Chapter Text
New Paris ~ 1865
Christine couldn’t sleep. The other dancers in the dormitory were not unkind, but neither were they particularly welcoming. As the newest member of the company, she was simply another face in the crowd. After being shown to a narrow cot by the strict ballet mistress, the lamps were quickly extinguished. Her neighbors quietly chattered amongst themselves as they settled into bed. Before long, their whispered conversations gave way to soft breathing and snores.
Her head ached as she stared blankly up into the darkness. The chronic throbbing behind her eyes was always worse after dark, especially when the moon was new. Slipping out of her cot, Christine noiselessly crept out of the dormitory and into the dim corridors of the old opera house. It was all too easy to fall back into old habits. On silent feet, she made her way through the twisting passages—mentally noting all exits, windows, and dead ends that she came across.
Once the initial hallways were explored, she made her way down to the sub level. Christine froze at the sound of crying, clutching the silver cross around her neck in alarm. She turned her head, attempting to locate the source of the sound as it echoed faintly around her. There! It was coming from a dim passage on her left.
As the stuttering wail continued, Christine was quickly satisfied that the sound was human in origin. She descended the short staircase and was rewarded with golden lines of warm candlelight streaming through an old wooden door. The ache behind her eyes lessened as she neared the room. In the dim light, she could just make out the word ‘chapel’ written in Latin script along the stone lintel.
Christine pressed her hand to the door, and the hinges groaned softly as she entered the small room. A young girl near her own age sat on the bare floor, rocking back and forth as she cried into the folds of her white nightdress.
“Is something the matter?” Christine asked softly, afraid to startle her.
The girl jumped, her arms and legs spidering out as she jolted away from Christine.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Christine said as soothingly as she could. “I was just passing, and I heard someone crying.”
The girl hurriedly swiped at her face, doing nothing more than smear the tears that leaked from her swollen eyes. “I just…couldn’t sleep, is all,” she croaked. Her voice was rough and dry.
Christine nodded, lowering herself to sit opposite the girl on the uneven floor. “I wasn’t able to sleep either,” she admitted in a conspiratorial tone. “How about we tell each other stories? My papa would always tell me stories whenever I couldn’t sleep.”
The girl shook her head, pulling her knees to her chest. “I don’t know any stories,” she said sullenly. “And my Pa is dead,” she added, fresh tears welling up. “I saw it. Mama doesn’t know, but I saw it when she had to…” Her words trailed off into new sobs.
Understanding dawned on Christine. “Was he turned?” she asked quietly. “Had he been bitten?”
The girl nodded, her shoulders heaving. “I am sure he would not have hurt us,” she insisted. “But mama said that we had no other choice.”
Images of her harrowing journey to New Paris rose unwanted in Christine’s mind. She quickly shoved them back down.
“It was my fault, really,” the girl said, letting a choked laugh gurgle out. “She tried to make me leave—but I was smaller then. I hid at the back of the woodshed where she couldn’t see me.”
She turned away from Christine, fixing her eyes on the flame of the candle that streamed tall and silent on the votive stand.
“I watched her do it. Stab pa—” she flinched, “stab it through the heart. There was so much blood. . .”
The girl crumpled into herself, her hands clawing at her dark hair as if to pull it out by the roots.
Christine slid forward, pulling the girl’s hands away from the tangled mess she was making before wrapping her in a tight embrace. She shook so hard Christine worried that the pitiable thing would come apart, like one of the cheap wooden toys the street vendors peddled. She tried to think of something comforting to say, but the empty words died on her lips.
She herself had been the recipient of the trivial condolences that were even now on the tip of her tongue—had it only been a year ago? Nothing those people said had eased the pain she felt upon losing her papa. There was only one thing that truly brought comfort to her in any meaningful way.
Closing her eyes, Christine opened her mouth and sang. She did not sing any words at first, she simply let the music pour out of its own accord. It wrapped them both in its strong embrace, warm and gentle like the wings of a guardian angel. Christine reached deeper, the music inside her growing stronger with every breath. Finally the words came.
“Let the hour become soon,
When it pours over you.
Let the rough become smooth.
Let redemption follow through.
Open up your mind,
Leaving fear behind.
Let your passion flow and write,
Words that bring life.
Give yourself some time,
To grow wings and fly.
Watch the heavens open wide,
Right before your eyes.
