: meeting him head-on.
Who are you?
I thought I glimpsed one dark, slanting eyebrow raising in haughty surprise, but I continued to watch him as the coach passed me by. It was with a tinge of chagrin that I realized that he was the reason the gates had been left open, for the horses pulled the carriage straight through them and did not stop until they had reached the front steps of the house.
Questions immediately exploded in my mind like Chinese fireworks. Who exactly were these men? From where did they come? What was their purpose here? Surely they did not mean to live in Silaton Place! But then, why else was he – they – what other reason could there be?
I shook my head firmly to dislodge these meddlesome questions. I suppose that it was natural to feel curiosity, especially in a situation such as this. One could not help it – I could not help it.
But it really was none of my business.
And evening was soon approaching.
I turned myself around and began to walk back the way that I had come. I tried to tread gracefully, despite an uncustomary awkwardness in my limbs, the reason for which I dared not think of. My overly sensitive ears caught the final sounds of the carriage halting, then that of the foreign driver alighting from his position and assisting his passenger to do the same.
An uncanny prickling feeling suddenly broke out along my scalp, causing a deep flush to spread down my neck. I could easily imagine a piercing gaze focused on my retreating figure, a gaze that originated from two unearthly blue eyes.
I kept my face forward, and did not look back.
"Christine!"
Turning from my conversation with Meg, I glanced up to see who had called my name.
It was of course unnecessary, for I would recognize that voice almost anywhere.
"Raoul!" I cried in delight, running forward to meet my best friend.
He caught me in a friendly embrace, laughing at my childlike candor. I had not seen him since he had come to spend the Christmas holidays in Rouen, and even then he had only visited twice, so I was terribly eager to see him again.
Despite two years of attendance, university had not served to change him much. His thin, lanky frame had acquired a fine musculature since adolescence, and sport had helped to keep him from wasting away over his studies. Perhaps his skin had paled somewhat from being constantly held hostage by his professors – his words, not mine – but his hair, a little longer than usual, still shone its same colour in the light, and his clear blue eyes still reflected their same expression of mischief and amusement.
When he had first left, he had promised to write to me. I did not expect that he would keep that promise, but so he had, and for two years. This of course had raised idle gossip among our fellow citizens – just about anything will – to the point that my guardians had requested a private interview with me to ask whether there existed some sort of understanding between Raoul and I. But I had explained to them, and to anyone else who had enough courage to ask me, that no feelings existed between us beyond that of a brother and sister. And, if proper society allowed that true siblings could write to each other without fear of remonstrance, then why should two good friends who felt just as much not do the same?
It served to amuse him when next I wrote, though he was sorry for the trouble and vexation that I had been put through. At least no one brought up the subject again – except for Carlotta, but I had learned to ignore her verbal attacks where Raoul was concerned.
"Bonsoir, ma chère amie," he said as we broke apart. I smiled up at him, comforted by the sight of his customary roguish grin.
"And a good evening to you, Raoul! Are you prepared for all the wondrous glories of tonight's revelries?"
He tapped the tip of my nose with one long finger. "More than you, for I see that you have not yet put on your mask!"
I stepped back, making to tie my own simply adorned white mask behind my head, but stopped when I saw Raoul's costume. It was a nondescript black trimmed with a dark wine red, and had more of a style reminiscent of the High Renaissance. Beyond that, however, it was impossible to tell what exactly it was.
"But what are you dressed as?" I blurted out in curiosity.
"Pardon me, for I thought that it must be obvious: Dr. Faust, to go along with your Marguerite."
I raised my eyebrows at him, feeling my face become a degree paler. Perhaps I was feeling rather paranoid, but I did not quite like the way that he had said, "to go along with your Marguerite". The silence became laced with discomfiture as he waited for my reply. However, a suspicion was forming within my mind, and I turned to face my aunt, who had come up behind us along with my uncle and cousin.
"Did you plan this?" I asked her, moving again to tie my mask behind my head. Raoul took the white ribbons within his bare hands in order to assist me, and I worked not to withdraw my own too quickly.
"No, my dear," my aunt replied, smiling with puzzled amusement. "I assure you I had no knowledge of this scheme."
"The fault is mine," Raoul said behind me. I turned to face him. "I tricked Michel into revealing to me what your costume was so that we might match."
