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Chapter Text

Bertie’s POV

I sat down in the grand, fancy chair that occupied box six in the grandiose Paris Opera House with a displeased frown and an eager Jeeves seated beside me and my good friend Tuppy Glossop and my dear cousin Angela just behind us. I say Jeeves was eager. You couldn’t really tell just by looking at him. The average observer would think he was quite as disinterested as I was. But years of observing said valet has taught this particular Wooster how to pick up on the signs of when Jeeves was excited about something. A slight twitch of the facial muscle near the mouth, an eyebrow raised a full quarter of an inch was enough to convey happiness in my Jeeves.
I, on the other hand, were already wishing I were somewhere else. I was languishing more than you, my faithful audience, can imagine. And the orchestra hadn’t even started to warm up yet. I was pleased to see that my companion, Tuppy, was struggling to keep away a yawn, and his eyes had already hazed over with the familiar look of boredom that was no doubt plastered all over my own features. A moment later, my annoyed cousin gave him a sharp nudge to the ribs, lest he begin snoring before the overture began.
Deciding to make conversation with someone there, I turned to Jeeves and said, “So Jeeves, what is this Faust chappie all about, anyway?”
I should not have asked.
Jeeves entered into a long-winded explanation of the legend and the author of the opera Faust that was so lengthy, complicated and mind-numbingly tedious that I was nearly drawn to tears in boredom. And the orchestra hadn’t even warmed up yet.
At last, the orchestra decided to have mercy on me and I could hear the hum of the tuning string off in the distance. I interrupted Jeeves, who was perhaps about only one eighth of the way through the first act of the story, with a “look! I think they’re about to start!” Never before had I been so happy for an opera to be starting while I was in the room with it. I think the opera was the only thing that could stop Jeeves and his tirade of knowledge.
As soon as the lights began to dim, Tuppy muttered something about maybe going to find us all drinks, but Angela immediately stopped him. Even I could see through his façade, and knew that he had just been hoping that he could slip away unnoticed and only return several hours later at the end of the performance with an “oh sorry, chaps! This place is dreadfully large and I found myself getting a bit lost!” Partly because I had been hoping to do the same.
At last the opera began proper, and I was forced to keep my posterior in my seat. I must say, the voices were tip top, but I couldn’t understand a word they were saying. I do wish they would enunciate a bit more, it was like they were singing in some other language. I thought I caught a word here and there, but then decided I must have misheard, for I heard something about razors, cars, (neither of which seemed particularly prominent in this opera) and I swear several cast members were quacking like a duck.
I was on the verge of drifting off into a stupor of absolute boredom when it happened. She came on stage. The beautiful leading lady of the entire thing, with her fair skin, her gentle, golden curls that framed her gorgeous sapphire eyes and ruby lips. The moment her sweet voice reached my ears, I swear it set off fireworks behind my eyes…
Oh, I do apologize. I did it again, haven’t I? I’ve started in the middle of the story, leaving my poor readers wondering what was happening and why their dear Wooster was in France. Let me explain.
It began about a month ago. My dear friend Gussie Fink-Nottle had been doing what he does best: being discovered in a compromising situation by Madeline with a maid, and having her break off their engagement with tears, despite what was actually going on was quite innocent. Madeline Bassett, to those who don’t know, is under the impression that I am absolutely smitten with her and would love to go gallivanting off with her the moment she became disengaged, despite the fact that I’d rather live the rest of my days at least a hundred miles away from the Bassett menace at all times.
Anyway, by way of things, I found myself suddenly and reluctantly engaged to this bit of cheerful excrescence who loves to shoot her mouth off about daisy chains and pixie bunnies and what not. Jeeves, my faithful and eminently brainy man-servant, was the one who flew to the rescue of his dear master, though not without his price. Somehow, he convinced me that the only way he could fix the situation was if I were to grant him three weeks in France to view the sights and sounds of the place.
As to why Tuppy and Angela were there, well, I can explain that as well. I was bemoaning my fate to my favorite cousin, as I felt that I had somehow been deceived by my faithful valet, mentioning that we would be going away to France. Immediately, Angela’s eyes lit up and her hands clasped in front of her in girlish delight. Beside her, Tuppy’s (oh, by the way, Tuppy was there, too) face broke into a huge, toothy grin. They explained to me how they had been longing to go to France themselves. They spoke at the same time, saying how they wanted to sample the architecture, the food, the people, the food, the theatres, the food, the “tall, pointy tower” (which Tuppy explained had a wonderful café at the top), the food, the music and the food.
I did the cousinly thing and invited them to join my less than merry band, and the next thing I knew, the four of us were gallivanting off on a boat to the good old land of wine and cheese. We spent a couple of days taking in the sights of the great city of Paris. As much as I wanted to complain, the city was very exciting to look at, and the food was indeed amazing, while the people were extraordinarily beautiful.
