Teacher of Music, Part Thirteen
By Allison E.L. Cleckler

"The vicomte, her lover!"
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene Eight

The evening celebration of Christine's birthday was an entirely different affair from the little party at the Girys' flat.

Raoul de Chagny had insisted on treating her to dinner at one of the most exclusive restaurants in Paris. Christine didn't have the heart to turn him down—despite being skittish at the prospect of having to blend in with high society, and being leery of giving Raoul the wrong idea about the nature of their relationship, he was still a cherished old friend and she enjoyed his company. It was only right that she share part of the day with him.

The venue demanded the kind of attire that Christine both did not have and could not afford, so she approached the head costumier for permission to borrow a suitable gown from the Opera's vast costume collection. She eventually found a heavily-bustled evening dress in deep green satin with a plunging neckline that fit almost perfectly. Meg coiled and looped her hair up and pinned it in place with the silver clasp Madame Giry had given her earlier in the day, and then helped Christine choose how to apply makeup to her face. The colors were bolder than the ones she generally preferred to use, but Meg assured her they went well with the dress. After she was done fussing, Meg stepped back to look her over with a proud eye.

"Oh, Christine, he won't be able to take his eyes off you!" she gushed, and Christine looked away, blushing. That wasn't quite the effect she wanted to have, but she couldn't deny feeling a little giddy at the suggestion that Raoul might find her beautiful. She was used to being ridiculed by the dancers as a plain Jane, and such a compliment—even from a friend—would have the capacity to make her blush like a ripe tomato. She didn't realize that ever since she'd begun taking singing lessons, and especially since the gala performance of Hannibal, her personality had changed so dramatically that the dancers now envied her the beauty of the happiness on her face.

She's in love, they gossiped amongst themselves. She must be, and with that vicomte of hers, no doubt. Nothing else could light up a girl that way.

Promptly at eight o'clock, Raoul's carriage pulled up to the front steps of the Opera House, where Meg was waiting with Christine to see her off.

"Have a good time!" she called cheerfully, waving as Raoul helped Christine up into the carriage and then climbed in after her, rapping on the roof overhead to let the driver know they could depart. The driver flicked his reins and the carriage set off with a slight jerk, leaving Meg and the familiar, comfortable world of the Opera behind.

"Christine, I must say you look absolutely amazing," Raoul said, smiling broadly. "I almost didn't recognize you. Is the gown yours?"

"Ah, no," Christine replied, ducking her head slightly. She didn't want Raoul to see her blush, both from pleasure and a tinge of embarrassment. "I… borrowed… it from the Opera's costume department."

"Well, it looks as if it were made for you." He caught the blush despite her attempt to hide it and correctly interpreted the cause behind it. "I'm sorry… it was rather rude of me to ask, wasn't it? I know your finances won't allow you to be so frivolous. No, don't look away, there's no need to be ashamed." Raoul took the liberty of tipping her chin up with one finger, and smiled reassuringly. "I also know how proud you can be. Frankly I'm surprised you accepted my invitation to dinner."

Christine smiled back at him affectionately. It was still almost unbelievable to her, how quickly they had eased back into their friendship as if no time at all had passed between them. Raoul had always known and understood her so well, even as a boy, and that had not changed. "How could I not?" she replied. "You are my friend. As such I am required to let you spoil me if you so wish—when the situation calls for it."

He laughed. "I believe your birthday is a situation that calls for spoiling. Have you had a good day so far?"

"Very." She reflected on the little party the Girys had given her, and thought that surely there was no better way to spend a birthday than in the company of friends, and the people you considered family. Meg was the sister she'd never had, and Madame Giry the mother she couldn't remember; Joseph and the kid had become dear and loyal friends. And Monsieur Reyer was…

… Well, he was important, too.

"Yes," she continued, "I've had a very good day. I went to the Girys' and they had friends over for tea and cake."

"I'm glad to hear it. Though surely you've kept room for dinner?"

Christine nodded. "Of course."

They soon arrived at the restaurant, and Christine tried not to feel too terribly self-conscious as she took Raoul's arm to step out of the carriage. This world—Raoul's world—was not one she felt comfortable in, but she was determined to squash her nerves and enjoy herself.

