A/N: And what, you might ask, is my excuse for the late update this time? Basically, I wrote the next chapter as planned in my head, the story/characters got out of control, and I ended up with a crappy pile of OOC-ness on my hands. So I skipped it and went to the next chapter, which is rather short. I've already started working on the next chapter, but I should warn you all that I have finals (but only two! HAHA!), graduation, and a big move ahead of me. But I promise you all I WILL try to update faster.

This is mostly just a filler/foreshadowing chapter, but it will be important later. Also, if any of you are interested in reading a Cat R. Waul/Tanya Mousekewitz (Fievel Goes West) fanfic, PM me and I'll give you the link to mine.

Principia: I appreciate that you took the time to point out any accent discrepancy, but I would have appreciated it even more if you had offered some constructive criticism on the story itself. Unfortunately, I have absolutely no idea what you meant by the last three words on your review, so forgive me for disregarding it.

Chapter Eight:

Some Newcomer Banker

-Philippe de Chagny/Richard Firmin-

"Our thoughts are unseen hands shaping the people we meet. Whatever we truly think them to be, that's what they'll become for us."

-Richard Cowper

Philippe de Chagny

"Bonjour, Philippe."

I looked up quickly at the sound of my name. So absorbed had I been in balancing the books that I had not heard the door to my store open – and for the first time this morning; but then, it was the morning after the Summer Solstice festival – to admit one of my few true friends.

My look of surprise changed into calm delight. "Bonjour, Paul," I returned as Paul Lefevre approached the counter behind which I stood.

I glanced down briefly at my accounting and finished writing my last note.

"Have you heard about what happened to the Mifroids?"

I nodded, still looking down. Paul was referring to one of the families that lived – well, had lived on one of the farms outside the city. Unfortunately, they could no longer afford the place, and had been forced to sell.

"Yes, I have. He is fortunate that he has a brother that they may stay with in Paris. They can start afresh."

I capped my inkbottle, blew the last piece of parchment dry, and placed the book in its respective place on the shelf underneath the counter. When I rose, I added, "One would think these places had legs, the way they just disappear nowadays."

Paul nodded. "I should know," he muttered: half in earnest, half in sarcastic amusement.

I chuckled when he did.

We chatted idly for a few minutes, bartering questions and comments on the festival, the weather, our work, and so on. I waited patiently for him to bring up whatever business he had come here for. Unlike most of my customers, he never came here simply to exchange gossip.

Finally, during a lull in our conversation, he pulled out two separate pieces of crisp parchment from his dark leather attaché case. (1)

"This is the certified copy of the contract drawn up for Mme. Muscat's property that you requested."

He slid the copy into my waiting hand. My eyes devoured the words greedily.

"Merci," I murmured.

"There is another thing."

Something in the tone of Paul's voice caused me to halt my examination. I looked back up at his face, and the expression I saw there vaguely unsettled me. He looked as if he was about to deliver some shocking news, and was bracing himself for my reaction.

"What is it?"

"I received a visit from Nadir Khan earlier today. The Comte di Ribaldi's solicitor," he added when he noticed my blank expression.

"Ah, yes." I never could remember the poor man's name. "And what was his business?"

"He came to my bank to open an account on behalf of the Comte. He also bade me notify you of two things. The first was that, as of this morning, your price for Silaton Place has been paid in full."

I braced myself against the countertop, hardly daring to breathe. Surely this could not be true! Silaton Place was not in the best condition, but that fact still did not greatly diminish the property's value. Even with all of a nobleman's accumulated wealth, I had still been sure that it would take le Comte several installments at least to pay it off!

"Paid? In full?" I whispered hoarsely.

Paul only nodded.

I exhaled loudly. "And what was the other thing?" I enquired, sure that there was some sort of catch.

"Merely that le Comte would like to buy the Lecroix cottage from you. He has already chosen a price; all you must do is sign here." He pushed the second piece of parchment towards me.

The price was much more than the cottage had ever been worth. I signed on the blank line below, too dazed with wonder and relief to either dispute or protest.

"Why the Lecroix cottage?" I murmured to myself over the scratching of my ink pen.

To my slight surprise, Paul heard me. "M. Khan would not say why. He simply said that the Comte wished to obtain the place, and that the Comte's wishes must always be granted. M. Khan was very emphatic about it too," he added with a small frown.

"Le Comte di Ribaldi," I whispered as I passed the contract back to him. Then I wondered, louder this time, "Why would a man like him come to a place like this?"

He replied with an expressive shrug. "How should I know?"

Paul slipped the parchment back into his attaché case, then turned to leave.

"Have a good day," he called over his shoulder. "Give my regards to your brother!"

"I will," I answered.

The sound of the little bell ringing echoed strangely after Paul closed the shop's door behind him. I braced myself against the counter once more, temporarily giving in to shocked relief.

Silaton Place and the Lecroix cottage paid off in the course of one morning! It was more than I had ever hoped for! That would pay for the rest of Raoul's time at university. Some new clothes for the both of us were in order, and new curtains…

I closed my eyes tightly, fighting the relieved tears that threatened to spill over.

Thank you, Monsieur le Comte. I don't know who you are; I don't even know what you look like…but all the same, thank you.

"You sold Christine Daaé's house?"

I shot up, startled. Raoul had silently entered through the nondescript brown curtain that divided the store from the storeroom. He now stood in its entrance, a sack of sugar in his arms.

