Tonight was Monsieur Debienne and Monsieur Polignys' final night at Le Palais Garnier; after eleven years of ownership the two had quickly expanded their personal wealth, and declared that the time was ripe for new investments.
"Ah, Monsieur Poligny!" cried Monsieur Debienne, spying his stocky partner peering out the window of their shared office, "Have you heard the wretched news?" Poligny grasped at the woodwork surrounding the window frame, deeply exhaled and slowly pried his fingers away from structure; he spun around and locked eyes with Debienne, not moving from his position at the window. Debienne's gut sank, knowing full well what had just occurred. Once again, they had been victims of the infamous Opera Ghost.
"There," Poligny motioned with his piercing olive eyes, towards a piece of parchment innocently lying at the end of his grand mahogany writing desk, "He sends his farewell."
Debienne paced over to the writing table and timidly grasped for the phantom's letter.
Gentlemen,
I am quite certain you received my—ah—humble request that La Carlotta be pulled from tonight's performance of Faust. Monsieurs', I am altogether shocked and appalled by the atrocities you have beset towards my demands. Nevertheless, I took it upon myself to rectify your blunder; Carlotta will be unable to fulfill her duties as prima donna as she has abruptly taken ill. Christine Daaé will sing in her absence.
Despite this blemish on an otherwise impeccable liaison, I do wish you a fond departure.
Farewell,
O.G.
"Blast him! Blast him to hell," muttered the blustering Debienne.
XxXxXx
Following the spectacular performance of Gounod's Faust, the Comte de Chagny stood up in his box, listened to all the frenzy and took part in it by thunderously applauding. Philippe Georges Marie Comte de Chagny was a middle-aged aristocrat—possessing attractive features, in spite of his rigid forehead and rather cold eyes. On the death of the old Count Philibert, he became the head of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in all of France, whose arms dated back to the fourteenth century. The Changys owned a great deal of property; and when the old count, who was a widower, died; it was no easy task for Philippe to accept the management of the large estate. His two sisters and his brother—Raoul, would not hear of a division and waived their claim to the shares.
At the demise of the old count, Raoul was twelve years of age; Philippe busied himself actively with the youngster's education along with their father's sister, a widow of a naval officer, who lived at Brest and inspired young Raoul with a passion for the sea. The lad entered the Borda training-ship, finished his course with honors and quietly made his trip around the world. Thanks to powerful influence, Raoul had just been appointed as a member of the official expedition on board the Requin, which was to be sent to the Arctic Circle in search of survivors of the D'Artoi's expedition, of whom nothing had been heard for three years.
Meanwhile, he was enjoying a long furlough, which would last just under six months. The boy had retained his education manners that were almost candid and stamped with a charm that nothing had yet been able to sully. He was just over twenty-one years of age with beautiful, sparkling blue eyes and a clear complexion.
Philippe would not have taken his younger brother to the Opera if Raoul had not first asked him, repeatedly renewing his request with a gentle obstinacy.
On that evening, Philippe, after applauding Daaé, turned to Raoul and saw that he was quite pale.
"Don't you see, brother," blanched Raoul, "that Mademoiselle Daaé is fainting?"
"You look like fainting yourself," countered the count. "What's the matter?" But Raoul recovered himself and stood, "Let's go and see, she never sang like that before."
They were soon at the door leading from the house to the stage, where numbers of subscribers unhurriedly made their way through. Raoul tore off his gloves without knowing what he was doing and Philippe had too kind a heart to allow himself to release more than a chuckle. Finally they had reached the stage and pushed through the crowd of gentlemen, scene-shifters, supers and chorus-girls with Raoul leading the way.
XxXxXx
Raoul felt that his heart no longer belonged to him; began shoving his way through the growing crowd, burning with a passion he never knew a man could muster. Looking back he saw his brother—a smile plastered to his aging face, attempting to follow, only to be blocked off by an inrush of a troop of ballet girls whom obstructed the passage he'd just entered.
He started to sprint down the passageway, only to be halted by a large mass of people gathered around Christine's dressing room; the whole house seemed excited by her success as well as her sudden fainting fit. At that very moment, the doctor of the theatre had just arrived; both men diving into the throng of stage performers and well-wishers, to reach Christine.