We were about four days into our vacation when Jeeves mentioned to Angela about a “fantastic opera” that was premiering at the Paris Opera House, or the “Palais Garnier” as he called it. He was saying how he had won tickets to a performance of an opera called “Moused,” with prime seating in one of the boxes. I would have easily just said “Have a nice time” and left it at that, if it were not for Angela. She wanted to go as well.
“If you want to go to some bally thing like ‘Moused’, then I won’t stop you,” I told her, trying not to let out a sigh of annoyance. “But why must Tuppy and I come with you?”
“First of all, it’s called ‘Faust,’” Angela growled, placing her hands on her hips. “Second, I don’t think it proper for a young lady like myself to be accompanied to an opera by someone else’s personal gentleman. People would start to talk, you know.”
“But no one here knows you,” Tuppy pointed out reasonably. “They wouldn’t know that he doesn’t belong to you.”
“I know,” Angela snapped. “And it makes me uncomfortable.” She glared over at Tuppy. “You’re my fiancé, I should think that you would want to take me to an opera.”
Tuppy let out a long sigh. There was really no good way to answer her statement without sounding like an uncultured and selfish swine.
“Will there be hors d’oeuvres at this place?” he asked eventually in a somewhat defeated tone. Angela rolled her eyes.
“No,” she said flatly.
“Fine,” Tuppy growled, seeing no way out of this.
How I got roped into going with them, I’ll never know. I recall that there was a long, lengthy argument that may have gotten off track once or twice, and next thing this Wooster knew, he was being seated in box six along with his eager and less eager companions. Which brings us back to that singular moment.
I was instantly captivated by this young opera singer, but when her voice rang out in song, it was then that I fancied that I fell in love with her. Her voice was so otherworldly, and hauntingly beautiful. It was a voice I had never heard before. It was like she sang directly from her soul!
“Who is that beautiful woman singing, Jeeves?” I whispered to my valet in an awed voice, my eyes glued to her.
“She’s the understudy to the prima donna, La Carlotta,” Jeeves muttered back. “You’ll find her name in the program, if you care to check.”
And indeed, on page four, was the name: Christine Daaé. The most beautiful name for the most beautiful girl in the world. I was smitten. My eyes refused to stray from the stage as long as she was there.
But then she left the stage, and my enthusiasm went with her. I cast an incredibly weary eye across the room and noticed the box straight across from us. Box five, as Jeeves later told me it was, was completely empty. Not a strange sight in itself, but the rest of the theatre was filled to bursting. Except for this one box.
Now, I’m not a business man, but what would possess the folks of the opera house to not sell an entire box, which I was led to believe was one of the most expensive seats in the house? Seems bally well bonkers to me.
Then, I noticed a spot of movement in that box. My eyes had adjusted slightly to the darkness, so I could see a shadow moving in the back, and a speck of light. I thought it odd, until I realized that it must be the box keeper. Now what was she doing? It looked like she was laying down a foot stool! But why would she do that? There was no one in that box! Maybe it was a French thing? Or maybe someone had the good sense to only rent out the box for the last half of the opera?
I thought about asking Jeeves about it, but his eyes were completely centered on the stage, and the look on his face seemed to tell me that if I tried to divert his attention, he would continue his unbearable lecture on the finer points of the dratted opera.
The opera continued in its opera-y way, with my attention only being captured when Miss (at least, I hoped she was a miss) Daaé was on stage, Jeeves and Angela sitting rapt on the edge of their seats, while Tuppy constantly woke himself up with his own snoring. It continued on and on, and I dare say that it became tiresome after a while.
Finally, mercifully, the final curtain was drawn, and Tuppy and I were jostled awake from shouts and roars from the audience down below. We quickly stood up to join Angela and Jeeves with the clapping of our support, and I think I lost myself a bit when Christine came out to take a bow. I was beside myself with joy.
“Oh Jeeves, I simply must meet her!” I exclaimed over the noise. For some strange reason, I saw the excitement on Jeeves’s face drop by a full half a centimeter. Odd, but at the moment, I didn’t really care. I put it down to just being disappointed by the fact that the opera was over and he would have to return to the servants’ quarters at the hotel where we were staying.
About half an hour later, I was leading the way down the hallways that was filled with ballerinas and half-dressed singers getting out of their costumes. Jeeves strolled reluctantly behind me, with Tuppy and Angela having said that they would meet me back at the hotel. If I had looked behind me, I knew Jeeves would have a look of disapproval on his face. He didn’t care much for my more whimsical fancies, or my tendency to fall hard and fast for a beautiful profile.
But I was too determined to meet this girl to care what Jeeves thought of me at the moment. I was going to burst into her room and declare my love for her, and see if she would have me. There was only one problem. There was already another young man waiting outside her door.

