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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 28/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1764
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Christine wants to go home, but Raoul can't see what's right in front of his nose.
GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD
“Raoul, I’ve made up my mind. I want to go home.”
Christine had been steeling herself to tell him for the past week. Nice as the Hotel de Chagny was, she had found herself longing more and more for her little flat and its cosy, homely rooms; though she had been there for more than six months now, she still did not feel entirely comfortable amongst the lavish furnishings which, though tasteful, simply reeked of money and privilege. Raoul, she knew, barely noticed them, but then he had been around such wealth his entire life and probably had no idea how much it was all worth. Christine could make an educated guess, and knew that it was more than she could hope to earn if she lived to a hundred.
Truthfully, the arrangement was beginning to prove awkward. Since she returned to the Opera Raoul insisted upon accompanying her in the carriage; it had not been too bad for the first couple of weeks, but then he began to attend the rehearsals as well, and when she returned to her dressing room at the end of the day there he was again, waiting to escort her back to the de Chagny mansion. Christine knew that he was only doing it out of concern for her, but a few days of having absolutely no time to herself started to make her feel claustrophobic. She had wild urges to run up to the roof and fling out her arms, shouting to the sky, desperate to find some sort of freedom; she did not mention this to Raoul, as he would not understand. Since June he could only see the theatre as a threat, a danger, something from which he was determined to keep her safe. Though she appreciated his efforts, and the love from which they were born, Christine could not help but feel stifled. And then there was Erik to consider...
Shortly after rehearsals began, he repeated his offer of help with her role, this time in a rather more generous manner than the ultimatum he had flung at her the night of the masquerade. The score was difficult, almost impossible, and she accepted gratefully, knowing that, though she had been trying her best, Monsieur Reyer could tell that she was struggling. There could be no one more perfect to assist her than the composer himself; he knew her voice better than anyone, and if he believed she could sing his complicated, radical music then sing it she would with his guidance. Unfortunately, since the agreement was made, there had been no opportunity for them to even speak. Inside the opera house, Raoul would not let Christine out of his sight, and as he was always ensconced in her room for over half an hour before the official end of the afternoon session she could not slip out early and meet Erik at the mirror. It was a situation which frustrated them both, and there would be absolutely nothing to be gained in trying to explain it to Raoul. Seeing Erik as little more than a madman and a monster, he would be horrified at her perfidy; no matter how hard she tried Christine could not make him see that there was a man behind the monster, a broken, bitter man who had been shunned his entire life. He refused to open his eyes, just as Erik refused accept that there was more to Raoul than casual arrogance and money.
Christine sighed inwardly. Raoul could not help his upbringing any more than Erik could the terrible experiences which had made him what he was today. Two men, one charmed by birth and ancient lineage, Lady Luck smiling upon him, and the other cursed, touched as some would say by the hand of the Devil. How could they possibly hope to understand each other? Why should they even wish to try? The only thing they had in common was their affection – their love - for her. She wanted to fist the tablecloth and sink her face into the soufflé in front of her. Why must everything be so complicated?
She was grateful that they were eating in the little private dining room that was part of Raoul’s suite. Dinner with the rest of the family on the rare occasions it was demanded always felt like a trial of endurance; Christine was sure that all eyes were on her, waiting for her to make a mistake and use the wrong fork with the fish course, or make it obvious that she was enjoying her food. It was more nerve-wracking than an opening night at the theatre could ever be, and would present no opportunity for bringing up the subject she had just broached.
Raoul looked up in surprise at her announcement. “Home?” he repeated, confused. “But why? Are you not happy here?”
“It’s not that, I just - ” She searched in vain for the right explanation. Though she cared for him - indeed, she still loved him dearly - she knew that she couldn’t tell him the truth. “I’m very grateful to Philippe and your mother for allowing me to stay here, but... I miss my flat, I miss having my own things around me.”