Upon crossing the threshold, the doctor shooed the swarm of people away as the Viscount made his way to the soprano, cradling her in his arms. The physician made no attempt to remove Raoul, assuming he was acting as did because he had the right to do such. The young man assumed Philippe had meet up with his beneficiary La Sorelli; therefore, remained in the room watching Christine slowly return to life.
Christine uttered a deep sigh, turning her head up towards Raoul, then towards the doctor offering him a slight smile, only to stare back at Raoul again. Would she remember?
"Monsieur," she began in a voice not much above a whisper, "who are you?"
Crestfallen that his childhood love had not recognized him right away, Raoul replied hoping his statement would jog her memory, "Mademoiselle," kneeling on one knee pressing a fervent kiss on her dainty hand, "I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf."
For the slightest of moments, Raoul believed he saw a flash of recognition or perhaps some other emotion wash over Christine's flawless features; only to realize that she had begun to laugh.
Embarrassed, he turned scarlet and abruptly rose from the floor. "Mademoiselle, since you appear to have forgotten me, I should like to say something to you in private, something very important."
Christine shot him a raw, fiery glare. "When I am better, do you mind?" she retorted, voice shaking. "You must go."
"Yes, you must go," the doctor chorused, pleasantly smiling. "Leave me to attend to Mademoiselle Daaé."
Christine suddenly sprang to life, "I am not ill now," she announced with an unexpected energy, while she rose and pressed her hand over her eyelids. "Thank you, Doctor. I should like to be alone. Please go away, all of you. Leave me. I feel very restless this evening."
The good doctor and Raoul departed Daaé's dressing room, Raoul glanced back as Christine quietly shut and locked the door. "Ah, she is not herself tonight. Usually she is so gentle," the physician muttered as he made his way down the now empty corridor.
The whole theatre was deserted, no doubt patrons were assembled in the foyer where the farewell ceremony was being held in honor of retiring managers Monsieur Debienne and Monsieur Poligny. Raoul assumed Christine would eventually make her way down to the party and waited in solitude outside her room, hoping she would appear. He felt a terrible pain stabbing at his heart so intense, it might of burst.
How could she not remember all those summers filled with haunted stories, song, laughter, and dance? How could she not recall the boy who once loved her so dearly? He was determined to speak with her, for he knew in his heart that she must be lying. Marching up to her door, he lifted his fist in preparation to knock, when he heard a man's voice in the dressing room, saying in a curiously masterful tone: "Christine, you must be very tired."
"Oh, I am dead. I sing only for you, and tonight I gave you my soul, " he heard Christine sigh. Raoul, not believing his ears, slumped against the panel to ease the pain. His heart began to beat wildly within the confines of his chest, so loudly he feared, it might be perceived by Christine and her companion. Quietly, he focused on deepening his breathing to slow down the thunderous beating of his heart.
"Your soul is a beautiful thing," replied the grave man's voice, "and I thank you. No king ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight."
Raoul heard nothing more, even as he pressed his ear against the door. How he loved and loathed that girl! How dare she coldly receive him; yet, he could not condemn his sweet Christine. Fearful of being caught, he moved to a dark corner, waiting for his love to emerge.
After what felt like an eternity, Raoul had just begun to doze when he heard the creaking of hinges. He peered down the passage as a terror-struck Christine—all alone—closed the door behind her. She rushed past him, but he dare not move his eyes from the door, waiting to see whom his rival would be. But it did not open again.
Once Christine's hurried footsteps were no more, he leapt from his corner and opened the door to the dressing room; he found himself in complete darkness.
Shutting the door, Raoul pressed his back upon the wall and commanded, "I know someone's in here, show yourself!" No response. The only sound was that of his own breathing. Fumbling with his coat pocket, he grabbed a match, stuck it and ignited the gas lamps. No one was there. "Am I going mad?" he shouted.
Raoul glumly turned off the lamps once again and meandered into the hallway. Wondering how this could have happened to him—a perfectly sane man, he checked his pocket watch; only to be astonished that he had been waiting outside Christine's dressing room for nearly an hour. Had he missed her companion? Why had Christine looked so utterly horrified upon her departure?
He realized he had gotten himself lost in his musings, finding himself at the bottom of a staircase where a parade of workmen where carrying a stretcher, covered with a white sheet.
"Which way is out please?" he asked one of the men.
"Straight in front of you, the door is open. But let us pass." he replied motioning his head toward the stretcher.
"What is that?" Raoul questioned.
"That is Joseph Buquet, found in the third cellar. Hung 'emself."