Chapter Text

I think it sounds a little fantastic to say so, but I swear it: my life began again when I met Christine Daaé as a woman.

Frankly, I’d been doing little of importance with my life until that time. I daresay I had some interests and some ill-formed ambitions, but nothing on which I planned to build the rest of my life. I had a fair circle of friends with whom I dined regularly. I frequented the theater and the Bibliothèque Mazarine (for I am something of a devotee of Dumas, of which they have a respectable collection, and I like to keep my admiration for The Moonstone as quiet as possible.) I maintained membership in the Jockey-Club, though this was strictly because of my sense of noblesse oblige . If there was anything to which I truly aspired in those days, it was the notion of parting from Paris entirely. I don’t mean to speak ill of the city. There is a great deal of entertainment to be had there. I spent my youth in Paris, and can’t say that I came away with any scars as a result. But I naturally prefer the country to the city and the seaside to the country. My brother was determined, given my inclinations, that I should become a naval man.

“You remember Chagny de la Roche,” he said to me one day over breakfast, with an attempt at idleness that failed to belie the gravity of the conversation.  “He was a decorated Admiral. Admired throughout Europe for the better part of his career. I couldn’t imagine better prospects for you if I tried, what with your love of the water.”

My brother, Philippe, the Comte de Chagny, was twenty years my senior, extremely well-liked in Paris and abroad, and extremely interested in the continued respectability of the family name. Our sisters had married well enough and were living faithful, genteel lives out in the countryside. He, himself, maintained an extensive social life in Paris alongside his occasional forays into politics. But it was I, he decided, who would have to do something bold; something truly noble with his life. I think he thought my fondness for sailing was just the vehicle to bring an injection of glory to ours, an increasingly idle aristocratic line.

Truth be told, much as I loved the seaside and an afternoon’s yachting, I couldn’t see myself living the life of a sailor into perpetuity. True, at the age of nineteen, when I had at last escaped the tutelage of my brother and a maiden aunt, I assented to a trip around the world on the Borda, a fine, sturdy but cumbersome ship, for a year of naval schooling. I had no difficulties at all in securing my place with the French Naval Academy—it seemed there weren’t many men of my mien and stature looking to enter the service at the time—and was really very anxious to know people and places beyond my family’s estates.

But it was only, perhaps, two months into my journey across the world that my suspicions of inaptitude for the ranks of the Navy were confirmed. The final ten months were like a slow jaunt through the rings of Hell. When I arrived back in Paris, hands calloused and brain filled with seawater, it was only the thought of sparing my dignity before my commanding officer that prevented me from falling onto the shore and kissing it. And even then, the torture wasn’t truly completed:  I suppose I had proved competent during my training, though I suffered every step of the way, and had been thus volunteered for an expedition. I and some of my crewmates were to set out again for some barren place up in the Arctic Circle in six months.

