All the Rules Rearranged - Chapter 1

[igenlode]

I've based this on the original cast recording and -- so far as I could establish it -- on the costuming and staging of the London production. (Christine is not wearing the 'peacock dress' for her stage performance, for example, but a skimpy modern-style evening gown!)

As will become obvious, this story does not take place in the same continuity as either of my other LND plots set in this universe, The Choices of Raoul de Chagny or To Ease Your Troubled Mind...

All the Rules Rearranged

Chapter 1: What is to be Done?

Her dressing-room at Phantasma held no clock. But the call-boys had been past, the dancers had flocked outside in their bright chattering gaggle, and soon it would be her turn.

She’d come so far to sing this song; so far, in so many ways. The past she’d thought forgotten had opened its guilt from the grave — its guilt and its allure both — and that old storm of tears had closed weeping and raging over her once again. Somehow she’d held herself together through it all with a strength learned from womanhood and ten years of marriage. Only a few more minutes now, and it would be over. One last aria to pay their debts — and repay a debt that was all her own — and she and her son would be gone from this place, leaving the tormented past to rest at last in peace.

She and her son and Raoul, and their baggage with them. Safe on familiar shores, in the life that she had so painstakingly pieced together for Gustave’s sake out of the ashes of their young dreams...

One song, Christine had told herself throughout the hours of waiting. Just this one song left, this one thing she needed to do, and then they would be done with America and all it stood for. Time itself had narrowed down to these few minutes ahead of her, and the music she had rehearsed over and over again.

And then Raoul... had changed everything. For a second time.

The first time had been five years ago. They’d been chasing the chimera of money ever since; that disastrous misjudgement had seen half his family holdings staked on the back of a friend’s single investment.

Some friend, Christine thought bitterly for the hundredth time, but she no longer said it. Her husband had defended young Boncarré’s venture to the last against claims of fraudulence and mismanagement, even when the promised dividends failed to return, even when Boncarré himself was more and more often absent. The de Chagny name and credit had kept the whole ruinous scheme afloat just long enough for its originator to face the inevitable.

Boncarré had been found one morning washed up by the Seine, his pockets full of pebbles. And Raoul, who had given assurances he was utterly unqualified to make, had found himself suddenly held liable for the whole.

Since then nothing he touched had gone right. He’d tried to act as her agent, negotiating higher and higher fees to recoup their losses until her performing engagements dwindled and fell away, and those who agreed to his demands did so only when they had no intention of ever paying. He’d sold off land, and made a loss. He’d bought a high-blooded stallion to cover his best mares and stand at stud, and the nervous brute had broken a leg before siring a single foal. Finally he’d gone South to gamble at high odds; won back enough to make a difference and staked his winnings on the table at double or quits.

He’d lost the stake, lost his head, and plunged them deeper into debt than they’d ever been before. Raoul gambled steadily now. Sometimes it was all that kept them afloat. Sometimes he would come home with his pockets empty, and another IOU left behind that she would have to silently, secretly beg his friends to destroy.

There were few enough men who would play with Raoul de Chagny now. And the humiliation of it ate at him daily along with the rest.

The offer of this single New York concert at an astronomical fee had been one they could not afford to refuse... or to look at too closely.

She should have known, Christine told herself now. She should have guessed the moment she set eyes on that music... or the name of the venue, Phantasma. But she’d let herself stay blind; in the struggle of these last few years — as Raoul sought his own escape and shut her out more and more, and music itself became a resentment between them — she had almost forgotten those strange wild months in Paris so long ago.

She had lost the moneyed security of those early years, though she cared little enough about that. But she had all but lost her husband in the shadow of the ruin that he had brought upon them — and whatever betrayals lay between them, spoken and unspoken, she missed the old Raoul with a quiet, hopeless ache that she tried to keep from him when she could. They’d hurt each other enough, and been hurt in return.

He’d loathed the very idea of America; loathed the grinding necessity that drove them there, peddling her voice in search of the highest fee, and the calculated vulgarity of a country that made a god of Mammon and a cult of sheer size. Bigger — better — more money: even the nasal bray of the English they used here was alien.

None of them — save perhaps Gustave, with the endless adaptability of the young — felt at home here, but Raoul had resorted to the bottom of a glass before they’d even landed, with the predictable results on his temper. It happened more and more often these days, and she hated it; hated the changes it made in him and the constant anger unleashed in response. He heard only echoes of his own self-accusation, and whatever she tried only made matters worse.

So she’d been alone when it mattered. When that toy had started to play its mocking tune, and the Phantom of the Opera had stepped out of the shadows of memory to lay claim to her body and soul — as if ten years of silence could be wiped away, just like that.