I could not think of how to reply. I was unsure of whether to be vexed or amused at his enthusiasm, and it embarrassed me to be caught in this situation with my best friend.
"But," he continued in a low, intimate tone, "may I say that tonight, you look truly magnificent."
This was getting out of hand.
"Thank you, but I'm afraid I cannot return the compliment: not honestly, at any rate," I said, forcing a laugh. "Your costume does not suit you at all! What on earth could have possessed you to dress as the evil Dr. Faust, of all people?"
He laughed, breaking the tension. "Well, it was a very strange occurrence. On a dark and stormy night, Méphistophélès (2) came to me in a dream–"
I swatted his arm playfully, interrupting his fanciful yarn. "Fie, sir! You dare to poke fun at a lady, when her question was meant in earnest? For shame! What would your brother think?"
"What my brother doesn't know will not hurt him," Raoul answered in a conspiratorial tone, and then joined me when I burst out laughing. Accepting his proffered arm, we walked with my family down the dirt road that led the way to the real city, talking and laughing as we went.
Gisèle and Michel met us just within the city's limits, and after some small conversation, my guardians granted me permission to spend the evening with my best friends. Meg quickly spotted her own and took off to play with them with only a hasty by-your-leave. Shaking their heads and chuckling over their daughter's independent spirit, my aunt and uncle walked off hand in hand to form their own memories of tonight's proceedings.
The transformation that the city underwent each Summer Solstice never ceased to amaze me. Even after attending the annual festival twice before, I still could not help but gaze in awe at the beautiful sights that filled Rouen. In Paris, no matter how grand a scale the celebration, there was always some part of the city that had been shut out, some suburb left to decay in its squalor. But here, every citizen was included, every street lined with decorations, tables of food and drink, stalls of strange and exotic wares that were only sold once a year.
My friends chuckled good-naturedly as I stared in open admiration at the delicate paper lanterns that swung along each street to light our way, the new items – everything from jade necklaces to silver mirrors to pennywhistles, and more – being sold this year, and the costumes of the people themselves: beautiful, mystical, and some downright grotesque. They would laugh; they had lived here all their lives. But I didn't care. I was determined to enjoy myself tonight.
Masquerade!
Every face a different shade,
Masquerade!
Hide your face so the world will never find you!
BOOM!
We ran the rest of the way towards the fireworks tent, laughing in the exhilaration. Raoul had wanted to meet his brother at least once before they both disappeared completely into the evening's festivities, and when he had mentioned that Philippe de Chagny would most likely be helping to set up the fireworks that someone had donated, the rest of us were suddenly much more eager to see Raoul's brother.
"Good evening, brother!" Raoul called as we burst through the flap that was the tent's door, still laughing and panting.
Philippe de Chagny raised an eyebrow, most likely at our unconventional mode of entry, but otherwise did not call attention to our behaviour. "Good evening, Raoul. Mademoiselle Daaé, Mademoiselle André, Monsieur André," he added, nodding to each of us in turn.
We each bowed back to him. Though Michel said nothing, I could sense that he felt pleased at being referred to as Monsieur André.
It came as no surprise to me that, despite our disguises, the mayor knew of our identities. He had seen us all often enough together that it would have been strange if he had not known who we were.
"Good evening, Monsieur le mayor," Gisèle replied, ever the gentlewoman.
"Oh, none of that, none of that," M. de Chagny muttered, waving one hand as if he could wipe away his position with it. "Tonight's a night for merrymaking! Why are you not out enjoying the festivities?"
"Why, to see you!" Raoul said, as if it were the most obvious reason in the world. He walked around a large wooden crate and placed a quick, brotherly kiss on the older man's cheek. "I could not take off and enjoy myself without seeing my elder brother at least once!"
Philippe smiled as Raoul gave him a quick hug. I knew that Raoul had returned from university only a few days ago, and so their comrade-like behaviour, which was rather uncharacteristic for both of them, would continue for only a few days more.
However, that did not mean that they had not missed each other when Raoul had been away.
"And t-t-to see the fireworks," Michel added, looking about the inside of the tent with a mixture of awe and covetousness. "Who c-c-could p-p-p-possibly afford t-to d-d-donate all of this?"
The mayor gave us all a wide-eyed look of incredulity.
"Why, have you not heard?"
"Heard what?" we all chimed together, sensing a story.