I had dreamed a great deal while I was out to sea. What dreams I had were… small, I suppose. And they were always the same: Visions of a handsome home sitting perched atop a cliff somewhere cool and distant and free of people, but for a lovely girl who tended the gardens and smiled on my approach. It was quiet. I was happy. From the windows of our home, this girl and I might watch the ships go by, and we might journey only down into the valley to touch the water, but we would not live on it. These were the dreams that kept me during the months amidst the cacophony of men and boys, and followed me easily back into civilian life.

It was clear what I had to do, and it was what I longed to do: I had to create a family and a life for myself from which I couldn’t possibly part. I had been given enough time, I fancied, to find my excuse to part from nautical life. Six months was a veritable age. I had learned that well enough during my circuit of the globe. And I didn’t think the scheme I’d devised implausible; I daresay that there’s some reason why the family estate was flooded with calling cards in the week following my return (and why the calling hours they listed were penned in distinctly feminine hands.)

I set about my task with all the discipline I learned abroad. I for the next three months, I concentrated all my efforts—every day, every evening; every moment I might have otherwise been catching up with the ground-faring world—on finding and courting the lady who would become my wife. These labors naturally involved much more pleasant activities than those aboard a schooling ship, and yet it was not long into the venture that I could feel the same sense of monotonous futility sweeping over me that had been ever-present in my schooling.

It shows, I think, that I have nothing impressive whatever to say about my prospective brides, whether in the positive or negative. Each was charming in her own way: This one knew the intricacies of equestrianism (suggested by a friend at the Jockey-Club), another was a dancer with the corps de ballet at the Palais Garnier (suggested by my brother); one was exceedingly bright, and prepared to go to university to study medicine in the next few months (who I happened upon outside the Mazarine ). All, they and others, were such fine girls. Fine, you understand. Merely fine. Each meant to be the jewel of another man’s life. Nothing much transpired between any of us, and I cannot even claim friendship with any them to this day—these had been such pale, transparent meetings. Never did I discover even a touch of the joy that colored my dreams.

Never, anyhow, until I saw Christine Daaé again.

I had been dropped outside the Jockey-Club for my monthly visit on a chilly morning. As the family coach eased its way back into the road, it revealed to me on the other side a young woman hastening down the street towards the Opera Garnier: A small, slight, pale thing with the most extraordinary mane of curly gold hair. She made me step into the road, then back out of it, then, following an irresistible impulse, hurry along after her until she disappeared from view. I was fascinated.

I’d only ever seen a head of blonde curls like hers once before, you see… when I was living with my aunt at Brest. There, I met a golden-haired girl by the seaside. She had fascinated me, too, what with her palest blue eyes, her love of music and her broken French. We became great friends. I spent a whole season sitting with her at her father’s knee, listening to his violin and his fantastic stories of fairies and angels.

But it was only a season. Soon enough, I had to return to Paris, and when I made my way back to the sea in the autumn, she was gone. I was consoled by my friends in the city. I made new ones in Brest. I remained much the same—socializing with friends, taking my tutorials; yachting with my brother—for nearly a decade. Then there was my trip around the world. Then there was this girl, this captivating girl racing down a Paris street, who I was convinced was that same Christine Daaé, the dear young friend of mine; the ghost of a magical Spring.

It really didn’t take long to discover her identity. The Jockey-Club, you see, is situated on the Rue Scribe, a street which happens to run perpendicular to the façade of the Opera Garnier. And it happened that the great eyesore had been her destination that morning. I only had to accompany my brother on one of his frequent visits to the corps de ballet to inquire, and to have it confirmed at once that the Daaé girl sang there.

I learned much about her from the young women of the ballet, for they were eager to volunteer everything they knew: I learned how she owned a fair but not extraordinary voice, that she took her tea in the English style with sugars and cream, and that she was too haughty to talk to anybody her age, particularly since she’d been cast as Siébel in the upcoming production of Faust. I learned in what room dressed and how she spoke and with whom she walked home in the evenings. I learned a great deal. But once I found out, I had no idea what to do.

