Madame Firmin noticed that the instant Christine Daae's name was mentioned onstage before the performance that Raoul de Chagny's distant face immediately transformed – froze, then melted.
The polished manners disappeared to reveal a true boyish smile, a hearty laugh of delight and surprise.
This piqued the lady's interest, as with the rest of the audience, she felt only disappointed when her husband announced to the audience the change in program from the famous La Carlotta to some unknown. Mme. Firmin knew of the switch beforehand, of course, as her husband had told her all about it when he arrived home that evening. He looked like he'd been struck by lightning. From the sounds of it, he'd had the worst first day one could possibly have at a new job – yet he was hopeful that the day might yet turn out triumphantly.
A socialite in her youth, she'd met many handsome, charming young men, but never one who possessed such warmth as Monsieur de Chagny. He was still tanned from his tour with the navy, and his eyes had the bright but far-off look of the sea, his dark blonde hair the sheen of sand in the sun. With his tall frame, broad shoulders, and chiseled features, he was enough to make the hearts of women of any age flutter (though hers still belonged exclusively to Richard, Mme. Firmin dutifully reminded herself – but what was the harm in looking?). There was something strikingly leonine about the young vicomte. It was difficult to believe he was only twenty-four.
Yet for all his warmth there was something rather unsettled about his movements, as if he was just keeping himself in check. He acted like he wanted to say or do something – but what he did not know.
But the moment Miss Daae's name was spoken, a revelation took over his features.
As he sat anxiously awaiting the curtain to rise, Raoul felt joy. He wondered to himself if this was to be the pattern of his life: cynicism on his own, light-hearted joy with the Daaes.
His experience in the navy had both served him well and increased his cynical outlook. He'd met brave men, steadfast and true, but also degenerates and bullies. He'd been spared no hard labor, and the fact he handled it well soured him rather than endeared him to the latter group of men. To be wealthy and privileged was one thing, to be a hard worker was another. To combine the two was deemed unfair and greedy by the majority.
He did not earn many friends, despite his jovial nature.
When he returned to Paris, he was surprised that on the surface, he was able to once again easily mimic the mannerisms and courtesies appropriate for his class and station after so long at sea without them. However, inside he felt anxious and discontent.
He'd heard of Gustav Daae's death a few years after it happened, while still in the navy. As he'd never learned Madame Valerius's Paris address, he sent his long letter of condolence to his sister Laverne to pass on to Christine.
Laverne wrote back apologizing, explaining she was not acquainted with Mme. Valerius and therefore knew not her address. She had heard, however, that the retired dance instructor left Paris.
Laverne was satisfied when she sent the letter. While she detested lying, it was for Raoul's own good. In truth, she had spotted the Christine Daae girl not long ago taking a walk with her foster mother. She was getting far too pretty, and Laverne would not have her darling baby brother associate with the same bad sort of women his older brother had. Not only was Christine Daae in the opera, but she was half Jewish, to boot. Simply unacceptable.
Raoul received his sister's letter and, dejected, tried to accept that he would more than likely never see his little Christine again.
And now there were Firmin and Andre on the stage, nervously announcing her name to a chagrined audience.
As the managers settled into the box - Box Four, not Five; they weren't tempting fate tonight - they like Firmin's wife were surprised by the sudden childlike happiness in the heretofore polite but remote young man's bearing.
The curtain rose. Firmin and Andre cast one look at each other. They held their breath.
Raoul stared, smiling.
Then his eyebrows flew to his hairline when the most beautiful voice he'd ever heard floated up from the stage.
This trophy
from our saviors, from our saviors,
from the enslaving force of Rome!
A hushed gasp from the audience.
Carlotta would have hurled the verse at the audience like a discus.
This girl – this woman – sang-snarled the words in a subtly seductive tone as she held the grotesque severed plaster-cast head. This combined with her ethereal tone of voice paralyzed the audience more than any overt theatrics could have. She blazed like fire in her red and gold patterned Carthage dress.
Raoul's mouth was parched. His eyes stung.
He felt as you do in a dream when seeing someone almost known to you, when the features are familiar, but alien at the same time: out of place, mystical.