Raoul wiped his lips with a napkin and set his fork aside. “Well, that’s easily rectified. I can send someone for your things in the morning. You should have mentioned it before; I would have had them fetched in a heartbeat.”
“I know, I know you would, but that wasn’t quite what I meant.” Christine pushed away her plate, and it was removed almost immediately, reminding her that even when it was just the two of them they could never be truly alone. She had realised soon after her arrival at the hotel that even away from the theatre she was still always being watched, and the eyes upon her were hostile. “I need... I need my own space again, I need solitude and the freedom to just gather my thoughts. And don’t forget that my flat is much closer to the Opera – you wouldn’t need to escort me every day.”
“You make it sound like a chore,” he said with an affectionate smile. “I like accompanying you.”
She returned his smile. “And I like having you there.” Most of the time, she added silently, hating herself for having to lie to him. “But I’m needed almost constantly now and it’s much more convenient if I have to stay late. I can walk home, and there would be no need to have your coachman waiting around for me.”
“Are late nights likely to be a requirement?” Raoul asked, frowning. Christine knew what he was thinking, and though he was partially correct she wasn’t about to confirm his suspicions. The only way to survive the next few weeks would be to keep Raoul and Erik apart.
“They are if you wish opening night to be on the twenty-seventh,” she said, deliberately keeping her tone level.
“It won’t just be opening night, it will be the only night.” He reached for his wine glass, which was obediently topped up by the footman hovering behind his chair. “After all, there will be no need to perform that particular work again once the Phantom is gone. His music will be destroyed along with his influence, and need pollute the halls no longer.”
Christine’s blood ran cold at the thought of Erik’s beautiful music no longer filling the hidden corners and darkened passageways of the theatre. Even when she could not see him, she could feel it on an instinctive level, rising up from the bowels of the Opera and seeping through the cracks in the marble, reaching out to her. Few others heard it as she did. For Raoul to just casually dismiss it, to refer to the Phantom’s removal as though he were doing no more than ridding his stables of rats made her feel physically sick. Erik was more than just the building’s ‘ghost’, more than just a pest, an infestation which had to be disposed of; he was part of its fabric. In some ways he was the Opera. She couldn’t imagine what it could possibly be like without him. Forcing her face into a neutral expression, she said, “It seems a great shame to put in so much work for just one night.”
“Well, that doesn’t really matter, does it?” Raoul took a sip of wine, and nodded appreciatively. “You’ll have no need to tread the boards again when this is all over.”
Christine put a hand over her glass when the footman tried to refill it. “What do you mean?” she asked, more sharply than she intended.
Raoul smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Christine. Come a week on Saturday you’ll be truly free. You’ll never have to return to the opera house; the future Vicomtess de Chagny will not need to work, naturally. We’ll be able to spend all our time together, away from the fear and the bad memories – just think of it!” He sat forwards in his chair, face alight with enthusiasm. “We could go back to Perros, if you’d like, walk along the beach. I’ll even fetch your scarf again if you lose it. It’ll be just like the old days.”
“Raoul,” said Christine, trying to quell the horror she felt at the suggestion that she would never sing again, “I love my job. I love singing; I don’t want to give it up.”
“And you won’t have to. My brother throws all manner of parties and musical soirees; you’ll outshine all those silly girls who think they’re talented because they can plunk away at a piano. And I’ll engage the finest singing teacher Paris has to offer if you wish, so you won’t fall out of practise.” He jumped up, the footman automatically pulling back his chair, and rounded the table to her side, leaning over to rest his bandaged hand on her shoulder and drop a kiss on her forehead. Pinching her cheek fondly, he whispered, “My little nightingale.”
“But Raoul - !” It was too late, he was already through the doors. Christine sat, dejected, her hands in her lap, wanting to cry but refusing to do so. Behind her the servants stood, immobile, waiting until she decided to rise from the table; she could feel their eyes on her and once again had that urge to run away. Under her breath, she murmured, “I don’t need the finest tutor in Paris.
