The widow Comtesse de Leon, formerly one Laverne de Chagny, was composed and remote. She sat at the head of the dining room table in the de Chagny's Paris estate, which she'd presided over since her husband's death drove her back almost fifteen years past. After her brother Philippe's death, she took over as unofficial head of house.
Her stiff white coiffure was piled atop her head like an impenetrable iceberg. Her long lineless face told her age of fifty-three years more than any wrinkles could – the pinched look to the high, patrician cheekbones and the severe expression did not evoke youth. Hers was a face with the bone structure of beauty but none of the attraction. Her thin, aquiline nose with its narrow nostrils was bred to draw back in disdain. Her pale eyes were nearly the same shade of blue as her baby brother's, but where his reminded viewers of the ecstatic, tempestuous, lively summer sea, hers were the blue trapped within a glacier – forbidding, frigid.
Her hands she held up in a tent-like triangle now, tapping her fingers together in what would have been interpreted as a nervous gesture had the bland expression she wore matched. Her hands were glorious – long, shapely, and delicate, as unwrinkled as her face but somehow more inviting and animated. The fingernails were shaped into perfect ovals, shown to perfection by her shining manicure (no colored polish, which she deemed cheap and common).
Fine China was the aura of Laverne – tasteful, delicate, refined, and brittle.
Aside from her nervous hands, her displeasure was clear in the drawn-down corner of her exquisitely shaped but thin lips.
This was Laverne in repose. Her cold eyes watched the Grandfather clock at the back of the long room from beneath highly arched eyebrows.
However, the instant she heard Raoul's footsteps heading down the hall toward the manor's staircase, she took a deep breath and her expression changed swiftly. Her face took on a practiced, artificial look of maternal concern. She stood. She was much shorter than one would anticipate judging by her impressive face, her bird-boned frame incongruous – but not comical – in comparison with the long grave head it held erect.
She walked with studied casualness – but quickness – out of the dining room to catch Raoul. She carried the newspaper her elbows moments before had rested on as she sat in thought.
"Raoul," she called in her low melodious voice. Much like her appearance, her voice was beautiful, plaintive, and empty.
He was halfway down the stairs but stopped. His shoulders slumped the barest amount. His head bowed, the perfect picture of bemused exasperation scarcely held in check.
He turned to his elegant older sister, who stood with an air of martyr-like majesty atop the stairs, one lovely hand just slightly touching the banister.
He put on a rueful half-smile and reluctantly ascended a few steps more. Out of respect. "Good morning, Laverne. Getting rather a late start this morning, I'm afraid. I must get my beauty sleep, you know." His eyes lacked their usual twinkle when bandying words with others. Hard as he tried to convince himself he could, Raoul was never able to kid Laverne – at least, not without strain and aggravation.
Almost thirty years Raoul's senior, she'd been a beautiful, remote blur in his childhood. Still, her presence dominated. Even when she was away with the Comte de Leon, Raoul's second sister Roberte – ten years younger than Laverne and ever quavering with fear and awe of her elder sister – was talking of Laverne, of how Laverne certainly wouldn't approve of Philippe taking Raoul to Monte Carlo, of sending him to school so late, of buying that article of clothing for him. Of Philippe consorting with opera dancers, gambling, not settling down.
And Philippe would purse his lips and stare ahead of him out the window with the same bemused look with which Raoul regarded his sister now.
But then in Laverne's fortieth year her husband died without leaving Laverne any children. His younger brother inherited the de Leon estate. Laverne, head held high but with heart scorching, returned to the de Chagny home and with amazing ease supplanted any weak authority Roberte ever held as the female head of house.
Laverne never shouted, never lost her temper. But still, quite quickly Raoul noticed the stormcloud in his older brother's face during her constant gentle commentary on his life, the tight way he held himself in, the way he'd stride out and not return until morning. The frequent trips to the seaside with Raoul, to Perros-Guirec.
Laverne felt for her siblings not the love of gentleness, but an emotion much like the grip of a possessive hawk's talons on some precious wild animal. To flourish and to carry on the family name with proper respect, they must understand and obey and sit still within the wisdom of her grip.
She felt a stab of genuine affection and moreover pride as she looked at Raoul now. He could have anyone, her cherished little brother. His handsome lion face was as appealing as any she'd ever seen, and his quick toiletry this morning gave him an utterly masculine yet somehow boyish fly-away look, his hair slightly mussed, his coat open, his long white scarf hanging loose about his neck.
Yet the anxious look in his eyes and the newspaper she held brought her back to the issue at hand.
"My dear brother," she began, voice smooth honey. "I've been meaning to speak to you for a while now, but you are always just out the door."