"I have finally found myself in a position to sell Silaton Place – in fact, I have sold Silaton Place, to the Comte di Ribaldi. He sent these fireworks yesterday as a gift to add to our fête; was that not thoughtful of him? He arrives from Paris today, if I recall correctly."
Sudden chills went down my spine, and I was hard-pressed not to shudder, though I hardly knew whether it was from delight or terror. The memory of a penetrating ice-blue eye was suddenly brought to the forefront of my mind.
He arrives from Paris today.
He had arrived from Paris today.
The mysterious man that I had seen was the Comte di Ribaldi.
"Ribaldi? Is he Italian, then?" Gisèle asked, excitement evident in her open expression. She and I moved out of the way as three men entered the tent to select more fireworks.
Philippe de Chagny waited until the men had left, and then shrugged. "I do not know, for I have neither seen nor spoke with him. I have only ever conducted business with his solicitor – er…I can never his name–"
"Is he a tall man of Middle Eastern descent, perhaps Persian, with jet-black hair and light green eyes?"
Every eye turned towards me, shock evident in their expressions. I flushed in the awkward silence, but did not volunteer more.
"Yes," Raoul's brother finally answered, his voice coloured with astonishment. "But – pardon me, but how did you know?"
"I saw him today," I answered quietly. "Him…and the Comte di Ribaldi."
BOOM!
"Christine! You might have said!" Gisèle admonished as she, her brother, and Raoul drew closer to me, their eyes alight with curiosity.
I laughed. "To be honest, I was so caught up in the excitement of tonight's masquerade that I had nearly forgotten about it."
That was not entirely true. I had been caught up in the excitement as a means of forgetting the unsettling encounter.
During my walk home, I had been preoccupied with questions concerning what had happened. A relentless mantra pounded within my mind: who was he? Why was he here? Why did I feel this pull towards this man, a man whom I had only briefly glimpsed? That memory had repeated itself more times than I would care to admit…
When I had reached the cottage, I had realized that the best thing to do was to forget the whole affair – not that there had been much to forget in the first place. But I did not want to pursue another silly infatuation; I was – for the most part – content with my life remaining the way that it was, without it being turned upside-down by a stranger.
It seemed, however, that I would not be allowed to forget.
BOOM!
"Tell us what happened!" my friends begged.
I was strangely unwilling to share my short story; it seemed too private a moment, too intimate an experience. I summarized what had happened, making it to sound as if it had been just an ordinary glimpsing of nobility – but it was never ordinary to glimpse nobility in Rouen, let alone one traveling to take possession of a decades-abandoned mansion with a right-hand man who hailed from the Middle East.
I noted with dismay that Raoul frowned deeply when I described the Comte as "handsome".
BOOM!
There was a pause after I had finished my tale.
"So," Gisèle said slowly, mercifully breaking the silence, "he is not Italian."
I nearly laughed aloud in relief. "I don't believe so, although I cannot be sure."
"How extraordinary," Philippe de Chagny murmured to himself.
"If I had s-seen a m-m-member of the nob-b-bility, I would not have f-f-f-forg-gotten," Michel said softly.
Raoul said nothing.
BOOM!
"Oh, get on with you," Philippe said to us, suddenly gruff. "And take your tales of mysterious noblemen with you; I still have to oversee the lighting of these fireworks!"
Thus dismissed, we left the pavilion, each of us wishing the mayor a good night over our shoulders.
I somehow felt responsible for the serious mood that had settled over our small group, so when Michel asked what we should do next, I immediately expressed a desire to dance. Gisèle took up my cause, trying to persuade her younger brother as I looked imploringly at Raoul, my eyes opened to their widest and most alluring. The boys went along with our game, pretending to be horrified at the thought of dancing even as we moved towards the main square. Eventually, they surrendered, and we ran to the square, our former lightheartedness restored.
The Summer Solstice is more often than not the warmest night of the year; this, combined with the fact that the Assembly Rooms (3) were far too small to hold the number of people who wished to dance at the festival, had caused the dancing to be held outside in the main square. The musicians were set up along the steps that led to the Rooms themselves, and the dancers formed a line that more often than not was so long that it curved around the marble fountain in the center of the square. Some complained of the inconvenience – not to mention the impropriety – of dancing out-of-doors, but I thought it a wondrous thing to dance out in the open, under the night sky.