“I already have the best teacher in the world.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1764
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Christine wants to go home, but Raoul can't see what's right in front of his nose.
GOODBYE YELLOW BRICK ROAD
“Raoul, I’ve made up my mind. I want to go home.”
Christine had been steeling herself to tell him for the past week. Nice as the Hotel de Chagny was, she had found herself longing more and more for her little flat and its cosy, homely rooms; though she had been there for more than six months now, she still did not feel entirely comfortable amongst the lavish furnishings which, though tasteful, simply reeked of money and privilege. Raoul, she knew, barely noticed them, but then he had been around such wealth his entire life and probably had no idea how much it was all worth. Christine could make an educated guess, and knew that it was more than she could hope to earn if she lived to a hundred.
Truthfully, the arrangement was beginning to prove awkward. Since she returned to the Opera Raoul insisted upon accompanying her in the carriage; it had not been too bad for the first couple of weeks, but then he began to attend the rehearsals as well, and when she returned to her dressing room at the end of the day there he was again, waiting to escort her back to the de Chagny mansion. Christine knew that he was only doing it out of concern for her, but a few days of having absolutely no time to herself started to make her feel claustrophobic. She had wild urges to run up to the roof and fling out her arms, shouting to the sky, desperate to find some sort of freedom; she did not mention this to Raoul, as he would not understand. Since June he could only see the theatre as a threat, a danger, something from which he was determined to keep her safe. Though she appreciated his efforts, and the love from which they were born, Christine could not help but feel stifled. And then there was Erik to consider...
Shortly after rehearsals began, he repeated his offer of help with her role, this time in a rather more generous manner than the ultimatum he had flung at her the night of the masquerade. The score was difficult, almost impossible, and she accepted gratefully, knowing that, though she had been trying her best, Monsieur Reyer could tell that she was struggling. There could be no one more perfect to assist her than the composer himself; he knew her voice better than anyone, and if he believed she could sing his complicated, radical music then sing it she would with his guidance. Unfortunately, since the agreement was made, there had been no opportunity for them to even speak. Inside the opera house, Raoul would not let Christine out of his sight, and as he was always ensconced in her room for over half an hour before the official end of the afternoon session she could not slip out early and meet Erik at the mirror. It was a situation which frustrated them both, and there would be absolutely nothing to be gained in trying to explain it to Raoul. Seeing Erik as little more than a madman and a monster, he would be horrified at her perfidy; no matter how hard she tried Christine could not make him see that there was a man behind the monster, a broken, bitter man who had been shunned his entire life. He refused to open his eyes, just as Erik refused accept that there was more to Raoul than casual arrogance and money.
Christine sighed inwardly. Raoul could not help his upbringing any more than Erik could the terrible experiences which had made him what he was today. Two men, one charmed by birth and ancient lineage, Lady Luck smiling upon him, and the other cursed, touched as some would say by the hand of the Devil. How could they possibly hope to understand each other? Why should they even wish to try? The only thing they had in common was their affection – their love - for her. She wanted to fist the tablecloth and sink her face into the soufflé in front of her. Why must everything be so complicated?
She was grateful that they were eating in the little private dining room that was part of Raoul’s suite. Dinner with the rest of the family on the rare occasions it was demanded always felt like a trial of endurance; Christine was sure that all eyes were on her, waiting for her to make a mistake and use the wrong fork with the fish course, or make it obvious that she was enjoying her food. It was more nerve-wracking than an opening night at the theatre could ever be, and would present no opportunity for bringing up the subject she had just broached.
Raoul looked up in surprise at her announcement. “Home?” he repeated, confused. “But why? Are you not happy here?”
“It’s not that, I just - ” She searched in vain for the right explanation. Though she cared for him - indeed, she still loved him dearly - she knew that she couldn’t tell him the truth. “I’m very grateful to Philippe and your mother for allowing me to stay here, but... I miss my flat, I miss having my own things around me.”