Let the hour become soon
When peace pours over you
Let the rough become smooth
Let redemption follow through.” [1]
As Christine sang the simple ballad, she infused the words with all the hope and comfort she could muster. By the final chorus, the girl had stilled in her arms, her breathing returning to a more natural cadence.
“Thank you,” the she whispered. “I’ve never heard someone sing like that before. What language were you singing in?”
“Swedish,” Christine answered.
“Swedish,” the girl mused, nestling her head into Christine’s shoulder. “Would you sing me another—oh!” She glanced up at Christine. “I don’t know your name.”
“Christine,” she answered. “My name is Christine Daaé. What’s yours?”
“Meg Giry,” the girl answered with a small smile of her own. “Would you sing me another song, Christine?”
“Of course,” Christine said, stroking Meg’s back like she would a small child. Thinking for a moment, she launched into one of her father’s favorite folk songs about the small town where he had grown up. Christine did not stop singing until she noticed the girl’s even breathing. Meg had fallen asleep.
Christine was also quite tired, but she did not dare move for fear of waking her friend. The candle on the votive stand sputtered briefly as it reached the end of its wick. With a faint hiss, it drowned in the puddle of candle wax surrounding it, plunging the room into darkness. Once her eyes adjusted, Christine could just make out the faint glow of morning light beginning to filter through the lone stained glass window.
Christine followed the gleam of light with her eyes. The shifting beam rested on the stylized portrait above the altar and votive stand. In the strange half-light, the painted eyes of the Christ figure seemed to blink as it watched over her and Meg.
“My papa went up to be with You in Heaven,” she whispered, wondering if she had slipped into a dream. “He promised that he’d ask the Angel of Music to watch over me.” A few hot tears welled up in Christine’s eyes. “And my papa never goes back on a promise.”
The words choked in Christine’s throat as a fresh wave of emotion rolled over her.
“Do not cry, my child,” a soft voice called.
Christine blinked and snapped her head around. Despite the gloomy conditions within the chapel, Christine was sure that she and Meg were alone.
“Do not be afraid,” the disembodied voice spoke again, seeming to drift around her from everywhere and nowhere.
“Where…? Why can’t I see you? Who speaks?”
“Have no fear,” the voice insisted gently. “I am here to watch over you.”
Christine froze. “Watch over me?”
“Yes,” the voice said. “I am your Angel of Music.”
Christine shook her head in disbelief and reached over to pinch her arm. At her movement, Meg shifted in her sleep with a soft moan.
“I’m not dreaming?” Christine wondered aloud.
“No, dear child. You are not dreaming.”
The voice began humming softly, the melody more beautiful than anything Christine had ever heard before.
“Angel of Music?” she whispered, awed but still incredulous.
“I am your angel, Christine,” the voice assured. “And I will teach you to sing as you have never sung before.”
New Paris ~ 1870
“Christine!” Meg hissed.
Snapping out of her reverie, Christine followed her friend to their mark as the entire stage suddenly fell silent. The whole cast had taken their final positions and filled their lungs to sing out the final line of the act.
“ Hannibal cooooooomes! ”
Just in time, Christine lifted her arms with the other dancers to form the tableau, wishing that she could add her voice to the chorus. However, the maestro, Mssr. Reyer, was very particular. If he caught a dancing girl singing with the chorus members without permission, she would most likely be reprimanded in front of everyone—or even sacked.
Christine was glad that she had remained silent as the maestro huffed and imperiously called for a rest, his tone more peeved than usual. He was not pleased with the scene, and he was always extra critical when it came to new productions.
Before he could truly tear into the cast members, the seldom-seen Opera Manager, Mssr. Lefevre, strode onto the stage. He signaled for everyone’s attention as two well dressed gentlemen trailed behind him. One was tall, his graying hair pomaded in the current fashion, while the other, a much shorter and balding man, had dark eyes which darted around the auditorium, taking inventory of everyone and everything around him.
“Ladies and gentlemen! A moment please!”
“Mssr. Lefevre, we are in the middle of rehearsal!” the maestro complained, snapping his baton against the music stand with a sharp crack.
Carlotta ignored the manager, calling loudly for her maid, Imogen, to attend her.
“My apologies, Mssr. Reyer—but this cannot wait.” Mssr. Lefevre fluttered his hands, gesturing for silence, as if such the tremulous motion would actually gain the attention of such a large crew.
Madame Giry took pity on him and tapped her cane on the hardwood floor of the stage. After the resounding boom, the silence was immediate.
Mssr. Lefevre sketched a brief bow to Madame Giry before facing the assembled group of now quiet cast members.