Raoul asked for my hand, and I granted it. Michel and his sister joined us as we found a place in the dance.
I lined up with the other women, barely suppressing a grin of excitement as we waited for the music to begin. It started quietly, and then grew in volume as the last of the latecomers readied themselves.
We moved in time with the rhythm; our actions were controlled by it. I felt the familiar sensation of the beat echoing in my chest, taking the place of my heart as I moved down the line in the high-spirited reel. My feet, encased in small but sturdy slippers, skipped and jumped lightly over the smooth cobblestones, and I was swept away by the raw freedom I felt in my movements.
For the first time in months, I felt truly graceful.
My arms curved playfully about me as I weaved in and out of the line of dancing partners: a human thread in the tapestry of dance. I reveled in the feel of my skirts flowing and twining about my legs, in moving with grace, energy, and freedom…and suddenly, I laughed to the open sky.
I had not felt such pure, unadulterated joy for so long; yet here, with the music moving me and my best friend dancing with me – laughing with me, I was overcome with an incredible sense of light and happiness.
I felt true belonging.
An Anonymous Stranger
"She was not a vision after all."
I turned to look at my companion. The tone with which he had spoken those words was so soft, awed and beautiful – rendered all the more beautiful by that voice: it could command angels – that I at first did not realize that it was he who had spoken. Looking past the black porcelain mask – he had chosen to dress as Othello, of all people – I watched his eyes as they focused on a point far away. I followed his gaze, though I was sure I knew what – or rather, whom he was staring at.
I was correct.
"Her name is Christine Daaé," I offered.
"I am aware of that fact," he growled, the habitual coldness creeping back into his voice.
We were silent for a few moments as the music and sounds of crazed revelry echoed about us. Smiling slightly, I watched as the young woman whom I had seen along the way to our new home danced a lively reel. Despite the white mask that covered the top half of her face, I still recognized her; there was no mistaking that wild mass of dark curls. She laughed suddenly, and it struck me that, out of all the citizens in this town, she was the one who both appreciated and enjoyed the dance the most.
"She's the one."
I whirled to stare at him, horrified.
"My lord – you can't mean – and so soon–!"
He cut me off with an irate swipe of his arm. "Frankly, mon ami, I am tired of waiting!"
A wealth of painful history lay behind his words: history that I knew all too well, for I had experienced it by his side. I could not chastise him, for I had been a witness to his sufferings; I had even felt them myself, though he thankfully was entirely unaware of it. I waited in silence, but he did not say anything more.
"What would you have me do?" I finally asked, defeated.
He pressed his lips together in silent thought, then replied: "Keep an eye on her. Learn more of her."
I quirked an eyebrow. "And you?"
His mouth twisted into a bitter smile that did not reach his eyes. "I think that it would be best if I took my leave before these–" he paused, but I could still hear his derision as clearly as if he had screamed it, "–people start to ask too many questions. And it really would be in the interest of no one if I were to still be within the vicinity of tonight's fête at the time of the unmasking, don't you think?"
I nodded slowly. He knew that the unmasking did not take place for several hours more, and what was more, he knew that I knew.
His masks and disguises might fool others, but he could not fool me.
With a flick of his dark cloak, he turned and immediately disappeared into the crowd. I knew I would not see him again until I returned to the house later that night – or possibly early the next morning; one could never be sure with the French – and would most likely find him brooding by the fireplace or asleep at his desk, pen and manuscript in hand.
I allowed myself the luxury of sighing once in exasperation, and then moved to a more discreet place where I could still "keep an eye" on Christine Daaé.
Christine
I love the part in fairy tales
That's very near the end,
When all the kingdom cheers for their new queen
And all is well, and all is good,
And ev'ryone belongs,
And happily they're ever aftering
But when I enter the kingdom of dreams
And face the promise of all I can be,
Will they see me as a heroine?
Tell me, will they let me in?
And if a heart's breaking,
A part of me's aching
To show them how much that I care
But if no one lets me
Or turns and forgets me,
Then how,
How can I share?
There is a part in fairy tales
That's very near the end:
The princess and the prince proclaim their love
And hearts are healed, and souls are changed,
And two blend into one,
All orchestrated by the stars above
But when I stand at the door of my dreams
And face a lonely heart calling for me,
I could fill that emptiness within,
If that heart would let me in…
Won't someone let me in?
