Fantôme – Chapter 5, Part 1

Christine Daaé was deluged with gifts from her many new admirers – her dressing room was filled with chocolates and flowers and ribbon-wrapping from all the stores in Paris, folded neatly and placed into an empty inkwell, for she could not bring herself to discard them. In addition to a handsome bouquet of hothouse roses from the young Viscount that she somewhat expected, Christine found a large bunch of lilies with cards from both the Comte de Changny and his wife attached. From the Comte came what, she had learned in the course of an afternoon, was a generic message of well-wishes to a young singer – flowery prose declaring her the best, the brightest, and the most beautiful person to grace the stage of the Opera Garnier within living memory – but, with a surprising post-script, which told Christine that her career was to benefit from all his wealth and connections. “After all, Mademoiselle,” she read, “what a waste it would be if you ceased to sing.” This emphasis came from nowhere to Christine, and it was unclear to her why a nobleman – a married one, at least – should offer his reputation to aid an actress. The girl’s question was answered, so she thought, upon reading the card from the Comtesse, which declared an open bosom of friendship and requested that “The magnificent Mademoiselle Daaé sing to the attendants of my Wednesday salon, for when such a talent is found in one so young, the bosom friendship of a woman who has been out in the world for longer might be just what is needed, and I so dearly wish to be that friend!”

Although Ms Daaé had been raised without a mother and had very little formal schooling, her father had been diligent in teaching her manners – it was with his voice ringing in her ears that she took up her pencil and wrote a thank-you note to each and every person from whom she had received a list. The young singer left the Chagny family to the end, for these were the most difficult letters for her to write. To the Count, she wrote:

“Thank you for your well-wishes, kind sir. I am aware that your proactive care for my career must come from care for your Wife and your Brother who have both expressed an interest in my Self; nevertheless, they are lucky to have such a man as you in their life, who puts his Person forward to guard their interests. I thank you for your kind words about the longevity of my career, and assure you that it is something I have been working towards – though I am glad to have a Person of your stature who remains interested in it, I must ask you to Not connect your Name and Influence with my own small Name. Thank you for you generous kindness, and I hope you do not think me cold.”

The Comtesse was somewhat more difficult. Christine looked distantly into the full-length mirror at her left, lost in her thoughts. Eventually, the girl said aloud, “Only the truth will do, Christine,’ and with that, raised her little stubby pencil and turned back to her desk. To the Comtesse, she wrote:

“Kind Madame,

I lost my way since the death of my beloved Father, and it is only recently that I have begun to be of use again, socially or professionally. Your letter gives me purpose – if my singing can cause such joy that Society wishes to hear it, I must be doing something right with this Gift he gave me.

Alas my lady, much of the direction I have found that allows me to sing this way is due to my teacher – an angel of music – and he prefers me to sing only when he can hear, to guide my growth and ensure my exertions are to the correct degree.

I look forward to your next visit to the Opera, and, though I believe I should be tongue-tied in the presence of a great Lady such as yourself, you should feel welcome to pass through my dressing-room and I shall be at your service – although, I fear, it is within the four walls of the Opera that our friendship must remain, and I must decline the kind invite to your Salon.”

When her mind began to turn to the letter she must write to the young Viscount, Christine Daaé began to smile. She tapped the pencil on her makeshift writing-desk and wrote:

“Raoul.”

She frowned, and crossed out the single word.

“Viscount de Chagny”

When this, too, was not right to the woman, she folded the paper and neatly tore at the line, removing all trace of the salutation. Beginning afresh, without addressing the young gentleman directly at all, she wrote:

“Do you remember my Father? Do you remember our younger days together? I am not sure if it is because you remember Roussillon that you have been so kind to me, but my Father always liked you. This week, I will take a holiday to Sault. If you wish to reminisce, I hope to see you there. If I am only a beautiful Singer to you, then I will see you in Paris.”

Christine sealed this one in an envelope, and wrote “To the Viscount de Chagny” on it in broad strokes. Quickly, she snatched up the whole pile of letters, and her shawl too. As she left the room, she looked back furtively, but she decided not to be afraid of being watched and held her head high. After all, there is nothing wrong in sending letters – and there was nobody there to see her do so. Regardless, Christine did not use the Opera’s mail service, instead walking around the corner and paying for stamps for her missives.

***

It was breakfast when the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny received their post, and the count was rather more interested in the kippers in the chafing dish than the briefs that lay at his elbow. It was his wife’s laugh that caused him to look up from buttering a steaming piece of baguette

“You have nothing to worry about at all, my dear. It is some dashing singing teacher she loves, not your brother – here, she calls him an ‘angel of music’

“Still – she would not be the first girl to take marriage to a noble she did not love for the title. Why, in the days of kings it was almost a public pastime!”

“There will be one of those letters for you, I am sure, Philippe. Look for one with a terrible pencil scrawl. Poor, gauche thing. She really does need my friendship, even if she doesn’t want it. I could elevate us both and marry her off into a quite respectable family, one that isn’t ours – Philippe, don’t look at me like that. Open your letter and see what the little thing has to say.”

“That she doesn’t want my friendship, and intends to keep singing.”

“Perhaps she thinks you are trying to seduce her?” The Comte laughed at this. “What a quaint little provincial she is, she truly has no idea at the meaning of your letter.”

“She is not provincial, dear, she is Norwegian,” the Comte said, scanning over the letter again.

“She is Swedish,” his wife corrected, daintily waving the spoon with which she was eating her egg, “and I am quite sure they have provinces in Sweden. She is certainly not very worldly, regardless.”

“I am not confident that my brother’s infatuation with her will go. I have not seen him like this since he was a child, and there was some local girl on his holidays that he loved.” The Comtesse smiled serenely, the silk embroidery on her morning-dress shining like dewdrops in the light from the window.

“Then, my love, we shall interfere. This girl is an orphan, and new to Paris society. She needs guidance – I don’t see why it shouldn’t benefit us as well as her.”

“My dear, I trust you implicitly, especially with social matters” said the count, reaching to the middle of the table for bacon. “Can I serve you some fruit?”

***

Raoul lived not with his brother, but at his mother’s house. It was lucky that he was not there to hear the conversation over breakfast. Not only would he have found it rude of his brother and his wife to openly discuss something as crass as a potential courtship, and been incensed at their estimations of Christine, but hearing the phrase “angel of music” would have conjured a different image in his mind altogether than what it did to his sister-in-law. Raoul would not have seen a handsome music teacher, but a warning from God and Providence. As it was, Raoul did not come down to breakfast; instead, after the tray came up with his coffee and correspondence, he became a flurry of activity – sending a servant to book a carriage in the next train to Aix-in-Provence and getting another to bring his luggage. He, however, packed himself; and because he did not ask for a return ticket, the servants could only gossip at when he would be back.