“I have an important announcement to make,” he began, clasping his gloved hands gleefully. “I am sure most of you have heard rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these rumors were all true. It is my great privilege to introduce to you the new owners of the Opera Populaire, Mssr. Richard Firmin…”
The shorter one nodded at the present company, the mustache on his lips twitching as he seemed to hold back a grimace.
“—and Mssr. Gile Andre.”
The taller gentleman bowed gracefully, all smiles.
“You may have read about these gentlemen before in the Gazette . They made quite a fortune for themselves in the junk business—”
“Oh no, dear fellow!” Mssr. Andre interjected with a light laugh. “Not junk. Scrap metal. Mssr. Firmin and myself contribute to the safety of the entire city by repurposing discarded materials into state-of-the-art armaments.”
“Quite right, quite right,” Mssr. Lefevre agreed, nervously tracing the sign of the cross over his heart. “Gentlemen, may I introduce you to our leading lady for eight seasons, Carlotta Giudicelli.”
Flicking a perfectly coiled ringlet over her shoulder, Carlotta held out her hand to the two new managers. The taller one, Andre, rushed over to take her hand in both of his.
“I have witnessed all of your greatest roles, señiora !” he effervesced.
“Pleasure,” Firmin said without leaving his original position.
Carlotta gladly turned all of her attention to Andre, basking in the adoration.
“I did hear that Alissa has a rather fine aria in act III of Hannibal . I wonder if you would consider gracing us with a personal rendition?” He raised his eyebrows, his smile showing rather too many teeth in Christine’s opinion.
“That is unless Mssr. Reyer objects,” he added as an afterthought.
From the red hue to Mssr. Reyer’s face, he seemed poised to object strenuously, but Carlotta held up a peremptory hand.
“As my manager commands,” she purred. “Mssr. Reyer!” At the sharp address, the maestro deflated.
“As my diva commands,” he grumbled, turning to the appropriate place in the music. Tapping his wand, he gestured to the accompanying musicians.
As the pianist began playing the opening notes, Carlotta’s maid quickly handed the prima donna a vibrant red scarf. Christine flinched as the diva flicked the fabric carelessly.
“ Think of me, think of me fondly, before we say goodbye !” she crooned, sashaying off to stand center stage.
Each rehearsal, Christine attempted to imagine how Carlotta Giudicelli might have sounded in her prime. However, the undertaking increased in difficulty with each passing year. Carlotta focused on fighting her advancing age with all the passion her regular performance lacked. Christine had often heard the other dancers whisper about the great lady’s spending habits. Luxuries such as hair dye, makeup, perfume, and even the newest fashionable corsetry which gave her waist the slimness of a much younger woman, were purchased no matter the cost. However, dropping two dress sizes also decreased Carlotta’s vocal power. Notes that often wavered erratically in pitch died away before they could reach the last rows of the opera house’s auditorium seating. Christine fought the impulse to grimace or squint as the notes wobbled precariously with each of the diva’s flouncing steps. Even Mssr. Andre’s too wide smile appeared a little strained as he watched the prima donna perform. His partner made no effort to hide his dislike, going so far as to remove a silver flask from his waistcoat and take a long swallow.
Mssr. Lefevre appeared too preoccupied to pay much attention, as he spoke in low tones with Madame Giry.
Snap!
From the corner of her eye Christine thought she glimpsed a blurred movement in the rafters and rigging above the stage. She glanced up an instant before everyone else, just in time to see one of the huge painted backdrops begin to fall.
“Watch out!” she cried.
Dancers, singers, and other cast members quickly flung themselves to safety, but Carlotta remained fixed in place. Her ire at being interrupted preventing her from noticing the imminent danger. Christine leaped out and clutched at the prima donna’s hand, pulling her forward.
“ Basta! ” Carlotta screeched, rearing back. “Unhand me!” But it was too late.
The heavy mass of thick, painted canvas narrowly missed the prima donna’s head, slamming into her back instead. Thankfully, her reinforced corset kept her from being crushed under the weight of the heavy fly. She made ample use of the limited air in her lungs by screaming for Piangi and her maid to help her, slapping her hands against the stage for added emphasis.
The auditorium erupted into complete chaos. Meg flung herself onto Christine, crying, “He’s here! The Phantom of the Opera!”
Christine shook out of Meg’s grasp to help some of the other cast and crew members pull the heavy backdrop off of the struggling prima donna.