The last note of my father's song hung and wavered in the night air, light as the smoke from a dying candle. Applause echoed around my feet, and I curtsied in gratitude, my legs shaking and wobbling like a newborn foal's.
I had done it. I had sung for everyone.
It was of course not the grand affair that I had imagined in my childhood. I did not think that I would ever be in a position to sing in a talent contest during a masquerade.
The contest was always held on an outdoor platform in the middle of the main street. Anyone who wished to attend the performance could simply stand and watch; those who did not could make their way to other places and amusements. The tall, half-timbered buildings that surrounded the street enhanced the acoustics, which often helped to catch the attention of masked passersby.
Knowing this fact had not served to abate my feelings of anxiety when I had first stepped onto that platform.
After the last act, a panel of three judges – Messrs. Debienne and Poligny, and Madame Lefevre – debated as to whom should receive the first, second, and third place awards. As they were often making marks during performances, and were of similar minds, they usually came to an agreement very quickly.
It was the judging that I both dreaded and anticipated the most.
I slowly descended the steps, a shy smile on my face. Gisèle, Michel, and Raoul awaited me at the bottom, their faces split into proud grins as they approached me.
"That was amazing!" Gisèle cried as she briefly wrapped her arms about my shoulders.
"You were gr-gr-great, Ch-ch-christ-tine," Michel added, still grinning.
"Beautiful," Raoul murmured, open approval in his eyes.
I opened my mouth to thank them, but a hand on my elbow stopped me. I turned, and came face-to-face with Carlotta, arrayed as the beguiling Carmen.
She regarded me with a conscious air of superiority, and I tried very hard not to wilt under her gaze as I waited for her to speak. I had learned very quickly that it was best to allow her to "make the first move", as Michel often termed it, and then respond. After all, it was better to be on the defensive as opposed to the offensive: better, at least, for my conscience and the feelings of those involved.
Carlotta gave a small, delicate sniff, then said artfully: "Well, Christine Daaé, you have improved."
The double entendre of her words was not lost on me. It could perhaps be meant as a compliment, but I knew Carlotta too well: it was an insult. Ever since that incident almost three years ago, she had carried a vengeful grudge against me. I tried to be kind to her – even to the point of apologizing for my angry words that day at the schoolhouse, although I had meant every single one of them – and yet, she still persisted in her dislike towards me.
But I refused to be drawn into conflict, no matter how much I wished to defend my performance – although that had not quite met with my high standards. I would not be taken in, not here in this crowd of people and within sight of the judges, at this masquerade that was meant to be a joyous occasion.
"Merci, Carlotta," I simply replied.
Her eyes tightened in displeasure, and it was with quiet triumph that I realized I had frustrated her more with my kind words than I would have with angry ones. We were all silent for a moment: Raoul and Michel bearing hostile expressions, Gisèle standing just behind me with a tinge of fear in her eyes, Carlotta staring at us all with disdain.
Suddenly, her perfectly shaped lips twisted into a sneer. "What beautiful shoes, Gisèle! They match your dress perfectly!"
And with one last contemptuous glance at my friend's worn and patched shoes – her only pair, at present – Carlotta sauntered up the steps to the stage.
"Why, you–!" Michel growled as he started after her.
"Michel, please!" I interrupted him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Not here."
He stopped for a moment, then exhaled a bitter sigh. I was relieved to see that the anger in his face had diminished somewhat.
"Sh-she should n-n-not have s-said that, n-not t-t-to m-m-my s-sister," he muttered darkly, glaring at Carlotta as she lifted her ribs and cleared her throat.
"Of course not," I answered quietly. "But you must realize that returning hurt for hurt will only make things worse. Trust me: I know."
I turned to Gisèle. She was mute, pale and trembling from the shock of the surprise attack she had suffered. Tenderly, I wrapped my arms about her shoulders.
"Pay her no heed, Gisèle," I whispered. "She's just a spiteful creature who is superficial enough to judge people on their outward appearances. If she really knew what a wonderful person you are, she would not have dared to say such a wicked thing."
My friend nodded weakly, but I could not ignore the hot tear that fell onto my shoulder and burned a trail down my back.
