Paris, France,
1914,
The world around her spun as she and her dance partner spun with it. Lively Piano and clinking glasses danced around them and the rest of the cramped café. It was perhaps the loudest farewell celebration in all of Paris. People from outside continued to pour in, half the party piling into the street due to the already packed café. It was quite the sight, and it was making Christine far too dizzy.
Her partner was having a wonderful time, however, and this was enough to quell her worries, for the time being. Their hands pressed together as they moved along with the crowd to the upbeat piano. She wasn't used to such quickness and her face grew hot with each misstep or laughed-off stumble. His smile was enough alone to make her anxious, but she did her best to reflect his happy bliss. They danced on, until Christine slipped away on the excuse of a parched throat. Her partner, the gentleman he was, offered to accompany her, but she merely smiled.
"I'm quite sure I'll manage, Monsieur De Chagny."
There was nothing in her voice but teasing, if possibly a hint of chagrin. Then his smile widened and her knees went weak. Despite her awkward limbs and radish-like face, she remained collected all the way through the sea of dancers, till her hands met the wood of the bar. It was hardly better than the frenzy of the dance floor, laughing and cheering from the more than tipsy party-goers; but here it was also less likely to be trampled by swinging feet. She asked for a glass of water, the excuse of thirst not being a lie, and took a sip.
"No doubt about it. I've gone mad."
Christine jumped at the new voice beside her, very nearly choking on the room temperature liquid. At the sight of a familiar wry grin surrounded by wild, golden hair, she smiled.
"Oh? What has you so convinced?"
The smile on her companion's face was that of a cheeky cat, and Christine leaned down as the smaller woman placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Don't say you heard this from me," she said as if sharing a secret. "I don't want people thinking me a gossip." A snort Christine couldn't help came at the humour of Meg being anything but a gossip.
"But if you would believe it," she continued, "I just caught sight of Christine Daaé dancing with a De Chagny. "
Christine moulded her smile into mock surprise.
"Goodness, are you sure?" The two shared a knowing glance before they looked out to the dance floor once more. "You know," Christine started, her friend's eyes looking back at her in question. "I too must be out of my right mind."
"And why's that?"
"I thought I saw that silly girl, Meg Giry, dancing with the eldest De Chagny just moments ago." With that the two burst into giddy laughter, looking out at the two brothers talking and laughing with fellow soldiers-to-be.
"Oh, Christine! Can you believe it? Us, dancing with the De Chagny's!" Meg swooned upon her shoulder causing another few laughs.
It was truly unbelievable. Christine mentally thanked Madame Giry—if not for her, Christine would not have been at the market that fateful afternoon. If she hadn't been to the market, sorting through bright red apples, she never would have bumped that hand she believed she would never see again. To her surprise, the sweet, witty young boy she had known as a child was just as sweet and witty. He was no longer a young boy, however, but a young man.
Now stood by the bar, a chattering Meg at her side, Christine locked eyes with her dear friend, his eyes lighting up as bright as his smile. A cold pit weighed itself in her stomach.
"The way he's been all over you– well, I wouldn't be surprised if he asked for your hand, here tonight, Christine…Christine?"
Christine was too focused on fighting the heavy lump in her throat, the stinging of her eyes. It was truly cruel, so soon after getting him back he was to leave her again; leave for something so terrible. How could they be celebrating? At that moment, Christine couldn't bear another second of it.
Mumbling a word to Meg she pushed away from the bar's ledge, needing to be somewhere else. As she did so, Meg grabbed her hand. "Christine? Where are you going?" Christine met Meg's kind eyes and eyebrows tilted in concern.
How could she explain to Meg? She hated the idea of ruining her friend's night, reminding them all of what was just around the corner. This party was a night to never forget, a night to remember laughing and dancing. She wouldn't take that away from Meg, or any of them. Christine gently pulled her hand away from her friend's worried grip, but she held it and gave it a squeeze. "Just outside for a moment, that's all. Go dance some more with Phillipe." And with that she pulled away from the young Giry.