“Hush now, Meg!” Christine said over her shoulder. “You really must stop listening to Buquet’s scary stories before bed.”
Meg quickly knelt at her side to help lift. “But what if he is real?” she hissed, her expressive eyes scanning the rafters. “There have been far too many accidents .”
Christine looked down, unable to deny the truth of Meg’s observation. Someone had been targeting the prima donna for the past year and a half. However, the relatively harmless pranks and jokes played upon her had definitely taken a more serious turn of late.
With the hysterical Carlotta freed, Mssr. Lefevre cried for Buquet to be brought forward. No one seemed to hear him over the babble of the dancers or the wail of the prima donna in Piangi’s arms. Madame Giry rapped her cane once more, and the two nearest stage hands turned to face her.
“Find Buquet,” she said, in a low but firm voice.
The young men fled instantly to retrieve the man.
“What the devil is going on?” Mssr. Andre demanded.
“Buquet will know!” Mssr. Lefevre repeated to the gentlemen. “He is the chief of the flies. He must answer for this.”
A short time later, Joseph Buquet was brought forward by the two stagehands.
“Monsieurs, do not look at me!” he said, fiddling with a frayed length of rope in his thick calloused hands. “As God is my witness, I was not at my post.”
Christine frowned. It was true. He had come far too quickly. The stagehands had only searched for a few moments.
“Good monsieurs, there was no one up there,” he insisted. “Unless…unless it was a ghost.”
“Enough of your drivel, Buquet!” Madame Giry snapped. “Find the cause of the malfunction and fix it. Do not try to excuse your failings with foolish ghost stories.”
“Yes, madame,” he mumbled, shuffling away.
“Well, then...” Mssr. Andre said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “I suppose these sorts of things do happen.”
Carlotta bolted up from her dramatic fit of weeping, pure rage etched on her face.
“These a t’ings do ‘appen?” she demanded, her accent growing stronger with such high emotion. “For d’past t’ree years d’ese a t’ings do ‘appen!”
Christine frowned. Had the harassment been going on longer than she realized or had the leading lady simply exaggerated the time for emphasis?
“An’ do you do any’ting to a stopa d’em from ‘appening? No!” she cried, pointing a well manicured finger at Mssr. Lefevre.
“And you!” She whirled to face Mssr. Andre. “You are as bad as ‘im!”
At a loss for words, Mssr. Andre gaped at Carlotta in surprise.
“Until you a’stop d’ese t’ings from ‘appening, this t’ing does not ‘appen,” she said, dramatically holding the scarf to her chest. Turning, she signaled her beau with a nod. “ Ubaldo, mio caro, andiamo. ”
The smiling Piangi quickly tucked her arm in his, and together they swept off the stage. Imogen hurriedly gathered Carlotta’s supplies and followed after them.
“She’ll be back,” Mssr. Andre asserted, although his voice was laced with uncertainty.
“You think so?” Mssr. Lefevre asked with genuine curiosity. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned and bowed to the two new managers. “I am sure you gentlemen have much to attend to, and I really must be going.”
“Going! Going where?” Firmin demanded. “You would leave us with this mess?”
“Indeed!” Lefevre beamed. “If you need anything from me, I shall be in the Vatican City. Feel free to post me a letter. Good day!”
Mssr. Lefevre all but bolted from the auditorium, leaving the two new opera managers to share worried glances.
“What are we to do?” Andre murmured.
“Carlotta must come back,” Firmin said, slapping his gloves into the palm of his hand over and over as he began pacing. “We cannot cancel. Absolutely not. Our first night and we would have to refund a full house, Andre. A full House!”
“Madame Giry,” Andre said, sidling up to Meg’s mother. “Do you think Carlotta will return?”
Madame Giry subtly shifted, placing both hands on the head of her cane. The elegant motion almost completely hid the fact that she was using the sturdy wooden implement to bear her weight as she changed positions.
“I think not,” she said in her usual low tone.
“Oh dear. Then perhaps there is an alternate singer available. An—an understudy for the role!”
“Understudy!” Mssr. Reyer groused from where he had perched himself on the edge of the orchestra pit. “There is no understudy for La Carlotta. She would never have tolerated one,” he added under his breath.
“The production is a new one for the company, monsieur,” Madame Giry added. “A new soprano would have to learn the entire thing in less than a day.”
Andre’s face went very pale at the pronouncement. “Oh, this is a problem.”
Firmin stopped pacing altogether. “A full house, Andre! Think of the deficit.”