Carlotta threw a triumphant smirk our way – I was glad that Gisèle was positioned in such a way as prevented her from seeing it – then shook back her magnificent head of auburn curls and opened her mouth in a perfectly trained O.
Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir,
Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir, (4)
I felt my face turn white with shock.
"Raoul," I murmured. He turned to me, an expression of concern on his face.
"It's the Jewel Song," I whispered.
Est-ce toi, Marguerite,
Est-ce toi?
Réponds-moi, réponds-moi,
Réponds, réponds, réponds vite!
"In Faust, Marguerite sings this aria when she receives a gift of jewels from her admirer," Raoul explained to our friends when they looked at us with questioning glances. "It's one of Gounod's most renowned pieces of music."
Michel and Gisèle turned to me. Comprehension, and then compassion, dawned on their faces when they remembered just exactly whom I had dressed as.
I wrapped my arms about my torso: one hand resting at my waist, the other across my shoulder, hiding my bodice. Suddenly, I wished that I had followed my intuition and pushed my aunt to allow me to dress as Gilda, or someone else.
Anyone but Marguerite.
"Oh, Christine," Gisèle said in a quiet tone of pity. Raoul placed a hand on my shoulder: comforting in its silent weight and warmth. Michel glared all the more fiercely at the prima donna onstage.
Non! Non! Ce n'est plus toi!
Non...non, ce n'est plus ton visage;
C'est la fille d'un roi;
C'est la fille d'un roi!
Ce n'est plus toi,
Ce n'est plus toi,
C'est la fille d'un roi;
Qu'on salut au passage!
I simply could not believe that this was about me. It must have been a coincidence; Carlotta would still have chosen to sing that song, even if I had dressed as a wind-up monkey that belonged on a barrel organ. What could she possibly have to gain by purposefully scheming this?
Your mortification, a tiny voice whispered in the back of my mind. I pushed it away forcefully. That could not be true. Carlotta did not know me well enough; she could not hate me that much.
Could she?
Ah, s'il était ici!
S'il me voyait ainsi!
Comme une demoiselle
Il me trouverait belle, ah!
Comme une demoiselle,
Il me trouverait belle,
Comme une demoiselle,
Il me trouverait belle!
Marguerite, ce n'est plus toi!
Ce n'est plus ton visage;
La, ce n'est plus ton visage;
Qu'on salut au passage!
Not a single note had been sung out of pitch. Each one had resonated perfectly, with the exact amount of breath support needed to make it triumphantly loud or delicately soft. She had never hesitated, and certainly had not forgotten any words or phrases.
In short, Carlotta's performance had been faultless.
I closed my eyes against the roar of the applause that surrounded me.
I stood in a line with the other contestants upon the platform, waiting anxiously for the judges to come to an agreement. They seemed to be debating heatedly about something; I saw Mme. Lefevre gesticulating with her arms, an animated expression on her face. Messrs. Debienne and Poligny were shaking their heads at her and speaking in low, firm tones.
I looked at the man to my left. He was adorned in the brightly coloured outfit of a jester, with a white harlequin's mask concealing the top half of his face. He had both amused and awed everyone with his witty jests and talent in juggling, and had helped to restore my spirits after Carlotta had performed.
He glanced down at me, and I smiled nervously up at him.
Returning it, he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, "I thought you did quite well."
"Oh – merci, monsieur," I whispered, startled. After a moment's pause, I added, "Your performance was extraordinary; where did you learn so many tricks?"
He grinned. "God gifted me with a sense of balance, a wife with a unique sense of humour, and too much time on my hands. Those 'tricks' were the natural outcome."
I chuckled under my breath.
Monsieur Debienne stepped onto the stage, three certificates and a small roll of francs in hand.
"Messieurs et Mesdames, thank you for joining us here tonight!" he began. The people who had grouped about the platform erupted into applause again.
"Merci, merci," he said, nodding and bowing as if he had performed as well. "After some deliberation–" I noted with no small degree of displeasure the frown with which he looked upon Mme. Lefevre, "–we have carefully selected the winners of tonight's contest. In third place, Romeo and Juliet!"
I clapped along with everyone else as an older couple stepped out of their places in the line to receive their certificate and money as their reward. The couple – whomever they were; the judges would not reveal the true names of the contestants, for fear of spoiling the unmasking that would take place in an hour – had performed the beginning of the fifth scene from the third act of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet – translated into French, of course. I smiled as they bowed and curtsied once more before disappearing into the crowd. They had performed remarkably well.