Part of me longed to make Christine’s acquaintance again. To know her; to see if that great affection I’d learned for her at the seaside could possibly be learned again. But another, very persuasive part of myself told me that it was best to remember than to know. Why, it asked, should I sully the near-enchanted memories of her with whatever was in the present? She had undoubtedly changed a great deal as the years had passed. Her face and figure had changed-- why shouldn’t she, since she had become a woman? And I knew that I had changed much since we were children: for one thing, I didn’t think that I had the patience for the sorts of stories that Papa Daaé told anymore. The few lines I remembered from him were composed of such cloying fancy that they embarrassed me even to consider. Did she still believe in them? Had her mind turned, as mine had? Did she even recall those stories, those evenings and the boy who joined her in them anymore? It really was best, I decided, that I kept those mysteries mysteries and my memories unsullied.

I soon found myself attending Faust every evening to watch Christine. (And, to a lesser degree, the baritone who played Mephistopheles. The man has a truly commanding air on the stage.) She was, as the ballet girls attested, a fair performer: Absolutely beautiful, even in the breeches and ponytail; she captivated, even though her voice couldn’t be called ‘genius.’ As the nights passed, I became enthralled by her performance. She seemed somehow greater each time she crossed the stage. Every evening she seemed to love her Marguerite more; she began, after a few nights, to effuse passion as she sang her praises. It was all a glorious climb leading up to… what?

I didn’t know until it happened:  It was the night she finally sang Marguerite, the night La Carlotta had taken suddenly ill. Had I been informed that someone could sing with such perfect superiority to the Spanish diva, I would have scarcely believed them. But it was obvious, even to someone who, before his newfound interest in Christine, hadn’t given a whit for popular musical entertainment. It was as though I were touching her soul-- or that her soul had come out to embrace me. I wanted nothing more than to hear her, only her, for the rest of the night, Mephistopheles be damned.

Christine’s weeping joy and sorrow throughout the final act had me nearly weeping with her. As the final chorus rose in praise of Christ, she fell back, faiting, into the arms of a pair of angels. The curtains closed, and the crowd around me roared, but all I could do was to stare at the drapes, as to see through them to where my beloved lay. My brother noticed and scolded me. I had no care whatever for him. As soon as the absent feeling in my limbs had passed, I took my leave of the box and set out for Christine’s dressing room; I arrived long before the audience had finished with its audible praises, for I knew the way. Philippe smirked when he thought my back was turned. I would have rather that he didn’t attend a sick woman’s door with a smirk on his lips, but I was powerless to do anything but to silently pray for the young lady’s welfare. I couldn’t spare a bit of speech, even to scold my brother in return-- every word and thought contained within me was for Christine Daaé.

Soon enough, other people began to arrive, haunting the threshold in a loose band. They were other young men, for the most part. In the forefront of these stood a gangly sort of fellow, rather taller and slimmer than me, but with similar coloring. I confess that he irritated me the same way as my brother, for he smiled as he waited for Christine to receive guests, in that particular way that suggests a water wheel struggling to run off a faltering stream. I couldn’t imagine that he had anything of substance to say to Christine. The dark gentleman behind him, though more appropriately somber, was hardly better, for his aspect was so funereal that he seemed to me to promise mortal things.

Thankfully, I was granted only a moment to observe my rivals: The Opera’s doctor soon arrived, and I stepped easily into Christine’s room behind him. A few men gathered around the threshold, and some even took a step inside, but none followed us directly. As the chorus girls cleared for the doctor I stepped towards Christine and took her into my arms as the doctor sought to bring her back to life.

The fact of the others standing at the doorway, doing nothing but staring at the procedure, drew an ire from me that I hadn’t anticipated. I stared back at them, hard, for a few moments; when that failed, I cried out to the room at large: “Don’t you think, Doctor, that those gentleman had best leave? There’s hardly room to breathe in here!”

The crowd dispersed obligingly as the doctor nodded his agreement and waved them away, all except for that stringy blonde fellow, who continued to gawk at the three of us until an unseen hand pulled him bodily from the door. I narrowed my eyes at him as he disappeared. I’d never even seen him at the Opera before this night-- what right had he to come around disturbing Christine while she was ill?

Once all was quiet and generally free of the public, I turned my gaze back to the poor girl in my arms. I was the first thing her gently blue eyes laid upon as she woke. She murmured something weak, I think, and I answered her: “Mademoiselle! It’s Raoul de Chagny! Do you remember? I am the boy who saved your scarf from the sea!”