Waving the carriage off, Raoul place his free hand atop hers and squeezed her fingers encouragingly. "Your feast awaits us, my lady," he said gallantly, and Christine instantly felt more at ease. Raoul did not expect her to be anyone but herself, no matter what social circle they were mingling in. She would be fine.

They were shown to a semi-private table near the entrance and given their menus while wine was poured; Raoul cheerfully reminded Christine that money was no object and to pick whatever courses she liked. Christine hardly knew what to choose, being unaccustomed to such an array of choices, and so asked him to suggest his favorite dishes. He immediately launched into a commentary on the pros and cons of each dish that had Christine giggling behind one hand like a schoolgirl. Eventually, they both settled on a lobster bisque and lamb with mint sauce for the main course.

"Now, you may or may not like the sauce," Raoul warned as their waiter bowed and moved away. "It's not to everyone's taste. But I can assure you that the lamb itself is magnificent. Phillippe often remarks that he would love to lure the head chef away to our estate."

Christine shook her head slightly in amusement, sipping her wine and finding it superb. "He won't simply buy the chef's services?"

"Touché." Raoul sighed exaggeratedly, and then winked at her. It was a well-known fact that his older brother was not shy about flaunting the family wealth, and it had been the subject of jokes between the two friends from their earliest times together. "Perhaps he feels it would be a crime to deprive the rest of Paris of the man's work."

"How magnanimous of him," Christine replied, deadpan, before a smile fought its way onto her face and she had to look down lest she break out into an unseemly fit of laughter. They both knew Phillippe was anything but.

By the time the bisque was brought out Christine, despite the one corner of her mind keeping constant attention on her poise and deportment, felt mostly relaxed. Raoul was his customary friendly company, none of the other diners appeared to be giving her more than a passing glance, and neither had any of them stopped by to make inquiries or polite conversation. Silently, she chastised herself for having been so nervous at the start.

So of course, that was the moment Raoul's gaze focused on something past her shoulder for a moment longer than normal, and the merry expression on his face dimmed slightly. "Oh, dear."

Christine frowned at him. "What is it?"

"Ah, I believe I spy our very favorite leading soprano just across the room."

Her face going pale, Christine froze in the middle of instinctively turning to look for herself and put her soup spoon down with a hard swallow. "Oh, no. Do you think she's seen me?"

Raoul's nostrils were flared slightly, as if he were being assaulted by an unpleasant smell. "No… I don't think she has. Recognized you, that is. Your back is to her, after all."

"I'm quite sure she could easily recognize my back from a hundred paces," Christine countered sourly. It had been a hard lesson, but she had learned not to underestimate the power and depth of Carlotta's hatred. It seemed to give the woman an almost preternatural awareness of those she perceived as the enemy. Currently, Christine was most assuredly enemy number one.

Reaching across the table to squeeze her hand reassuringly, Raoul said firmly, "I refuse to let that horrid woman spoil your night. Put her from your mind immediately and enjoy your dinner."

"Is that an order?" Christine asked with a tiny smile, her mood buoyed by his blunt assessment of the red-haired diva.

He squeezed her hand again and then released it to take his spoon back up. "Indeed it is," he said, his own smile one of encouragement. "Carlotta isn't worth the distress she causes you. We should concentrate on more important matters."

Christine's smile widened. "Such as?"

Raoul's expression indicated the answer should have been perfectly obvious. "Such as whether or not you'll like the mint sauce, of course."

She did like the mint sauce. And, as Raoul had said, the lamb was excellently prepared. They sent their compliments to the chef and the man himself soon came out to thank them; the de Chagnys were evidently valued patrons. When Raoul casually let slip that it was his companion's birthday, the chef was only too happy to have the kitchen prepare a special dessert pastry for Christine's enjoyment. He clearly took great delight in seeing his dishes enjoyed, a humble artiste in his own right, and Christine found herself warmly thanking the chef for his efforts. Between the food and Raoul's cheerful banter, she was indeed able to put Carlotta from her mind.

Raoul instructed his driver to take them back to the Opera House, where the Girys were waiting for her to return. As she alighted from the carriage, Christine thanked him sincerely for the wonderful birthday dinner. It had turned out to be quite a treat.