"In second place, the Jester!"
"Congratulations," I said just above the enthusiasm of the people below us as the man began to walk past me. He smiled in response, then claimed his prize. After repeating one of his shorter tricks at the request of the audience, he walked off of the stage, found Mme. Lefevre, and intimately slipped his arm through hers.
I smiled again, self-effacingly.
Monsieur Lefevre. I should have known.
"And, in first place…"
I waited with bated breath, my heart fluttering in my throat. It was foolish to hope; I had hardly any training in the art of singing, especially in comparison to others who had sung tonight, and my father's song was virtually unheard of. Yet a part of me wished – wanted so desperately…
"Carmen!"
I stared at Carlotta in dismay as she stepped forward, a triumphant smile stretched across her face. She eagerly accepted her certificate and money, and I was sure that she would be parading around a new fashion accessory come morning.
"And that concludes our contest for this year! Do not forget: the unmasking will be taking place at the main square in one hour!"
Slowly, the crowd began to dissipate. I followed my fellow performers as they made their way back down to the street.
Trying to take deep breaths, I worked to calm myself, forcing the burning sensation at the corners of my eyes to disappear. No, not here, I told myself firmly. I was mortified, to be sure; despite the fact that I had repeatedly thought that I had only entered the contest to sing and not win, a part of me, however small, had dreamed and hoped that I would win, that someone would see the hard work and love that I had put into my performance. I had hoped that my childhood dream could still come true.
It was foolish – no, not foolish; simply immature on my part. I knew that Carlotta would enter – she never could pass up the opportunity to showcase her talent – and I should have better prepared myself for disappointment.
But still…it would have been nice, to have the dream come true.
My friends met me at the end of the makeshift stairs, trepidation and pity plain in their expressions. Raoul took one look at my face, and then swept me into a friendly embrace.
"Christine, I am so sorry," he said in a low tone; I could feel the pleasant sensation of his voice vibrating in his chest. I closed my eyes and sighed softly: a reprieve to my built-up feelings of disappointment and bitterness.
"You should have w-w-won," Michel added when Raoul and I broke apart.
I shook my head gently. "No; Carlotta sang much better than I did. She's a horrible person," I added when their stares of incredulity and worry became too much to bear. They all chuckled at my uncharacteristic statement, and the corners of my mouth briefly twitched upwards.
"But…being bitter won't make me a better singer."
I left them, walking slowly towards where Carlotta stood within a circle of admirers. Perhaps I was asking too much of myself in so short an amount of time, but my mother had raised me to be kind to everyone around me, even those whom I disliked or who disliked me. I would not dishonour her memory by being petty or spiteful, even though it would be much easier to simply walk away.
When I felt that I could safely interject without exactly interrupting, I placed a hand to Carlotta's elbow, much as she had done for me a matter of minutes ago. She turned, gaping when she recognized me.
"Congratulations on your success," I offered, my tone of voice much calmer than I felt. I forced myself to smile benignly.
Carlotta recovered from her shock rather admirably.
"Merci," she managed to choke out. After a moment, she added with an airy wave of her hand, "It really was nothing; I was expecting it, after all. I ought rather to thank you," she bent towards me with an expression on her face that I had learnt to fear, for all that it was familiar to me, "for my success. You see, it was you that inspired me to sing the aria that I chose."
I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. Shock clouded my mind, and I could not think of anything to say. Carlotta's admirers stared at me; some tittered nervously, others glared at me down long noses. Carlotta herself grinned in sadistic vengeance, and then turned back to her company. To my burning shame, they broke out into a fit of hysteric laughter.
Stepping back slowly, I found myself willing my eyes to stay dry once more. My suspicions were correct: she had sung the Jewel Song as an intended slight against me.
Why? Why did Carlotta hate me so much? What had I done to deserve this? I had honestly tried to be kind to her; there had been nothing artful in my manner. And still she persisted in her cruelty…
My eyes wandered mournfully around at the backs of the retreating strangers, the kaleidoscope of bright colours. How I should love to lose myself in it, and forget that any of this had ever happened –
Something caught my eye – or rather, someone.