This figure dressed in a sparkling, exotic gown of red, green, and gold, with a crown atop her head, had the same curly hair and the same expressive eyes of the Christine Daae he'd left behind.
But instead of a gawky thirteen-year-old, the hair, eyes, and smile belonged to a goddess, serene and magnificent.
A skeptic might claim her interpretation of Elissa was too youthful, too endearing. But there was not a skeptic there at the end of the night. Her voice was like the purest crystal.
Raoul felt something odd and painful in his chest.
He'd known only a few women, and felt nothing but shame and dissatisfaction afterward. The sailors were jeering and singing outside the tavern window, and nothing was clean.
But Christine...no, Christine was a spindly little thing chasing after him on the beach, laughing like a charming and graceless donkey at everything he said.
Who was this slender, ecstatic young woman, her swan neck leaned back as that glorious voice, no longer containing the childlike notes from before, filled Raoul's soul with...
With what?
Raoul felt unsettled still, but of a different kind.
The sensation thrilled him.
He was the first on his feet after every aria.
During the curtain call, Christine at last let her true smile show.
And there in that smile was the seaside and Gustav and Raoul's youth, his happiness.
A great, overwhelming heat engulfed him.
So many years had gone by. She may not remember him, but he remembered her.
"I must see her," was all he could say to the managers, his wistful smile still hovering over his features.
Madame Firmin smirked in anticipation of the first romance for her to observe at the opera house.
Meg watched Christine from the shadows of the wings, feeling the same pride and joy as Raoul, but hampered by worry.
Since Christine started her lessons, Meg had only heard brief snippets of her singing. Christine said her master did not want her to sing publicly until he'd given his consent. And now watching her sing tonight, Meg noticed something about her improved voice she hadn't before.
The notes were glorious, beautiful.
But they weren't hers.
She acted and sang perfectly, capturing the audience and bringing them to their feet.
But she didn't seem herself.
Meg blinked awake from her musings, the ballet girls having gathered around her. They were already changed back into their tutus, as Meg was. Mother wouldn't be pleased. They'd all danced horribly tonight, she thought.
She wasn't far from the truth – they'd all danced as they usually did, but at a hectic, distracted pace.
Meg was too busy helping Christine prepare for the evening to properly see to her own rehearsals, and tonight she was more unprepared than at any other performance in her almost fifteen years of dancing. Luckily, she'd been performing so long that she was able to fool the audience with a few improvised steps here and there when a cue was missed. Still, Mother would not be pleased with such shambling recoveries.
Yet Christine had shook so much when Firmin and Andre gave their blessing for her performance, and needed the support of a friend throughout the night. And so Meg whispered words of encouragement in-between scenes, in-between costume changes. Yet Christine's wide brown eyes only stared ahead vacantly, almost like a marionette without its puppeteer.
Then she'd transform onstage, seemingly in control again.
Meg shivered as the music reached its climax. The audience erupted into applause. The opera was finished.
The dancers got as close to the stage as they could during Christine's several encores, trying to catch a glimpse of her.
Meg wanted to feel simple happiness for Christine, but the singer's lifeless behavior backstage, and the...the force, the presence onstage that wasn't hers...Meg couldn't help feeling anxious, too.
At last the curtains closed and Christine turned around to greet the girls. Meg immediately relaxed. Christine looked tired, but herself again. The smile was hers.
Even the girls who hadn't quite warmed to Christine swarmed around her now, eager to take some part in her triumph. Christine generously gave each girl a rose from her bouquet, until she held but one.
Closest at her side was Meg. The two friends locked eyes. Relief and gleeful triumph were written in their expressions as they squeezed each other's hands.
A deep familiar voice interrupted the throng of talkative petite rats. "Yes, you did well," Madame Giry said, a streak of black amongst a sea of white tutus. Meg saw her mother's eyes narrow meaningfully as she leaned in and gripped Christine's arm. "He will be pleased."
Christine whitened.
The ballet mistress turned to her girls. "And you," she said, and proceeded to dispense the lecture they were all expecting. "You were a disgrace tonight! Such ronds de jombe! Such temps de cuisse! Come!" She clapped her hands harshly. "We rehearse now."