She was astounded. At any rate, her eyes widened, and she gaped at me for several moments. I smiled at her. I was prepared for this, or something like it, for I knew how I was astounded when I first saw her again. I, of course, had had the good fortune of being at least one hundred feet behind her at the time, thus sparing her my stares.

I wasn’t prepared for her laugh , however.

And laugh she did. She, the doctor, and the nurse all looked at each other and laughed as though I had said something excessively witty (and I don’t know that I’ve ever said anything excessively witty) or else so excessively dimwitted that they couldn’t help but to be consumed by mirth.

What did I do? I couldn’t let go of Christine, for I was still holding her up, but I had no desire to stay, to understand why it was she treated me not only coldly, but cruelly. I began to question whether or not she knew me at all; whether her countenance had changed because she knew me only as a stranger who had chosen to be extremely familiar with her. Thankfully, once her fit of laughter passed, Christine made to sit up a little on her own, and I could be free of her. I did so, but not without a quiet word:

“As it seems you do not recognize me, Mademoiselle… you must forgive my forthrightness. But I really must insist that we speak privately. Tonight.” She paused for several seconds, gazing intently into a faraway spot on the ceiling, before answering.

“Later, perhaps… when I am better,” she assented, closing her eyes.

“Yes, you must go now, Monsieur. Allow me to attend to Mademoiselle.” The doctor smiled placatingly, but the gesture hardly placated me. Neither did it Christine, who stood suddenly (so suddenly  that the three of us all raised our arms, as if to catch her on her next swoon,) and addressed everyone in the room.

“No! No, please, Doctor… I’m no longer ill. Please… leave me. I’m feeling restless this evening.” To our mutual surprise, she remained standing, though her face was paler even than when she had been onstage. The doctor protested mildly, but soon enough, he, his attendant and I had all been shepherded out by the slender arms of the diminutive girl. I think I even heard the click of a lock behind us as we exited.

“You must forgive Mademoiselle,” the doctor told me, patting me on the shoulder as we entered the empty hallway, “she isn’t usually like this.”

I let him go ahead of me, and paused to gather my thoughts. Later, she’d said. I would wait for her. I meandered around the inner chambers of the Opera for some time, looking into the deserted practice rooms as I passed. I wondered that the people in this theatre could always seem so zealous onstage if these were the places where they honed their crafts: All were the color of stone, with sparse, Spartan furniture and the occasional group of mirrors. If I saw anything of interest at all, it was the image of myself looking mildly surprised at his own reflection.

I was struck unexpectedly by thought as I was gazing into that familiar pair of blue eyes, warped strangely by an old mirror. What had Christine said? That she wished to be alone. I had asked to speak with her privately! No doubt she had sent the doctor and nurse away in order to be inconspicuous. They knew, after my proclamations about our past, that I wasn’t her husband or her brother. She couldn’t simply ask to be left alone with me. It would have been unseemly. But since they’d gone, and the halls had cleared… she was doubtlessly awaiting  me!

My heart beat in time with my steps through the half-lit passages, such that I was a little breathless by the time I came to her door. In my pause to find it again, however, I ceased to breathe entirely. I heard something from the other side of the door. A voice. A man’s voice. It was a singular man’s voice, to be sure-- it was high and warm and curiously compelling-- but a man’s nonetheless.

“Christine, you must love me!”

My heart might have stopped, or it might have been thrashing against my ribs hard enough to bruise. I only recall that my hands pressed themselves against my chest.

“How can you talk like that?” Christine’s voice rang through the room, clearer than the man’s! But hers… it  trembled, as if about to break into sobs. “ When I sing only for you!”

And then The Voice again; it spoke such soft, doting words. The words of a lover.

“Are you very tired?” The scene painted itself, unbidden, in my mind: Christine, draped, half-dressed across the chaise in her dressing room. Her eyes were closed; she was resting her head in the lap of a man who carded dirty fingers through her hair.

“I am dead. Tonight, I gave you everything… I gave you my soul!” Christine’s was a different attitude entirely. The trace of tears had faded, but she sounded… desperate? Possessed? I haven’t the proper words for it. Her voice was filled with passion, but no warmth.