Kissing her hand, he replied, "Thank you." With a final brilliant smile and another rap on the carriage ceiling, he was gone. Christine watched for a moment as the carriage drove away into the night, then turned with a happy sigh and began making her way up the steps to the Opera's entrance.

The first sign Christine had that something was wrong, when she returned to the Opera the next Monday, were the whispers.

As she came in the front entrance and made her way up the Grand Staircase to the less public areas of the building, it seemed as if a growing flock of half-heard murmurs and snatches of words were trailing behind her. A pair of young ballet rats walked out of a rehearsal room, saw her, and instantly broke out into a fit of giggles; they had hurried back into the room almost before Christine had time to process what they'd done. A passing chorus member gave her a meaningful look and a wink, but she was baffled as to what the meaning was supposed to be. Even the house staff were staring as she passed and whispering to each other behind cupped hands. It made the hair on the back of Christine's neck prickle uncomfortably, and she longed for a mirror. Was there something wrong with her dress? Had something caught in her hair? Had something marked her face without her taking notice of it?

She met a group of her former colleagues in the ballet chorus where the corridor branched off towards the dormitories, and she found herself suddenly surrounded by a squealing mob.

"Christine, why didn't you tell us?" one of them demanded.

"T-tell you what?" she stammered, her unease threatening to spill over into nervous panic, and she took a step back—only to have her heel come down on someone's foot.

"Ow," said a voice, and Christine spun around to find herself almost face-to-face with Joseph Arsenault.

"Joseph!" she exclaimed, with equal parts surprise and relief, as he put his hands on her shoulders to steady the both of them.

"Easy there," he said, and then glared at the dancers. They were still clustered just behind Christine, wearing identical expressions of curious expectation. "Why don't you lot shove off already?" he said sharply.

They pouted and glared back, but when Joseph gave no sign of relenting they gamely shuffled on past, throwing dirty looks over their shoulders as they went.

Christine blew out a huge lungful of air and grimaced. "I can't begin to say how happy I am to see you," she babbled in a rush, running her hands nervously across the front of her dress. "Everyone's behaving so strangely towards me, as if they know something I should but don't! Has something happened…?"

Joseph was looking at her speculatively and, she noticed with a little touch of dread, sympathetically as well. "You don't read the papers much, do you."

Her stomach dropped through the floor. Somehow, she knew. She knew what the whispers were about. "How… how bad is it?" she asked weakly.

He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded section of newspaper, handing it to her and grasping her hand briefly. "It's… bad."

"Andre! I say, man, have you been reading the papers this weekend?" Firmin demanded as he entered the managerial office.

Andre nodded and made a noise of assent as he skimmed a page of figures. He'd been expecting a display of this sort from his partner ever since he'd seen the Sunday society columns.

"Raoul de Chagny and Christine Daae! Can you believe the nerve?" Firmin exclaimed, pacing back and forth across the Persian rug in the middle of the floor. "I can't say I'm surprised he's taken up with her—those young men do love their starlets—but parading her about in public? Has his brother taught him nothing on how to conduct himself in society? It's a scandal in the making!"

Andre considered saying nothing, but decided Firmin would surely be expecting a response, or at the very least some sign of agreement. "Does that concern you?" he asked mildly.

"Concern me?" Firmin snorted as he gave up pacing and rounded his desk to drop heavily into his chair. "Hardly. Scandal generates interest, and interest generates sales!"

Shaking his head, Andre resumed his examination of the page of figures.

"It's in all the papers, I hear," Joseph said, as the newspaper began to tremble ever-so-slightly in Christine's hands. "They're having a field day with it. Rising young opera singer with the most eligible bachelor in Paris? You do realize that is what Raoul de Chagny is, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Christine replied faintly, her stomach having gone indescribably sour. This was what she had been afraid of when she'd accepted Raoul's dinner invitation, indeed from the moment he'd stepped back into her life. She didn't want society's attention upon her, hated the thought of causing her friend any awkwardness with his family or social circle. They were no longer children, and their friendship would no longer be perceived as harmless. She would, no doubt, be watched very closely by the gossipmongers from now on. The prospect made Christine's chest tighten with dread.