"Alright…don't be long," the girl called after her. It was likely Meg had noticed the hitch in her voice, the shine of her eyes, and Christine was thankful she said nothing about it.
The trek to the cafe's front door went not entirely without incident, her toe likely to be sore for the next few days. Still, she pressed on, all but leaping out the front door. Wrapping around herself in a hug, her arms did very little to fend off the night's biting cold. A chill climbed up her bare arms, and she deeply regretted not bringing a shawl, as Madame Giry had commanded so thoughtfully.
Outside the street was hardly any less cramped than the café. Groups talked and laughed—couples danced to the faint sound of piano spilling out into the night. Rather preferring these strangers not witness the embarrassing tears that threatened to fall from her lashes, Christine took to hiding down an alley to the building's left. She stopped halfway down that alleyway, where darkness overtook the light from a nearby street lamp. Standing a short way from the inky nothingness, she leaned herself against the building's wall.
All was quiet for a moment. The cold darkness brought on a certain peace Christine couldn't pinpoint. Another moment passed, staring at the cracked bricks of the opposite building. Then without warning or care, the tears spilled from her eyes.
They brought along all the fear of the past months with them. She felt selfish, to be feeling so terrible when it wasn't even she who would be leaving. Raoul deserved more, she wished she could give him more, be a source of happiness and joy in his final moments in their city. She wished she could suffocate these awful feelings, but the farther she pushed the stronger they came back. Tonight everything came clawing up, from the moment Raoul told her of his enlistment, the moment she heard of what lay around the corning like a predator lurking behind the bend. It all came through her muffled sobs, escaping through her tears and off-kilter breaths.
"I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle."
A soggy gasp emitted from Christine, darting her wet eyes to the sound of the voice. Her vision was blurred, possibly from tears, possibly from the short-sightedness that plagued her since her youth. Despite this, the looming figure, standing merely meters from herself in the dark alley was unmistakable. He must have always been there, she had heard no footsteps. Still, she could hardly fault herself, for the tall man, an incredibly tall man, seemed to be more shadow than man. Leaned up against the wall, he was practically hidden, blended into the shadows. He stood teetering on the edge where the light of the street lamp and the darkness of the alley met, one side of his face, at least in Christine's struggling eyes, entirely encompassed by the inky shadows.
"I apologise, Monsieur. I…I shouldn't have intruded."
The man shook his head, or she thought he did, it was hard to tell in the dim light. "This passageway is not under my ownership." He spoke bluntly, then there was silence, the air almost…timid. Christine's feet shuffled, then he spoke once more.
"I…should have made my presence known to you—sooner."
All sorrow was exchanged for mortification, Christine hyper-aware of the snot and tears dripping from her nose and chin. She was at a loss for words in the stranger's presence, but she pushed something out despite that fact.
"Perhaps you should have," she said, meaning it to sound amicable, but immediately she wished she had stayed silent. How rude was she, to first intrude on the man's space, then respond to his apology with poor manners. Quickly she began constructing another apology, but instead she paused. A smile, or something related to a smile, tugged at his deathly pale cheek. She bit lightly on her tongue, resolving to stay silent.
She did not, however, move from her spot by the wall. Neither she nor the stranger made any indication of leaving, standing silent, meters away from one another. Perhaps it was out of fear that held her firmly in place—the man wasintimidating. His height, possibly ranging over six feet, was a prominent contributor to that intimidation. His attire certainly couldn't be overlooked either, formal and sweeping, he dressed as if he were one of the many wealthy opera attendees, ones Christine watched and admired for their class and grace, walking up those grand steps into the opera house. Fear was a logical explanation for Christine's feet being rooted in place, but in truth, it was curiosity.
It was a naïve curiosity that forbade her from leaving this mysterious man's alleyway. It was also idiotic, she knew, standing alone in an alley with a strange man, questionable and possibly dangerous. He would have remained hidden, she reasoned, if he had any foul intentions of harm, but he'd made himself known, and she used that as reason enough to stay.