Raoul wiped his lips with a napkin and set his fork aside. “Well, that’s easily rectified. I can send someone for your things in the morning. You should have mentioned it before; I would have had them fetched in a heartbeat.”
“I know, I know you would, but that wasn’t quite what I meant.” Christine pushed away her plate, and it was removed almost immediately, reminding her that even when it was just the two of them they could never be truly alone. She had realised soon after her arrival at the hotel that even away from the theatre she was still always being watched, and the eyes upon her were hostile. “I need... I need my own space again, I need solitude and the freedom to just gather my thoughts. And don’t forget that my flat is much closer to the Opera – you wouldn’t need to escort me every day.”
“You make it sound like a chore,” he said with an affectionate smile. “I like accompanying you.”
She returned his smile. “And I like having you there.” Most of the time, she added silently, hating herself for having to lie to him. “But I’m needed almost constantly now and it’s much more convenient if I have to stay late. I can walk home, and there would be no need to have your coachman waiting around for me.”
“Are late nights likely to be a requirement?” Raoul asked, frowning. Christine knew what he was thinking, and though he was partially correct she wasn’t about to confirm his suspicions. The only way to survive the next few weeks would be to keep Raoul and Erik apart.
“They are if you wish opening night to be on the twenty-seventh,” she said, deliberately keeping her tone level.
“It won’t just be opening night, it will be the only night.” He reached for his wine glass, which was obediently topped up by the footman hovering behind his chair. “After all, there will be no need to perform that particular work again once the Phantom is gone. His music will be destroyed along with his influence, and need pollute the halls no longer.”
Christine’s blood ran cold at the thought of Erik’s beautiful music no longer filling the hidden corners and darkened passageways of the theatre. Even when she could not see him, she could feel it on an instinctive level, rising up from the bowels of the Opera and seeping through the cracks in the marble, reaching out to her. Few others heard it as she did. For Raoul to just casually dismiss it, to refer to the Phantom’s removal as though he were doing no more than ridding his stables of rats made her feel physically sick. Erik was more than just the building’s ‘ghost’, more than just a pest, an infestation which had to be disposed of; he was part of its fabric. In some ways he was the Opera. She couldn’t imagine what it could possibly be like without him. Forcing her face into a neutral expression, she said, “It seems a great shame to put in so much work for just one night.”
“Well, that doesn’t really matter, does it?” Raoul took a sip of wine, and nodded appreciatively. “You’ll have no need to tread the boards again when this is all over.”
Christine put a hand over her glass when the footman tried to refill it. “What do you mean?” she asked, more sharply than she intended.
Raoul smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Christine. Come a week on Saturday you’ll be truly free. You’ll never have to return to the opera house; the future Vicomtess de Chagny will not need to work, naturally. We’ll be able to spend all our time together, away from the fear and the bad memories – just think of it!” He sat forwards in his chair, face alight with enthusiasm. “We could go back to Perros, if you’d like, walk along the beach. I’ll even fetch your scarf again if you lose it. It’ll be just like the old days.”
“Raoul,” said Christine, trying to quell the horror she felt at the suggestion that she would never sing again, “I love my job. I love singing; I don’t want to give it up.”
“And you won’t have to. My brother throws all manner of parties and musical soirees; you’ll outshine all those silly girls who think they’re talented because they can plunk away at a piano. And I’ll engage the finest singing teacher Paris has to offer if you wish, so you won’t fall out of practise.” He jumped up, the footman automatically pulling back his chair, and rounded the table to her side, leaning over to rest his bandaged hand on her shoulder and drop a kiss on her forehead. Pinching her cheek fondly, he whispered, “My little nightingale.”
“But Raoul - !” It was too late, he was already through the doors. Christine sat, dejected, her hands in her lap, wanting to cry but refusing to do so. Behind her the servants stood, immobile, waiting until she decided to rise from the table; she could feel their eyes on her and once again had that urge to run away. Under her breath, she murmured, “I don’t need the finest tutor in Paris.
“I already have the best teacher in the world.”