Clearing my throat to conceal my sudden emotion, I walked around the counter and followed him to the sugar barrel. As I removed the circular wooden lid, I answered, "Well, it wasn't really hers – or her family's – but yes, I did sell it."

We both were silent as Raoul tipped the sack over the edge, creating an avalanche of the little sweet granules.

"Will she – will they still live there?" he asked, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the nearly full barrel as he shook the sack to dislodge the last of the sugar.

"I'm sure they will. I can't imagine that the Comte would have bought the Lecroix cottage just to turn them out, especially since they're such good tenants."

My younger brother exhaled sharply. "Is that really all you care about? Are people of no value to you except to make money off of?"

I paled. What had I said to prompt this offensive attack?

"No, Raoul; of course not! Where is this coming from?"

"Do you think I don't know?" he retorted, a rebellious light burning in his eyes.

I could not hide from the accusation in his words, but I would neither deny nor confirm it, not even to explain that my desire to give him the best life possible was the reason I did just about anything. Silence enveloped us as Raoul and I stared each other down.

He snorted quietly in bitter disappointment when I refused to answer. "Of course. It doesn't matter to you that these people are already going through hard times. It doesn't matter that the Girys have already lost a home, that Meg and Christine have already had to adjust to new lives, just so you can be paid –"

"About Christine," I interrupted, forbearing to drive home my point that simply because ownership of the Lecroix cottage had exchanged hands did not mean that the Girys and Christine would be evicted. Those two words had the effect I desired: Raoul abruptly stopped speaking.

Gently, I took the empty cloth sack from his hands and began folding it into a neat little square. I was somewhat hesitant to voice the question that had been churning through my mind for some time now.

"Raoul, I – I know that you care for her very much…and I know that she is a very fine young woman. But – this nonpareil girl of yours – is she really…has Christine ever given you any indication, any reason to hope that she might reciprocate your affections?"

He did not answer me – at least, not aloud. His cheeks flushed with more than their usual rosy colour, his hands clenched into fists; I thought I even detected a new shiny quality to his eyes.

But before I could lift a hand to comfort him, he grabbed the neatly folded cloth from my hands. After mumbling, "I'll be in the back," Raoul trudged back through the curtain.

The room was as silent as if he had never been there.

Richard Firmin

I wiped my boots vigorously against the tattered mat that lay just outside our front doorway, nearly stomping in my haste. Setting down the now empty pail that I had taken outside with me, I walked over to the place where my wife Amèlie sat in her wheelchair, mending a hole in our son's trousers.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid kids these days!" I burst out when she looked up at me. "Honestly, I don't know where they get some of their ideas!"

"What happened?" she asked, the epitome of serenity.

I sighed heavily, then took off my threadbare hat and slapped it against my knee as I sat down in an adjacent chair.

"I caught Thomas and his friends laughing and jeering at my pigs. Imagine, taunting a creature created by the same God that created us, just because it don't look like everyone else! Never mind that it might actually have feelings beyond hunger and thirst, just so those boys can have some amusement!"

"Imagine," she repeated quietly. Though her head was slightly bowed over her work, I was sure I detected a darkness in her eyes, and knew that she was thinking of her condition.

I laid a gentle hand on her forearm. "I gave them a talking-to about judging on appearances, then sent them away."

"Did they listen to you?"

I leaned back in my seat. "I hope so, but I don't think it likely. But I've done what I can. Now it's up to them to choose what to do."

She nodded. We sat in comfortable silence for a few of her stitches.

Suddenly, she asked: "Did you hear that the Mifroids lost their farm yesterday?"

I snorted bitterly. "The Mifroids as well?"

My wife nodded again. "Couldn't make mortgage."

Exhaling sharply, I cried in frustration: "You that times really are bad when a decent, upstanding family like the Mifroids can lose their home just like that -" I snapped my fingers for extra effect, "- to some newcomer banker that no one knows nothing about."

She set down her sewing and looked me straight in the eye.

"No one knows who exactly took their farm, Richard, just some bank!"

"I hate to enlighten you of this disappointing fact, but bankers run banks."

She arched an eyebrow. "I am aware of that," she replied with a touch of coldness in her voice as she resumed her sewing.

I sighed, then again laid one hand on her arm.

"I-I'm sorry, Amèlie. It's just that...none of this is fair."

"But who said life is fair?" She smiled a hard, bright smile, one that I could only barely return. No one could truly smile in the face of her brave bitterness.

"Someone finally bought Silaton Place," she added, quickly changing the subject, and I faintly wondered just how much time she and Mme. Giry had spent gossiping this morning. "It's been fixed up so that it looks just like a castle from a fairy tale."

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "Really? Some quick fix-up! The place looked like a heap of junk not a week ago! Probably that banker," I added to myself. Amèlie frowned slightly, but gave no other indication that she had heard.

I stood up and stretched, my stomach growling loudly. I had risen early that morning to attend to our livestock and our garden, and my body was now protesting the lack of nourishment almost to the point of distraction.

"What's for breakfast?" I asked, eager to sate my hunger with my wife's wonderful cooking.

She studiously kept her eyes on her sewing as she tied off the last stitch.

"Bacon."

(1) Basically a briefcase with two compartments.

I wasn't kidding when I said it was short, especially in comparison to the previous chapter - but then, most things are. But that won't keep you from leaving me a review, will it?