Joseph gently took the paper from her, refolded it, and tucked it back into his coat. "Were you bothered at all during your dinner? That is to say," he added quickly, "I assume you did have dinner and that, at least, was not a fabrication."

It was perhaps the only thing in the column that had not been a fabrication. Christine started to shake her head in the negative, but then her stomach twisted horribly and she moaned, "Oh, God. Carlotta."

"And all our questions are hereby answered," Joseph said dryly.

"Raoul saw her there," Christine was murmuring, almost to herself. "He didn't think she'd seen us. He convinced me not to worry about her."

Putting an arm about her shoulders and looking encouraged, Joseph smiled at her and said, "It's just another of her petty attacks, then. It will blow over soon. Your friends know you, Christine… and we know better than to take this at its word."

"I wish I had your optimism." Christine was quite sure that this particular attack on her character would be a lingering one, but she desperately wanted to believe her friend's assurances. Then a thought suddenly occurred to her and she felt her stomach sink even lower. "Monsieur Reyer will have seen this too, won't he."

"What if he has?" Joseph asked, perplexed.

"I don't think he cares much for Raoul. I'm sure he's assuming the worst."

Joseph squeezed her shoulder and then stepped away. "Oh, I don't think so," he replied. "He knows you too, remember. And knowing him, he's most likely plotting Carlotta's demise yet again. Of course he'll know Carlotta is behind this. When in doubt, blame her. Yes?" He smiled brightly. "Go on, pay him a visit, and you'll see I'm right."

Christine tried to smile back, but the expression came out wan and wobbly. "I suppose I should. Sooner rather than later, too, I think." She drew in a deep breath, and added, "Thank you, Joseph. I'll see you soon."

Then she turned and practically shuffled away, her shoulders rounded in an unhappy slump.

"Good luck," Joseph said quietly as he watched her turn a corner and disappear from view, hoping her conversation with the chorus master would not go as badly as he actually feared it would.

Reyer had indeed read the dreaded columns, but like Christine, had only learned of them that morning. He had no use for reading about the comings and goings of the Paris elite, so he'd had no idea his student had become the overnight star of the gossip columns until Monsieur Gabriel mentioned it while they were taking coffee in the Opera commissary. Reyer had asked to borrow the newspaper Gabriel had been carrying and, as if sensing something potentially dangerous about his companion's mood, the conductor had left him alone to stew over the words laid out in neat eight-point type before him.

He had put out of his mind the unease he'd felt in the park a few days previous, but reading about Christine sharing an intimate dinner with Raoul de Chagny brought it back in force, twisting into something uncomfortable in his gut. An unfamiliar voice in the depths of his mind began whispering unfamiliar things. Oh, Reyer's logical self was perfectly sure Carlotta had a hand in the thinly-veiled slander splashed across the newsprint—she usually did when it concerned the Opera in any way—and Christine herself had even mentioned her plans to dine with the vicomte while at the Girys'. Reyer hadn't much cared for it then, and now the unfamiliar voice in his head was eating away at him in insistently ugly tones. Had it really been necessary to make the dinner as… intimate… as the column had alleged? How had the two even made an acquaintance in the first place? They didn't exactly hail from the same spheres of society. Come to think of it, Raoul had exhibited an uncommon amount of interest in Christine from the beginning of his patronship, and in Reyer's experience that meant only one thing.

He hated to think of Christine in such a light, hated the implications and the mental images, but the whispering voice lingered.

It made his stomach wrench.

Surely it wasn't the coffee disagreeing with him. Monsieur Gabriel had poured from the same pot and was still perfectly fine.

To distract himself, Reyer closeted himself in his office and set about straightening his collection of operatic scores. But it didn't work; the voice continued to chew on his insides no matter how hard he concentrated on alphabetizing. Surely Christine would have been unable to carry on a scandalous affair behind his back—behind all their backs, he hastily corrected himself. Surely she would have been distracted by such a thing. Surely he—they—would have noticed.

You don't spend every moment of every day with her, the voice said. You don't spend her nights with her. And he flushed crimson about the collar. She has plenty of time away from you to carry on as she wishes. And you yourself have noted that she can be an extraordinarily good actress when the need arises.

But I know her. Christine simply isn't the kind of girl to—

Ah, but how well do you truly know her? She never bothered to tell you of her own birthday. You are simply her teacher, nothing more and perhaps even less.