“Think of the embarrassment!” Andre countered. “The Viscount was to attend this evening. I had hoped that we could convince him to become a patron of the arts, but if we have nothing to show for tonight. . .”
Christine felt sorry for the two gentlemen, as well as disappointed that the production had to be canceled. The whole company had been rehearsing for over two months. Now it seemed that all their hard work would go to waste.
“Perhaps Christine could sing it?” Meg chimed in, her voice cutting through the somber atmosphere with absolute clarity.
Christine felt the blood drain from her face. “ Meg ,” she whispered, grasping her friend’s hand with an iron grip. “What are you doing?”
“Christine Daaé could sing it, sir!” Meg insisted, waving at Mssr. Andre with her free arm.
Madame Giry raised a dark brow in Christine and Meg’s direction, her expression unreadable.
“Daaé!” Mssr. Andre said, beckoning Christine forward. There seemed to be a manic glint in his eyes, as he looked her up and down. “I seem to have heard that name before. Ah yes! Are you perhaps a relation to the famous violinist?”
“Gustave Daaé was my father, sir,” Christine admitted, her steps resisting as Meg guided her forward.
“You should let her sing for you, monsieur,” Meg insisted. “She has been taking lessons from a great teacher.”
Christine shot a warning look at her friend. Meg was the only one she had ever told about being visited by the Angel of Music.
“Oh?” Mssr. Andre’s eyes brightened even more. “And who might that be?”
Christine clenched her hands in the tassel-like strips of her skirt. “I—I do not know his name,” she said lamely, unable to come up with a better answer.
Both Firmin and Andre looked nonplussed.
“May as well let her sing,” Madame Giry said, her voice holding a note of finality. “What have we to lose?”
Mssr. Firmin nodded dejectedly at her observation, while Mssr. Andre called the maestro to begin the aria again.
Meg darted away from Christine to snatch up a small remnant of tarp from just offstage. She rushed back and shoved the makeshift prop into Christine’s limp hands while simultaneously dragging her to stand center stage.
As the music began, Christine felt her breath catch in her throat. Only in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined performing a solo piece, and never under circumstances like these. “ Think of me… ” she began, her voice coming out a bit strained. “Think of me fondly, when we’ve said goodbye .”
“Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves,” Firmin stated, pulling out his flask again.
“Fear not, Firmin,” Andre insisted, plastering his hideous too-wide smile on his face.
Christine clenched the ridiculous piece of tarp in a death grip, shoving down the wave of burning humiliation. Now was not the time to surrender to panic. Looking over the rows of empty chairs, Christine pictured a horde of undead descending upon her.
With a grim smile, her nerves settled and she launched into the second line with new resolve. “ Remember me, once in a while. Please promise me you’ll try… ”
The music swelled within her, the simple accompaniment fading away as the song took over.
“ When you find that once again you long,
To take your heart back and be free,
If you ever find a moment,
Spare a thought for me . . .”
The rest of the aria seemed to pass by in blur. Her being blended into the song in a perfect sort of harmony, or almost perfect. Near the end of the piece, she could feel the song wander dangerously close to the darkness she kept locked away in the deepest parts of her heart. Pulling the music back was like trying to stop a runaway horse, yet she dared not unleash such raw emotions nor expose so much of herself to anyone. Not even during her lessons with the Angel of Music.
The effort of restraining the music left her feeling hollow and tired. As she sang out the last few notes, she let the scrap of cloth fall from her hands in the manner she had seen Mssr. Reyer instruct Carlotta to do in previous rehearsals.
A vicious but familiar stab of pain bloomed behind Christine’s eyes. The chronic headache that dogged nearly every waking moment of her life flared with renewed vigor. She fell to her knees, covering her face for a moment to hide a grimace of pain.
“Incredible!” Mssr. Andre’s excited voice instantly shattered the silence.
“A natural! A true natural!” Mssr. Reyer gasped, running a hand over what little hair he had left on his head. “Falling to her knees to add emotion to the scene!”
“Well done indeed, Miss Daaé,” Madame Giry remarked, a faint smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.
“Did I not tell you?” Meg shouted, dancing over to Christine’s side to help her up. “She is perfect for the role!”
Christine smiled shakily, grateful for Meg’s hand up, as well as her lucky escape from having to explain her moment of faintness.
“Firmin! We must have new billots printed!”
“But the expense, Andre…”
“Hang the expense, my good fellow. We have a new star!”