It was 1876 and Paris was alive once more. The Third Republic was slowly steadying after beginning during a war that France had lost catastrophically. The city was roiling with political intrigue, with culture and light and music. The new Opera House, only two years old, seemed both a monument to the age that had passed and a beacon of hope, that the new France would continue on with the best of the old France. Most Paris residents thought that it was because of this attitude that the Comte de Chagny had become the new patron of the Opera. Only the Comte knew for certain that this was false. The Comte de Chagny had become the patron of the Opera in an attempt to bring his wandering brother home.

The previous Comte, the current Comte's father, had two sons, Philippe and Raoul. Philippe, the older, was the heir and the beloved son, while Raoul was mainly ignored. The results of this treatment had not been so uneven as might be supposed, mainly because Raoul had been allowed to roam the countryside around the estate and so had made friends as Philippe had not. When Raoul turned 17, their father had decided that he needed a career, or at least some experience to make him a man who would be useful to his brother. So it was that the younger brother found himself in the army when the Franco-Prussian war broke out. Raoul had earned honors and promotions in the war that followed and his career seemed to thrive even as Paris was besieged by the enemy. Then the war had ended and Raoul's promotions had ceased and his letters had first slowed and then stopped altogether. The Comte had died shortly thereafter, leaving Philippe to try and fix whatever had changed between him and his brother while learning his new duties. The first thing he had done with his new authority was write his brother and tell him he could come home, he didn't need to re-enlist as their father had said.

"Come home," Philippe had written, "even if it is only for a visit before you go back to the army. The villagers miss you and I too have missed my little brother."

Raoul had returned, at least in body. Philippe had been quietly working in his study when a servant had come in to announce the presence of the Vicomte de Chagny. He had stood, waiting to welcome his little brother, when a stranger wearing his brother's face had walked in. Raoul had changed, and in place of the boy who loved music and fairy stories, who was the village's darling and had more in common with an unbroken colt than any human Philippe had ever met was a serious, contained man, with eyes that were shuttered and blank and a stiff, military bearing. Their conversation that night was stilted, Philippe reeling from shock and Raoul either unwilling or unable to extend any help or comfort. It was only after two weeks of tension that the brothers had finally spoken properly. Raoul had come across Philippe in the garden, where Philippe had always gone when his responsibilities pressed on him. Philippe had been wondering when it was that he had failed his brother, when his efforts to please their father and let Raoul run free had led to this and had not noticed his approach until his brother sat beside him.

"I am sorry," Raoul began, and Philippe turned to look at him and found that for the first time, he could see echoes of the brother he had known in the man beside him. "I have not known how to come home. I dreamt for so long of seeing this place again, but it has changed and I have changed and I cannot find how to be both who I am now and who I used to be."

"I too am sorry," Philippe responded. "I have been so lost in my own thoughts that I have not reached out as I should." Raoul stared at him for a moment and then said,

"You must know, I have never blamed you for any of this. You gave me my childhood by your diligence and self-sacrifice and for that I am forever grateful. The memory of those days gave me light when I most needed it."

"But now you are rudderless, without either childhood or war."

"Yes." Philippe considered this for a long moment, then sighed.

"I cannot give them back to you. You can rejoin the army, if that is your wish." Raoul looked startled but shook his head. "You can go to school, or into whatever occupation you think will suit you." Here Raoul shook his head again, more slowly, with regret clear on his features. Once, this would have been an opportunity he had longed for. Now it was an empty choice, for he would not be able to endure it. "Or, I will give you a monthly allowance, and you can go and see the world and try to find the answers you seek."
"Thank you."

Raoul had been gone for two years. He wrote sporadically, short letters that told only of where he had been and what he had seen, not of how he was doing or feeling. Philippe had hoped for better, but had secretly expected worse at the beginning. Now he had begun to feel as if he had waited long enough. When he was approached about helping to finance the Paris Opera, he at first was inclined to refuse. He liked music and the arts well enough, but he had no refined taste or understanding of quality. Then, he had remembered how Raoul had loved music and the way he used to criticize even the phonographs of famous orchestras, complaining about their playing of this passage or that, or how the aria had been sung with improper this or too much that. So Philippe had agreed and had sent a letter to his brother, asking for help in his new venture, if Raoul could bear to come to Paris. He had nearly given up hope, when Raoul arrived, two days before the transfer of patronage would take effect.

Raoul had been in Sweden, in a small village along the sea but far from anywhere important when Philippe's letter had reached him. The children of the village had brought the letter to him at his spot on the hill, and had used it as leverage to beg for a story. He told them one of the stories that Monsieur Daae had told to him so long ago and they listened with rapt attention. When he finished, they gave him the letter and ran down to the town in a sort of happy confusion, chasing each other and reenacting their favorite moments of the story. He smiled at them, a genuine smile, which no longer surprised him as it once had. He was not healed, perhaps he would never be, but he saw now that the evil and ugliness in the world was not enough to destroy all that he loved. He had come to Sweden three months ago, searching for the last pieces that could make him whole again, and he had found them. So when he opened his brother's letter and found not the usual veiled plea for information, but a request that he come home and help with the Paris Opera, he felt as if the last of his burdens had been lifted. He had been searching for something to do, some way to go home and begin to feel useful and Philippe had given him that. He folded the letter, and set out for the village to make preparations to leave. He would go, and see this new and wonderful opera House and see if he could help make it into something France could be truly proud of.