Unmasqued

'Death? Is that so?' The comte's gray blue eyes swept over her in that arrogant, calculating way that made Christine think of the protectors. But there was not one hint of fatherliness in his whole attitude.

Raoul did not seem to notice. 'How did you resolve it, then?'

'It was insisted that we add silver ornamentation to the set-another cost, of course.' Moncharmin reached to mangle the loaf of bread in the center of the table. 'Another five thousand francs.'

The comte smoothly changed the subject. 'I did not mention how delightful it is to see you again, Miss Daae. I am told we met briefly some years ago, when you and my little brother romped at the beach in Perros-Guirec. Not a very fashionable place, but one near my aunt's home, where Raoul was raised.'

'You remind me of a bittersweet time, Comte de Chagny,' Christine replied. That summer in Brittany was the last summer she had with her father. 'My father died that following winter, when I was ten.'

'It was Madame Valerius who raised you then, was it not?' added Raoul.

'Yes, she and her husband, the professor of music at the National Academy of Music in the Opera House, were friends and admirers of my father, who was a great violinist. They were kind enough to keep me with them until I was able to enroll at the conservatoire.' From then, it was an easy path for her to find her way to the chorus and ballet corps, all the time hoping for the chance to advance further.

To find her place.

Had she found it now?

'That day you met her at the seashore, I rescued her black scarf from the surf, Philippe,' Raoul added. 'Do you recall being there, now that I have reminded you?'

'Indeed I do,' Philippe replied, his attention focused on Christine. 'I do remember the girl, who has now grown to be such a beautiful young woman. It is no surprise, Raoul, that you have determined to reawaken your acquaintance with her. If I did not already have a countess, I would be so inclined.' He gave a brief nod, meant to imply tribute to Christine. But she saw the look in his eyes and knew better.

From the time she was twelve and joined the chorus for a mere eight hundred francs per annum, she had lived in the dormitory at the Opera House, sharing a room with the other dancers. Living in such a casual, communal environment, she'd been exposed early on to the sexual interactions between men and women through whispered conversations, spying in dressing rooms, and her own clumsy, groping experience with one of the props boys that eventually led to her own deflowering.

And then of course, there had been Madame Giry, who spoke frankly of such liaisons and experience, and urged her girls to make their own decisions and taught them how to utilize their feminine power to the best of their ability. And how to be certain they were not gotten with child, and what to do if they should be.

Christine had witnessed the coquettish ways dancers and singers of all ranks-both men and women-teased and flirted with the admirers who came backstage to the foyer de la danse after the performances. She saw the hungry way the men looked at the dancers, at times with admiration, as Raoul did with her… and at other times with a condescending desire. As the comte did now.

She looked at his ungloved hand holding the wineglass, three of his fingers bearing heavy, jeweled rings, and imagined that hand on her flesh. It would be cold, and demanding, she knew; it would not allow her to shrink away, to flinch. Christine watched as he trickled his fingers, blunt tipped and thick, over, the side of his glass as if to call attention to them.

She tore her gaze away, and it skittered upward and was trapped. By calculating grayish blue eyes. He nodded once, then turned his attention to the others at the table. He spoke no more to her that night. He did not even acknowledge her presence with anything but an occasional searing stare. After the meal was finished, Raoul excused himself and Christine and sent for his carriage. When they returned to the Opera House, Christine found herself looking at the huge marble theater in a different light. Since joining the corps de ballet, she'd hardly ever seen the facade of the famous columned building, for most often, her comings and goings were relegated to the back, where the dormitories were located. But now, as the sun was rising over the creamy Paris skyline, Raoul drove his carriage around the front of the Opera House, to the side rotunda where he would normally enter the building. Christine looked up at the colossal sculpture of Apollo, holding the globe of the earth up toward the sky, and she suddenly felt as though she were just as high and powerful as he.

When Raoul realized he had made a mistake, he sent her a rueful smile and drove the horses around to the back of the building. It was a long walk to the dormitories, and at last Christine realized how exhausted she was.

'When shall I see you next?' asked Raoul, stopping at her door. Although he had dragged her up against him only hours ago, and ravaged her mouth as though starving, he seemed to have shed that intensity and now looked upon her as something delicate and breakable. Something out of reach, something to be worshipped.

'When do you wish to?' she asked.

'Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. The morning.' He took her hands, his eyes soft and luminous in the low gaslight in the hall, forever.

Christine laughed lightly and pulled gently away. 'Such strong words, Raoul, and we barely know each other.'

'I have known you for years, Christine, and I have never forgotten you… It was only fate that pulled us apart and brought us back together. If my brother had not become the Opera House's new patron, I should not have been here tonight to see you sing and to have renewed my acquaintance with you.' He tilted his head gently, as though to better look in her eyes. 'Do you not feel you know me? Don't you feel the connection between us?'

'Yes, I do feel a connection: the memory of a lovely summer all those years ago. From such a happy time in my life,' she replied. 'I feel as though you are an old friend. Someone comfortable, familiar.'

Not someone who unsettled her, or burned her. No, not Raoul.

Raoul did not burn her.

'You see?' Raoul broke into a beam of a smile. 'I feel the same, Christine. I shall speak to my brother-'

'The comte?' The warmth that had begun to swell in her filtered away. 'Why must you speak to him?'

'Because if I wish to court you'-he smiled, wide and brilliant, like a young boy-'I must ensure he will approve.'

'But you are a Chagny! He will never allow you to court me. I am not… you cannot.'

'I shall court you anyway, in secret if I must,' Raoul told her fiercely. 'I am the younger son. I do not need to wed for my family. It is becoming more accepted for actresses to marry well. And you are no Blanche d'Antigny.' He spoke of the Parisian actress who had been driven from the Russian stage because of her immorality.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was becoming more accepted. More possible. Could she ever aspire to being the wife of a vicomte, little Christine Daae, daughter of a violinist?

She thought of Marie Biere, the singer who had not had the benefit of Madame Giry's mentorship, but had found her way nevertheless. Marie had been freed after her arrest for attempting to murder her rich lover, when he had left her pregnant and destitute. Even the courts had found in her favor, she, an actress! Perhaps times were changing.

But Raoul was still speaking earnestly, holding her hands and looking at her with his blue eyes. 'My brother will approve. He spoke of your beauty and grace, and I saw that he found your company quite enjoyable at dinner. He would never have spoken to you so informally if he had not.'

Christine felt a chill over the back of her neck. There was no doubt that the Comte de Chagny found her attractive. And his informal comment had felt more like a bearbaiting than conversation. Still. Raoul made her feel comfortable and happy, and he was the personification of a rare memory of happiness.

She was the beautiful singing lady now, wanted and loved by all. There would be no more loneliness.

Perhaps someday, she would even enter the Opera House auditorium through the huge, sweeping staircase.

'Monsieur Moncharmin,' called Madame Giry, seeing the flare of his dark cloak as he disappeared around the corner early the morning after Christine Daae's maiden solo performance. 'Please wait for a moment.'

When she caught up with him, she saw that his little round cheeks had turned apple red, and that he avoided looking her in the eye. However, his attention seemed to be caught and trapped by her generous bosom, covered modestly by her high-necked gown, but jutting out like a wide shelf, nevertheless.