What snappish reply could Raoul give to such a wistful admonition, deliberately holding not a tone of accusation? He only clamped down his jaw tight, grinding his teeth. This was Laverne in her most dangerous of moods and the one hardest to fight against, thanks to her gentle facade.
So he said nothing, simply waited.
She inhaled and continued. "There is a very hurtful column about you in the paper this morning."
She almost flinched as he laughed suddenly. "Good, that should do for a chuckle," he said jovially. "Here, why don't you cut it out for me and we'll laugh over it later? I really am in a rush, Laverne" –
"It is about the Daae girl," she said with quiet evenness.
Again she was met with silence. She had as yet to mention Christine to him so frankly outside of innuendo.
Raoul felt that if he were to tighten his jaw muscles any more, his teeth might crack.
Laverne continued. "They say she was with you at the masquerade ball. With you, and all those depraved souls."
"What of it?" He was brusque.
"They say she wore a ring around her neck. From you."
"What of it?" Raoul repeated, almost petulant in his defiance now.
"That the other man then tore from her neck."
Raoul immediately dropped any pretense of impassivity, almost lunging up the steps to face her. "There is no other man," he spat out. "Just a poor creature driven insane, who's created a fantasy world for himself with Christine."
Laverne was at her most serene when those around her were at their most tempestuous. "So you say," she said in almost a whisper, staring dreamily down at the banister, sweeping her hand over it, back and forth.
"It is the truth, Laverne. Christine is the most innocent soul I've ever known."
With that her eyes shot to his looking like a serpent's, mocking and despairing by equal turns. "You fool," she muttered darkly.
Raoul tried to ignore the chill he felt.
Seamlessly swallowing the hardness that had come over her features, she evoked sad motherliness again. "Raoul, I said nothing when you went off for six months with the girl. I figured it better for you to get such expeditions out of your system while you are young, hoping that you'd be wiser than your brother when you reached his age, God rest his soul. But a ring, Raoul? A ring?" She shook her head sadly. "Surely it will only end in this girl's heartbreak, if she is as gentle as you advertise."
"How can it end in her heartbreak? I intend to marry her."
"Impossible," she said in a clinically clipped voice.
"How?" Raoul said goadingly. "We are both free agents."
"Yes," Laverne said with a delicate laugh. "She certainly possesses a free nature to entertain such high hopes for herself."
"Believe me, Laverne, it is I who's had to do the convincing. She shied away from marriage for a long time fearing such a reaction."
"Then she is wiser than you," Laverne shot back, meeting his gaze with penetrating fire. "She knows her place. An opera singer. An opera singer with a scandal attached to her. Raoul, you must be out of your mind."
Raoul threw out his hands in agitation. "For what? Marrying for love? People have done just that before, you know."
"But not to a Jewess." Her face was full of expression now – righteous, frenzied. "A Christ killer, Raoul!" She mechanically clutched the cross at her throat, a deliberate tear in her voice as she spoke.
Raoul's look was dark. "I refuse to dignify such primitive doggerel with a response." He turned away and marched down the steps again.
Quick as lightning she was behind him, aflame now with holy purpose. "Jews are" –
"Perfectly fine to conduct business with, to transact with, in other words only when convenient for you to interact with." He spoke without glancing at her until he reached the bottom of the stairs and then turned to her sharply. "Well, no more. I will take no part in this bigotry." With contempt and hurt heavy in his face, he inched toward her and said in a low voice, "I know you lied to me in that letter you sent me after her father died. Saying she was gone from Paris."
The only movement Laverne made was to aim her glare sideways.
He chuckled joylessly. "You don't dare deny it, do you?"
"No," she said simply. She met his gaze again. "Why should I? I was only thinking of you. And of the family name."
"Admit it," he barked. "It was only the family name you cared about. It's all you've ever cared about."
"Well, someone has to," her shout matched his, frail motherliness vanished. "Your dear departed brother broke my heart by dallying with opera whores, but never, not once did he consider marrying one of them!"
"Perhaps if he had he would have at least died happy!"
She shook her head resolutely. "Philippe would never have been happy sullying the family name. He'd have died first."
Raoul wanted to argue with her, tell her she was wrong, but he didn't know if she was. Philippe for all his casual and friendly ways had possessed a hard cold line of propriety – surface propriety, which allowed him to indulge in the Paris night life but never let it see the light of day.
Raoul begrudgingly admitted to himself that Philippe would have undoubtedly taken Laverne's side.
But it made no difference. None at all.
"Regardless of what or what not Philippe would have done in life," he said at last, "I know what I intend to do with mine." He picked up his hat and reached for the door.
"And you intend to marry her?" Her voice was deadly quiet.
"Yes."