Automatically Meg swallowed her frustration and lined up with the other dancers, watching as Christine drifted away. In unison they went through their movements, careful to uphold accuracy under Giry's watchful eyes.
However, Meg kept a close eye on her mother and waited until she passed Meg in her line. Then the young girl sneaked quietly away, winking once at Cecile, who nodded in reply: she'd cover for her.
Meg found Christine outside her dressing room. The young diva stood frozen, staring upwards. She looked as if she were listening to something.
She jumped when Meg tapped her shoulder. Her features relaxed when she saw her friend.
Meg couldn't hold her high curiosity in check any longer. "Where in the world have you been hiding? You were perfect, really you were! I only wish I knew your secret. Who is your tutor?" The eager yearning in her eyes brooked no room for argument.
Christine took a moment. She breathed in deeply. She looked cautiously behind her, around her. Then she finally inched closer and stared confidingly at Meg. "Father once spoke of an angel, you remember," she reminded Meg. "I've dreamed all these years he'd appear. I truly did. And now...now I sense him whenever I sing!"
Taking Meg by the hand, she pulled the puzzled dancer into the dressing room with her. Christine's quiet dresser Marie was standing waiting. Her gray hair sat neatly atop her head, her posture straight.
Seeing her, Christine whispered the rest of her story to Meg in a low voice as Marie smoothed out Christine's dressing gown. "He teaches me here in this room, calling me softly! Hiding somewhere. Somehow I knew he's always with me, he, the unseen genius!"
Her voice was quiet, but her expression was vibrant.
Meg dismissed Marie, helping Christine herself with undressing, laying her shoes on the table. Now they could speak more freely. However, Meg didn't know where to begin. What Christine was saying...what was Christine saying? With great consternation, Meg said delicately, "Christine, you must have been dreaming. You certainly know stories like this, while nice, aren't real. You're talking in riddles, and it's not like you!"
Her worry only grew as Christine, seemingly unhearing, stood, staring ahead with glassy eyes. Her fingers fiddled uselessly with the tie to her dressing gown. "Angel of Music, that's what I call him. I pray each night, I pray, pleading, "grant to me your glory, my guide and guardian!'"
Meg's heart pounded fearfully. She...she sounded like a religious madwoman! Who was this angel?
Meg had a sickening suspicion she didn't dare name.
She reached out and steadied Christine, noticing the previously deliriously happy girl was now pale as snow, her face stricken. "Meg," Christine whimpered. "He's with me, even now!"
"Your hands are cold," Meg murmured, looking at the trembling hand.
"He's...he's all around me."
A soft hand on her cheek. "Your face, Christine, it's white!"
Her heart almost broke in two as the most childlike expression of fear she'd yet seen stared out of Christine's helpless dark eyes. "It frightens me," she said in such a quiet voice.
The maternal urge surged strong through Meg. "Don't be frightened," she said in a steady sweet tone, staring warmly at her friend. Christine nodded once, breathing slowly.
Both their hearts dropped violently to their stomachs as the door flew open.
"Meg Giry," Madame Giry said sternly. "Are you a dancer?"
Meg nodded dumbly from where she'd backed into the mirror.
"Then go and practice," Giry said, motioning to the door.
Meg's temper heated her cheeks. Here was Christine having some sort of breakdown, and – and - "Rehearsal! Always rehearsal," she muttered angrily to herself, leaving the dressing room after one more reassuring squeeze to Christine's hand.
As she rejoined the corps de ballet, Meg thought back on the disturbing interview with her friend. As she spun and spun, she felt the air thicken around her, and at last she could no longer deny what she was sure she'd known the whole time.
Christine's teacher was the Phantom of the Opera.
Another shiver, deep this time, all down her spine.
Possessing the same intuitive nature as her mother, Meg also knew why.
"Oh God, let Christine be protected!" She thought desperately to herself as she almost collided with a surprised Cecile.
As if in answer to her prayer, Madame Giry was just then presenting Christine with a card that read in part:
A red scarf...the attic...Little Lotte.