If I meant nothing to her, would she smile at me the way she does—

She is a good actress when she needs to be.

Reyer was barely aware of the particulars of the ongoing argument in his head, only that it made him distinctly uncomfortable and turned his hands clammy around the bundles of music. He had only made progress through one drawer of a cabinet, despite having spent three quarters of an hour at the task, when there was a soft knock at his office door.

"Enter," he called shortly, in no particular mood to speak with anyone.

The door opened and lo, the subject of his mental torment entered, one hand brushing a stray lock of hair over her shoulder, her face drawn.

"Good morning," Christine said after a moment, awkwardly, when it became obvious there was no greeting forthcoming from him.

Reyer had let his hands drop from the cabinet as she came into the office, taking in the nervousness she radiated in near-palpable waves, and was that a tint of guilt in the cast of her eyes? The words fell from his lips before he had time to process what he was saying. "Ashamed of yourself now, are you?"

Christine blinked twice, rapidly, and stared at him. "I—I'm sorry?"

He jerked a hand in the direction of his desk, and Christine's gaze followed the motion to land on the pile of newspapers there. The corners of her mouth twitched unhappily. "I suppose it would be pointless to ask if you've read the weekend's society columns, then," she said faintly.

"Quite," Reyer replied bitingly, as he folded his arms tightly across his chest. The clamminess in his hands had increased tenfold and there was a tightness in his chest he didn't understand, but he barged on despite the sudden impression that this was not what he should be saying at all. "I see you've been keeping some rather titled company recently. The Vicomte de Chagny is very taken with you, is he?"

A prickly red flush was slowly creeping up Christine's neck. "He… we were childhood friends," she said quickly, lightly shaking her head as if experiencing a brief moment of pain. "He was very fond of my father, and my father of him. We lost touch shortly before my father's death and Raoul was very happy to find me again."

"Oh, yes, I imagine," Reyer shot back sarcastically, "very happy. He never bothered to make any secret of that with the management." He leaned forward slightly, his voice laced with acid, and he barely recognized it as his own. "Do you know, either the comte has been remiss in schooling your young man on the finer points of societal etiquette, or he's just not very intelligent."

The flush had reached Christine's ears and her brow was furrowed in distress. "What?"

"He obviously doesn't have the sense to not parade his mistress about in public!" Reyer exploded.

Suddenly there was a thick, deadly silence in the room. The flush on Christine's neck vanished almost instantly, to be replaced by two bright spots of color high on her cheeks. She was staring at Reyer in shock. "What… what did you say?" she finally demanded, her voice nearly tremoring.

Reyer refused to backpedal, retract, or apologize, even though he felt like he'd just made some sort of terrible mistake. It was out there now, he'd said what the whispering little voice in his head had been insinuating all along, and there was no going back. "You know perfectly well what I said," he snapped back. "You're not deaf."

"How—how could you think such a thing?" Christine cried, her eyes wide, hurt, and betrayed. "You know me. You know I would never—"

"I thought I did," he interrupted cuttingly, and his mouth seemed to be speaking without his permission. "But you're a very good actress, aren't you?"

"Raoul is my friend!" Christine shot back, nearly shouting, and Reyer almost took a step back. Almost. "Nothing more!"

Now the ugly voice in his head was moving his body in his stead, too. Reyer slapped a finger down on the nearest newspaper spread across his desk. "The aristocracy doesn't make friends with the lower classes," he spat. "And they certainly don't share dinners like that with them."

"He wanted to spoil me." Christine's voice was shaking now, but even though tears were streaming down her face, the emotion behind it all wasn't despair, but anger. Her entire body was shaking, and her hands were clenched at her sides. "And, just this once, I allowed him to do it. Friends do that for each other. But I wouldn't expect you to know anything about that, because you have no friends. You are the most despicable man I have ever met, and I hope you are happy with that. No, I'm sorry. I don't hope—I know you are!"

And with that, she turned on her heel, yanked open the door, and stormed out, slamming it shut behind her.

The room seemed to shake and spin with the force of her departure, and Reyer, frozen in place, was unable to dispel the feeling of having been stabbed in the gut by his own hand.