Unmasqued

When he opened the door-flung it, really-he found a scene much worse than he'd feared.

There was Christine, seated on a lush pink velvet sofa, in a room that looked too much like the boudoir of a courtesan for his comfort. Everything was plush and stuffed and velvet: chairs, sofas, large cushions on the floor, even three large square fabric cubes topped with glass that acted as tables. The colors burned sensually: rosy pink, crimson, royal purple, and saffron.

Wine bottles, platters of cakes and frontages and bread, bowls of glistening grapes and bright oranges and dusky brown pears, empty glasses, filled glasses-all of these trappings of entertainment littered the tables and hung in the hands of the men… the nearly dozen men… who fawned over his Christine. There were other dancers in the room, and two girls that he recognized, vaguely, as singers, but they did not hold the attention of their guests as did Christine.

She looked up when he came in, and it was not merely vanity that caused him to see the pleasure and true delight in her face. She smiled. Her fair cheeks became rosy and her blue eyes sparkled.

Raoul was not a Chagny for nothing, and never had he worn the mantle so well. 'Good afternoon, Miss Daae. I apologize for my tardiness in coming to call for you, as I'd promised last evening. Shall we go?'

He walked over to her, making his way through her admirers, and extended his arm to her. Their eyes met, and he couldn't help but catch his breath at her glorious beauty. She looked so innocent, so young, so pure.

And he had loved her for so long.

Christine rose, and his heart swelled, for until she did, he was not altogether certain she would support his presumption.

'For me?' she asked, smiling, looking at the massive bunch of hothouse roses he still held.

He'd forgotten them; but even in the midst of that little embarrassment, he did not mind. For she was coming with him. 'Of course, mademoiselle. Pure white roses, tipped with the blush of pink… only for you.'

If Christine's other admirers were affronted at his sudden whisking away of the object of their affection, Raoul did not notice. He had a goddess on his arm, and he knew nothing else.

Even though it was a winter's day, he wanted to take her outside… away from the dark busyness of the theater, away from the clamor of her other admirers. He settled her comfortably in his carriage, tucking fox- and rabbit-fur blankets about her legs and then wrapping the softest of ermines around her shoulders.

A fresh snow sparkled and would have blinded him if he'd not had his top-hat brim down low over his eyes. 'Where shall we go?' he asked, turning to smile at her.

'Wherever you wish.'

He glanced at her as the carriage started off, the horse's hooves clip-clopping smartly as they turned along the busy rue de la Paix. Her ivory cheeks had blossomed pink in the chill air, and even the tip of her perfect nose had reddened. He thought she looked delectable.

But while he was watching her, she was watching everything else. It occurred to him that she probably did not often have the luxury of taking a carriage ride through the streets of Paris. If she left the Opera House, it was likely rare, and on foot.

Raoul turned his attention to the rue and looked at it as she must see it, with its occasional closed carriages and caped men in tall hats driving them. Women and men walked along the brick streets too, both garbed in subdued, but fashionable, clothing for the messy winter months, holding umbrellas as they did in nearly every season-to protect them from sun, rain, or snow.

Raoul noticed the street vendors calling out to sell fromages and fruits and bread, dressed in clothing not much better than what Christine herself wore, and dodging a trio of scruffy dogs that bothered them underfoot.

When they turned along the Left Bank, the icy Seine lay unbroken in a long stretch of white. They were flanked on the other side by a rough wall that separated the street from the road, and the river. And then he saw the spidery, wrought-iron atrocity that was just beginning to take form on the riverfront ahead of them.

Christine must have heard his snort of disgust, for she turned her attention away from the sights to look at him. 'You do not like this new tower that is being built?'

'Indeed not,' he replied. 'Monsieur Eiffel will destroy the Parisian silhouette, with this tall, gangly monstrosity. I have seen drawings of what it will look like when it is finished, and I cannot believe the mayor has allowed such an affront to take place in our beautiful city.'

Christine gave him an innocent smile that eased some of his annoyance. 'But it is for the celebration of the centenary of your Great Revolution. And there is no intention that they shall leave it standing after, is there?'

'I certainly hope not, but we will have to look at it for at least two more years. And you might recall that it was not my revolution,' he chided gently. 'My family were some of the ones who lost more than our land during the Reign of Terror. But being Swedish, perhaps you are not as well versed in our history. At any rate,' he said, determined to steer the conversation away from such unpleasantness and toward something more personal, 'I hope you aren't angry with me for taking you away from your admirers.'

'No, of course not, Raoul. I am pleased that you would care to be seen with me in public.'

'Of course I do, Christine. I told you that I intend to court you.'

She looked away. 'I know that's what you said, but… well, that was last evening.'

'You think that I might have changed my mind overnight? When all I could think of last night was you?'

'I was not suggesting that you would have changed your mind, but that perhaps you might have had some assistance.'

'You speak of my brother, the one who himself had a widely known attachment to none other than La Sorelli.' Raoul laughed, but it felt hollow. He hadn't spoken to Philippe yet, and although he had every intention of courting-and, if the truth be known, marrying-Christine Daae, he acknowledged that it would likely take some convincing of his brother.

But he would do it. Philippe never denied him anything he truly wished; for he was twelve years older, and had always thought of Raoul as more of a son than a brother, since their mother had died when Raoul was born, and their father less than a decade later.

It was true, however, that Raoul did not like to think of angering or disappointing Philippe. That was why he'd gone to sea: to make something of himself that the comte would be proud of.

Christine didn't reply, and they rode along in silence, broken only by the shouts of street vendors and the scrabbling of carriages along the cobbled street.

Raoul struggled to put his thoughts into words; he wanted to talk to her, to find out about her, to learn her… but one could not just suddenly delve into a woman's life with personal questions. Yet, he felt almost as if he had earned the right to do so, all those years ago, that summer. After all, he wasn't just a young man who'd suddenly noticed her glorious voice and lovely person… He'd known of it for years.

Perhaps he would start there. Where they'd left off. 'I didn't realize your father died that winter after our summer together. It must have been terrible for you.'

She nodded next to him. 'It was the coldest winter I'd ever known. I felt frozen, Raoul. Numb and slow. He was all I had. Father and his music. And then suddenly, it was gone. It was worse than losing Mama, for I was so young and I barely remember her. But Papa… but you know. You lost your parents too.'

'Yes, but… well, it was different for me. I had my brother, who became like a father to me, and my two sisters, who were all so much older than I. And my mother's sister, who raised me. Of course, I have her to thank for living in Brest, for that is how we came to be in Perros and how you and I met.' He flashed her a quick look. She had a sad smile on her face. She must be remembering.

'I had no one. No one except the Valeriuses, and they were wonderful to keep me on, but it wasn't the same. For a long time, I didn't want to even hear the violin. Do you still play?' she asked suddenly, taking him by surprise.

'I haven't in many years, but I believe if I picked up the instrument, I would remember what your father taught me that summer, after I rescued your scarf.'

'Those were lovely days by the sea, with the gulls calling in the distance behind the notes you and father were practicing.'

He chuckled. 'I would not have called them notes, Christine… I was only a passable player, not talented like your father. And you.'

There was another silence as he considered his next move. He needed to ask; he needed to know… but he