She’d been angry, and afraid, and adamant... and alone with him. Where were you then, Raoul?

She’d known what she had to do, and she’d done it. She’d sent the one-time Phantom away, just as he had sent her away on that night of renunciation when he’d cut loose his claim on her and set her free. That night which should have been the end of it all... and was not. For that, they both bore the blame.

It did not give him any rights over her. He’d made his choice at her expense, and no amount of suffering made her a prize for unhappiness or a bandage for his wounds. He could not renounce her and then reclaim her as if he had learned nothing at all — and for all his cleverness, he still had not understood that when he set his webs to snare her and those she loved, he brought that heartbreak home to himself as well.

He’d tried to snare Gustave with illusions and forbidden delights, just as he’d held Christine mesmerised in her innocence and youth. He’d taken her child into a land of dark marvels, and all the masks had been stripped away... and he’d realised at last, even as she had, that one night’s intoxication could have consequences.

But they were not consequences that could be allowed to touch Gustave, who knew only that he had been enticed into fairyland and found a monster hiding there. The boy loved Raoul: her Raoul as he used to be, husband and father. He had no idea of the wound he had dealt this faceless stranger; he was only a child and only afraid. And yet by his very existence he had taken a soul grown selfish in its demands, and brought it back towards redemption.

She would sing her best tonight, she’d vowed. Sing... and then leave with Gustave, and do no more harm in a life that should never have twined with hers. It had all seemed so simple, leading to that one final act: so simple. Until Raoul had woken old hopes and old hurts, and turned all her assumptions upside down. Again.

Oh God, if he only meant it: if he would only come back to them, only try, only break free of the endless treadmill of misery and shame and let her help as she had begged so often to do...

“We have to leave. We have to go. Now. Please, Christine — if you still love me at all, please—”

Amid all the love and all the promises, there had been desperation and a vulnerability he hadn’t let her see for a long time. Her heart had gone out to him, and she had almost said yes. But how could she, after all that she’d promised, and the contract that she’d signed? And what possible reason could there be for him to throw everything away in unthinking panic when they both knew just how much they needed the money?

There was no sinister plan: no blackmailing notes, no hidden garotte and no demon. Whatever scheme the Phantom had had in mind in bringing her here, he had renounced it in Gustave’s name.

Raoul didn’t know that; how could he? To his mind, their old foe held nothing but taunting horror and every request must hide some devious plot. But she’d seen the Phantom with her own eyes yesterday and seen his repentance. There was nothing for Raoul to fear out there tonight; only a lonely creature condemned to the dark and craving one single shaft of light in return for his gift of her voice.

And so she’d sat helpless before Raoul’s pleas, caught between the certainty of her secret knowledge and the yearning to make the gesture all the same — to reach out at any cost to catch her husband’s hand before pride and humiliation could slam down again between them and that desperate grasp for help was lost forever.

“There’s a sailing tonight, in an hour. I managed to get tickets. We can be out of here. Out of the country, away from all this. We can start again... but we’ve got to make that ship. Tomorrow will be too late...” A sudden shiver had overtaken him like an omen. “Too late for us all, Christine. We need to bury the past for good: leave the hurt behind.”

~o~

How long had he been standing there at the door, looking back? How long... while her thoughts whirled in this aching void of memory and indecision?

Too long. The line of his shoulders slumped a little as if something had gone out of him, and he reached for the handle, turning away. He was leaving without an answer; but her silence was an answer in itself. And wild unreasoning fear told her that if she let him go now, like this, it would be the end for both of them.

“Raoul, wait—” She was gathering possessions frantically, heaping them together across the dressing-table until she realised the folly of it. What was there here that she needed? Everything else was back in the hotel.

Wait — the case for the earrings— She caught it up, thrust it hastily into her reticule and reached for her coat.

“Raoul...” But the distance between them had somehow vanished, and his hands were warm on hers and his eyes dawning with tenderness and disbelief; and there was no need for words after all.

Christine put both arms around her husband’s neck, drawing his mouth downwards, and felt his hold tighten round her with the first hesitant movement of that kiss. For a moment it was shy and awkward between them, as if in a play with forgotten lines. Then a long sigh went out of him, and she was cradled back against his shoulder being gently and thoroughly embraced, with a sweetness that seemed to draw all the urgency out of her limbs.

“We should go...” She managed it between breaths as he bent over her, and took another kiss in return as if to give herself the lie. “Raoul, the ship...”

“There’s an hour—” It was murmured against her throat, and she thrust him off, struggling against that same trance-like haze of rediscovery.

“No, we should go.” She pulled herself out of his arms with an effort, and saw him return equally ruefully to reality.