Her face was pinched and she was shaking. "Think what you're doing, Raoul! Think how it will break not only my heart but Roberte's!" Laverne always spoke of Roberte, who quietly acquiesced to her sister and dwelt in quieter areas of the house, as though she were a cherished angel to be petted – and treated her in person with snappish contempt.
Raoul rolled his eyes and opened the door. "I'm sure Roberte will sob for a few minutes and then comfort herself with the latest society gossip at one of her friend's soirees."
"Raoul, if you marry that girl, you shall be disinherited." She stood straight and still. "Philippe left me in charge of the estate. It is within my power."
Raoul's face was inscrutable.
"Think, Raoul. Think carefully. Is she really worth you losing your name?"
He feigned thinking deeply for a moment. His face was very grave. Then brightening he said, "Yes!" His smile was frank and happy. He tipped his hat and winked at her.
Then he slammed the door shut behind him, leaving the elegant statue to blink and fume.
Raoul's late start was nothing compared to Christine's. She lay down to sleep the night before full of knowledge that the first read-through of Don Juan Triumphant awaited her in the morning. That knowledge was a constant hum in the back of her mind. Between that and tending to the only semi-lucid Mamma Valerius, Christine's nerves were frayed.
She'd read the part earlier and acknowledged that, yes, hers was the biggest role, bigger even than Don Juan's. It was also a role full of raw sensuality. Nausea simmered in her stomach. She knew, of course, that he who claimed to be an angel sent by her father was instead but a plain man desiring her love, but the full depth of his lust had not yet fully revealed itself to her.
And so she dreamt that night.
She dreamt of her father, standing in his graveyard, playing his violin. He was mournful, alone. He could not see her from where she stood outside the cemetery gates.
The solitude of this once effervescent figure struck her to the bone.
Finally he lifted his eyes to hers.
They were mismatched – one brown, one icy blue. They held all the sadness of the world, adoring and pleading.
Christine awoke with tears in her own eyes. Then she hurried to ready herself, noting the time.
Meg sat with the libretto open on her lap, tapping her foot absently. She wore her usual tutu with a light shawl wrapped around her shoulders to fight off the bite of the cruel January cold, evident even inside the opera house. She looked around the stage.
She and the principals were all gathered together stage right, sitting in rows. They feigned attention to what Reyer was instructing them. In truth, Meg knew they must all be thinking of the man behind the music – the specter who somehow knew their greatest strengths as performers and who crafted roles just right for all of them.
It would have been flattering were it not also so invasive. Meg glanced at the costume sketches he'd made for her character. There she was, sketched in provocative poses, holding a tambourine in one hand, the other hand on her hip. The face was hers in the flesh, but with a saucy, coquettish expression Meg didn't think she'd ever worn in life. Possibly in Hannibal? Even so...
Invasive. Certainly invasive.
Meg started from her reverie as Carlotta sang rather sharply her first lines in a booming soprano, the diva always insistent on making an impression the first day of rehearsal.
That they were now starting made Meg look anxiously at the empty seat beside her.
Then she smiled in relief as the familiar blue cloak flew into sight as Christine hurried in, hood up, looking pale and disheveled. She wore her red scarf. Meg saw her friend's face soften at the sight of Meg eagerly patting the seat beside her.
Christine squeezed Meg's hand as the dancer smiled at her. There in Christine's eyes Meg saw everything – the nightmare, the guilt, the repugnance – without knowing what they were specifically. Meg only squeezed that hand all the harder because of it.
But all at once it was Christine's time to stand and sing. As usual, her voice rang out more clearly and ethereally than church bells – but this morning, with dark circles around her haunted eyes, her voice was just as empty.
Meg could see Christine was trying to disconnect herself from the words she sang, from the scene around her.
Now it was Piangi's turn. The tenor, looking frank and unassuming as always even in his usual ill-fitting, dandified suit, sang his cadenza with utter confidence.
And was blatantly off tune.
Carlotta dismissed Reyer's criticisms with contempt. "His way is better! At least he makes it sound like music!" The diva sat back satisfied, smiling contentedly as the chorus laughed in agreement.
Meg looked back down at the libretto thoughtfully. It was true, the Phantom's score was unlike any she had ever heard. At times the music crescendoed into downright madness. But then out of the jangle of discordant melodies there seemed to rise emotions Meg had never heard expressed so completely through song – lust, romance, pride, envy – all emotions that were frankly rather foreign to the young girl, which somehow made them more real to her.
Meg found she liked the score.
Scanning the room now and catching the jeering faces around her, she realized she was perhaps the only one.
Her mother, standing to her right, addressed Carlotta in a dark voice. "Signora, would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?"
Meg felt Christine shiver beside her.