Her hand ran to tangle in her hair, fidgeting with the mess of dark curls there, tangled from frantic dancing. Her eyes and face were stained wet from her tears, and her embarrassment likely removed any intellect from her thoughts. "Are you also taking rest from the celebration, Monsieur?" Her question must have surprised the stranger as much as it did herself, as for the first time, he turned his head to really look at her, half his face still engulfed in shadows. She could only partly make out the glow of his eyes through the darkness, like two reserved fireflies.
There was another beat of silence, where she seemed to be entranced by his stare. Then he breathed an elegant—if somewhat empty—laugh and looked away. "I'm not one for…celebration."
Christine herself let out a quiet laugh, hardly anything more than a whisper. "Yes. I can relate."
Again that timid silence swept the alley, and she watched as he hesitated over his next words. His next statement made her jump yet again, less from fear than from surprise. "Your accent...you are of Swedish origin."
She gaped at the shadow for a beat. For many years her accent had been a point of personal contempt, something that brought her nothing but ridicule from other children, something she worked very hard to smother. She had been under the impression she had been successful in her attempt to smother it. "I am. Is…is it truly that pronounced?"
"No," he said simply. "I have an acute sense of hearing."
She huffed out a sound of relief, though if the night brought her any more embarrassment, she was sure she would simply shrivel up. The shock returned when the man spoke next.
"The Swedish language is nothing to disfavour, my dear." His voice was deep and soft like velvet. What more was the language he spoke, one Christine hadn't heard in many, many years. The last voice in her native tongue she ever heard was her own father, saying his goodbyes.
First, she laughed. A real laugh, not like the sad whisper before. "You speak my language," she returned in astonished Swedish, choppy in her own language from years of neglecting it. She refused to let her eyes fill with tears once more, but the fight was difficult, the song-like sound something she hadn't realised she desired so deeply. He nodded in answer to her question.
She gazed in awe at this strange, shadow man, wanting desperately to know who he was, how he had appeared like an apparition to grace her with his voice. "You are a mystery, Monsieur." They locked eyes again, his stare, those fireflies, penetrating her very being.
"Christine!"
The call turned her attention to the entrance of the alley, where she heard the familiar warmth of Raoul's voice. The party, her sweet Raoul, had been all but forgotten in the presence of the dark stranger. She turned to say something more to the man in the shadows.
When she turned, the line where light and dark met was empty. The man had retreated back into the darkness, or perhaps he had merely vanished into the night's breeze, disappearing as strangely as he'd appeared. Tempted to search the alley and sift through the shadows, she finally uprooted her feet from their place in the alley's trapping soil.
It would be incredibly difficult, however, to explain to Raoul why she was hiding away in the dark of an alleyway, so she made haste to exit the mysterious plane where light merged with darkness. They met at the entrance of the café, light and sound coming back into the fog of Christine's mind, where previously all had seemed deafly quiet.
"There you are! Marguerite told me you needed air." He took up her hands, then frowned at their frigid state. His eyes swept over her bare arms. "Oh, Christine! You're frozen!" Immediately and against her protests for his own warmth, he stripped off his jacket and laid it over her shoulders. "You should have called for me, I would gladly have joined you."
She thanked him and he turned to look back into the warm glow of the café, the dancing piano and the joyous crowd around them in the street. When his gaze returned to hers, it held something new, something sweet. "Christine…would you care for a walk?" There was a stagger in his voice, an unusual tone, close to that of a sheepish child.
"I have something I must ask of you."
A cold breeze cut through the warmth of his words and she hugged his jacket around herself. His hand was held out, an offering. She accepted it, but not before looking once behind, back to the entrance of that captivating alley. It was then she realised she never caught the shadow man's name—if he even had one. A strange, foolish feeling she would one-day cross paths with that mysterious stranger lulled her regret.
Hand in hand she walked with her dear friend, into the night's cool clasp. No thoughts of what was yet to come, what lay behind the bend. No thoughts of that imposing figure, filling her senses with his melodic voice.