“You’re right, of course. Where’s the—” A sharp rattle of the door handle as he felt behind him, followed by another, more forceful attempt. Raoul swung round, frowning, and caught hold of the handle with both hands, throwing his weight against the door. It shuddered but stayed shut.

“Locked.” His jaw was set. “We’re locked in your dressing-room, Christine — and someone wants to make very sure—”

“That’s ridiculous.” Christine thrust him out of the way and jerked hard on the handle herself, feeling panic begin to rise. “They’re expecting me on stage...”

“Planning to leave so soon, Miss Daaé?” The voice came from all around them and nowhere, and panic curdled into fury as she understood. How dared he use those old tricks on her — now?

A moment later it was the mirror speaking, as if her pale reflection had found a life of its own. “But you must hear me out, Christine... I insist...”

Raoul’s face was behind hers in the mirror, drained of colour; but behind that — in the shadows—

The white mask caught the light and Raoul choked back an oath, dragging her round with him as if to interpose his own body as a barrier. The Phantom’s lips were smiling, and his evening dress was as immaculate as Raoul’s own.

“A touching scene, Vicomte.” He extended one long arm in mock courtesy to flick a single richly-hued hair from the lapel of Raoul’s jacket as the other man tensed. “I see you are still trading upon your... charms.”

Raoul’s ashen cheeks flushed a stark, unattractive puce. His grip on Christine had tightened unawares. “And I see you still like to watch... or is that the best you can do, monsieur? Will you consummate your passion with another chandelier?”

She flinched from that reminder, tugging against his hold. “Raoul, please—”

But the momentary fury in the Phantom’s eyes was gone as swiftly as if she had imagined it. His smile widened, with a pointed, mocking stare at her husband’s imprisoning arm, until Raoul’s flush deepened and he had to let her go.

“Behold your gallant suitor.” A flourishing bow, swept towards Raoul. “The man of bravery and sacrifice”—the words bit like knives—“who hangs upon you like a drowning man, dragging you down in his wake. Do you think him worthy of you, Christine? Do you think even he believes that? It’s time to shake free that clinging touch and spread your wings; time to soar as you should and let him sink as he deserves. Out there they are waiting — waiting for that moment of breathless hush, waiting for the glory that only you can give. I have waited for you; my music has waited for you... fulfil us, Christine, complete us, make us one — stretch out your hand to destiny and choose—”

Memory sang in her veins, ardent and dark, and she moved towards him in a waking dream. Fingertips brushed against the hand that reached for hers; the answering tremor swept over her like the crest of a mighty wave, and she was flying... falling... flying...

“Let her go!” Raoul’s voice cracked and broke, shattering spellbound perfection, and Christine found herself back on earth with a gasp. “Christine, whatever you may believe, this— this thing is certainly no angel—”

“No angel, monsieur, but a man.” Cool, powerful hands enfolded hers, drawing her close. She could feel the stir of air as he inhaled; sense a tiny pulse at his temple behind the mask. Even in contempt, his voice was beautiful. “And I believe your wife has made her choice—”

“What choice? To sing — to obey — to serve?” Anger kindled in Raoul like a flame, warm with the rough edge of human imperfection. “What has she ever had from you but demands and deceit? When would you have told her the truth of this game we are playing: tomorrow? Next year? Never?”

“Game?” Christine’s voice sounded high and uncertain in her ears like that of a frightened child. She had chosen nothing, had not meant to choose... The grasp that held her fingers had slackened abruptly, and her hands sought each other at her breast, twisting almost unconsciously.

She looked across at Raoul; back up for an answer that never came. “What does it mean? What game?”

“Why so silent, monsieur?” The words were a mockery; but her husband’s face held only harsh resolve. “Tell her. If you love her, tell her. Don’t you think she deserves that much? Tell her the meaning of that choice, and how it was agreed. If you’re the man you claim to be, tell her the truth of that song tonight — and then let her decide.”

An instant’s pause. He made as if to reach out; stilled it, in a brief betraying movement.

“For if you do not, then I will — and take the consequences.”

Cold fury towered behind her, and she shrank away. “Fool, do you think her heart will follow you then?”

“I think she will hate me for it,” Raoul said very softly, each word dropping into the silence like the ashes of all hope. “But I think she has the right to know.”

Her eyes found his, and flinched from the bleakness there. Oh God — what had he done? What were they hiding from her?

“Raoul...” She went to him, slowly, step by step across an aching abyss. “Raoul, I’m afraid.”

His arm beneath her fingers was rigid and without response; but his other hand came up to cover hers briefly, then fell on an ragged indrawn breath. His gaze lifted to face her. Flickered upward, in a glance at that silent other.

“It was a wager, Christine...”