The ballerina felt herself grow cross at Carlotta's adamant stupidity as she answered her mother. "The composer is not here! And if he were, I would see to it" –
"Are you certain of that, signora?" Madame Giry tried to ask her. Meg could have told her mother it was no use. Such subtlety was lost on Carlotta, still rushing to her lover's defense as Reyer continually tried to correct him.
"Now, once again!" The frazzled director prompted Piangi. "Five, six, seven, eight" –
With renewed gusto, Piangi burst forth, "Those who tangle with Don Juan!" He looked as triumphant as the proud rogue he meant to play.
He was still wrong.
Meg couldn't help staring in disbelief, impatient as the rest. Usually she felt more understanding to those struggling with a new piece, but the fear quaking in her heart – this was the Phantom's score, the Phantom's – combined with the unprofessional air Carlotta and the rest treated the sobering occasion with irritated Meg. Christine was more lenient, oddly serene in her misery now. Even after the accusations Piangi had hurled at Christine a few days before, she was quietly trying to instruct him: "Not quite, signor. Those who tan, tan" –
Suddenly there was a chaos of sound all around, everyone openly jesting and complaining, Madame Giry thumping her cane to no use, Reyer banging the piano keys in a frustrated attempt to corral attention, and Carlotta shrilly giving her own imitation of the unconventional melody.
Meg was born of this tumult, and only shrugged easily and took Christine's hand again. Her friend's face was blank but sheet white, in such deep distress it tore at Meg's heart.
She was about to whisper to her reassuringly when suddenly she...she almost seemed to smell something in the air...
The piano was playing. Playing perfectly the opening chords.
She swayed slightly in her seat. Her head was humming.
She saw her friend's face fade and blur, until Christine was but a white oval with a long dark brown halo...
Then her mind went blank and she remembered nothing more.
Christine sat paralyzed as with mechanical precision – like figures in a cuckoo clock – the company left their seats and stood around the piano.
The piano that was playing the opening bars of the first song from the libretto.
The piano that was played by no one.
Christine heard the voices swell in perfect harmony. Saw Meg twirl and kneel. Her friend's usually expressive face was jarringly empty, eyes wide and blank like a doll's. Even Madame Giry was turned into a puppet, standing beating the tempo with heartless, bloodless precision on her cane.
And yet Christine felt nothing. Only numbness.
She saw only a man standing alone in a graveyard, playing the violin.
She stood unsteadily and left.
Meg felt a jolt run through her not unlike in a dream when you miss the curb. Her head snapped up. A slight sheen of sweat coated her upper lip. She gazed dumbly around her.
Somehow, in some way, she was standing by the piano. The rest of the company was congregated there as well, murmuring to themselves and massaging their temples, apparently recovering from the same fog she was in.
Instinctively, Meg looked for her mother. Nothing was ever so unsettling for the young woman than seeing Madame Giry – always so composed and stoical – as evidently disarrayed and disoriented as the rest. The older woman's black eyes suddenly narrowed and her face was tense. She whispered some word in a language Meg had never heard before, whispering with a hissing vengeance. Meg had little time to process this when Giry addressed her sharply. "We have been drugged," she announced in a clipped voice.
Meg's stomach lurched as she suddenly remembered – "Christine!" She whirled around and looked anxiously over the crowd assembled.
No trace of the singer.
Before her mother could stop her, Meg dashed backstage. She ran down the corridors, breathless as she burst into Christine's dressing room without knocking.
There was no sign of her, except for a letter lying on her vanity.
Picking it up, Meg saw it was addressed to her. There was only one line.
She read it and a look of befuddled anxiety pinched her face.
Footsteps stopping at the doorway made her turn around.
Raoul was there, bringing a refreshing presence of vitality, strength. He was obviously informed of the...odd interruption to rehearsal, and had echoed Meg's actions, seeing to Christine's safety.
Without saying a word, Meg held up the letter.
Taking it, Raoul read:
"MEG:
I have gone to Perros-Guirec. I must see my father.
CHRISTINE"
Meg did not need to hear him speak his plans as his eyes quickly shot to hers. He raced out the door once more. He left Meg standing as abandoned and frustrated as his sister, tortured by feelings of helplessness.
A/N: Sorry for the long wait, but I've been sitting on this one for a while. It was originally going to contain the Wishing scene as well, but as you can see, it got a little long with the introduction of Laverne and whatnot. Now I have to rework my outline a little, grumble, grumble. I guess you can never stick too religiously to an outline, otherwise you'd end up with a Tyrion-Arya-Jon love triangle apparently.
Yeah, so I have no clue how Erik managed the hypnotism of the cast in the Don Juan rehearsal. So assume Madame Giry spoke out some infamous drug of Persian origin. I fail at research.