He was dressed as he ought to have been. A rich scarlet robe embroidered with tiny gold thread hung majestically about his shoulders, covering the cream-coloured long-sleeved tunic underneath. A belt of plated gold – wrought in intricate, swirling designs – encircled his trim waist. Wrapped about his head was a turban made of red velvet; at a point just above his forehead, a large yellow topaz – glimmering like liquid in the lamplight – pinned a tall peacock feather to the fabric. Strangely, he was unmasked, and so, despite the distance between us, I recognized him immediately.
He was the Comte di Ribaldi's solicitor.
I peered more closely at him. His penetrating eyes were focused upon mine, and a strange expression lay within them: it was as if he was surprised, although not displeased, at something that I had done.
And then he did something even more strange. Placing both palms together, fingers held upward, he held his hands at just below chin-level…and bowed.
I raised my eyebrows in an expression of shock. Was I dreaming? Had the incident with Carlotta so overcharged my mind that I had begun to hallucinate? Surely, this man could not be bowing to me!
I looked over both shoulders to ascertain if perhaps he had been bowing towards someone else, someone that I had not noticed. There was no one. When I turned back to face him, an amused smile lit up his face: displaying white, even teeth beneath his carefully trimmed moustache. He nodded slightly, as if to answer my unspoken question.
I took a step closer, my brows knitting together in confusion. Who exactly was this man? Why was he acting so deferential towards me: a young woman whom he had never met before? And – I hardly dared to think it – if he was here, then where was his enigmatic employer?
"Christine!"
I whirled, startled at the sound of Raoul's voice.
"What are you staring at?"
I looked back to where the Comte's solicitor had been standing.
He had disappeared.
I quickly scanned the crowd for any sign of a red velvet turban, but there was none to be seen. Turning slightly, I smiled up at my friend's curious face.
"Nothing, Raoul."
(1) This is NOT TRUE. I am only inserting this for future purposes of the story (those who have seen Rigoletto probably know what I'm talking about). That sentence is COMPLETELY FALSE. Do I need to say it again? IT'S NOT TRUE. Do NOT quote me on this; you will only make a fool of yourself, and I refuse to take any responsibility should it happen.
(2) Méphistophélès (Satan's name in Gounod's opera Faust) comes to Dr. Faust in the first Act when Faust invokes the powers of Hell, rejecting science and faith. Méphistophélès promises the doctor his services on Earth, if he will serve Méphistophélès in Hell.
(3) From Wikipedia: "…gathering places for members of the higher social classes open to members of both sexes…Major sets of assembly rooms in London, in spa towns such as Bath and in important provincial cities such as York, were able to accommodate hundreds, or in some cases over a thousand people for events such as masquerades (masked balls), conventional balls, public concerts and assemblies (simply gatherings for conversation, perhaps with incidental music and entertainments). By later standards these were formal events: the attendees were usually screened to make sure no one of insufficient rank gained admittance; admission might be subscription only; and unmarried women were chaperoned. Nonetheless, assemblies played an important part in the marriage market of the day. A major set of assembly rooms consisted of a main room and several smaller subsidiary rooms such as card rooms, tea rooms and supper rooms. On the other hand in smaller towns a single large room attached to the best inn might serve for the occasional assembly for the local landed gentry." Once again, this is another thing that you must NOT quote me on; from what I have seen in my little store of research, there are no assembly rooms in Rouen. This is just something your whimsical authoress has inserted into the story so that she sounds like she knows what she's talking about. ;D
(4) Marguerite's famous aria from Gounod's Faust. The literal translation, written by Lea Frey, is below. In my opinion, the lyrics are rather fitting for Carlotta…
Ah, I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror,
Ah, I laugh to see myself so beautiful in this mirror,
Is it you, Marguerite,
Is it you?
Answer me, answer me,
Respond, respond, respond quickly!
No, no! It's no longer you!
No...no, it's no longer your face;
It's the daughter of a king,
It's the daughter of a king!
It's no longer you,
It's no longer you,
It's the daughter of a king
One must bow to her as she passes!
Ah if only he were here!
If he should see me thus
Like a lady
He would find me so beautiful, ah!
Like a lady,
He would find me beautiful,
Like a lady,
He would find me beautiful!
Marguerite, it's no longer you!
It's no longer your face;
Yes, it's no longer your face;
One must bow to her as she passes!
You will leave me some love, won't you? -smiles beseechingly-