“Your soul? My dear… your soul is a very fine thing. Aurum est, non tam sunt exquisitae. No emperor ever received so fine a gift. The angels wept tonight!”

“Oh, I say! ”

The Voice was The Voice no longer-- it had turned into a kind of indolent squawk. Or, at least, I thought it had for half a moment. I soon recognized that the sound had come from behind, not before, and twisted around to peer into the darkness. There, draped among some abandoned mannequins and costumes that had taken up residence in the hallway, was that same gentleman who had tarried offensively at Christine’s threshold not an hour before.

“Who are you? What do you think you’re doing, bothering Christine Daaé this way?” The look of utter bewilderment that spread over his face served to irritate me further, and I was prepared to tell him so, until he spoke.

“Frightfully sorry, old chap, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re saying,” he babbled, smiling that smile again. “I don’t suppose-- if you can, mind you, and you have the faintest idea what I’m on about-- switch to the old K.’s E. for a mo’?” He spoke in English. Not the practical, easy English of my companions on the Borda, but English nonetheless. I sighed and moved closer to him amid the mess of discarded clothes, whispering,

“I am a friend of Mademoiselle Daaé’s.” I spoke to him easily. Learning languages had been one of the few diversions available out at sea, and I had been desperate for diversion the whole of my year-long voyage. “I am waiting to escort her home this evening. What, may I ask, are you doing here?”

The Englishman’s face took on patches of bright red on the cheeks, ears and neck, and the bleating started anew.

“That is… well, I mean to say… I was rather hoping to… well… have a word with our Margaret for this evening. She did a jolly good job, don’t you think? And I wanted to let her know how fantastic I think she was… or, rather, is….  Of course, I’ve never really seen an opera before… I mean to say, I’ve been to an opera before… went to one with Tuppy once while he was chasing his Cherubino, but I rather slept through it I’m afraid, and I--”

I raised a hand to him. “Please, Monsieur--”

“Wooster’s the name.”

“Wooster. Monsieur Wooster, Mademoiselle Daaé has been feeling unwell since she quitted the stage. She hasn’t even agreed to see me until she’s ready to leave the Opera.”

“Well, she’s seeing someone else , isn’t she?” Wooster inquired boldly, before having the good grace to color again. “Of course, I don’t know who she’s seeing in there… is it the doctor? I think I saw a rather doctor-ish sort of chap pass out of the room a while back, just when you left, but I suppose I don’t really--”

He was silenced again, but not by me. The door behind us had begun opening, and I dove into the mess of costumes beside my unsought companion. Neither of us said a word as Christine emerged from the dressing room, wrapped in a dark fur coat and veil, and made her way out of the Opera as though pursued. I watched her go, transfixed, until a voice once again jarred me from my thoughts:

“I say, weren’t you meant to be escorting the little lady home?”

I looked at him sharply. Wooster stood firm this time, and it was my turn to be abashed. We shared a silence of several seconds before I spoke again.

“Can you keep a secret, Monsieur Wooster?”

“Why certainly, old thing!” He beamed at me.

“I have no idea who it was in Mademoiselle Daaé’s dressing room this evening. But I worry that whoever it is might be putting her in danger.”

“Great Scott!”

“Precisely. That is why I listened at her door this evening. Now she is gone… perhaps we might find and confront the fellow.”

“What? You mean--” Wooster looked anxiously between me and the door, “You don’t mean to search her room, do you?”

“I wouldn’t say that ,” I replied, eager to satisfy him as well as myself. “He may still be there. I don’t see how he could have gone without us seeing him pass this way.”

“But what will we say to him?”

I didn’t answer, for I knew exactly what I wanted to say to this great lover of Christine’s who made her weep, but it wasn’t in line with the gambit I’d put into use. Instead, I made my way over to the door of the dressing room, and, finding it unlocked, entered furtively. Wooster attempted to enter furtively, and instead tripped over the rug, landing at the edge of the great mirror that took up the entire back wall of the little room.

Without Christine to divert me, I observed that her chamber was nearly full of flowers. All of the same kind, too: garish arrangements stuffed into woven baskets and tied with bright silk ribbons. It was as if all her admirers had chosen the same boutique on the Rue de Rivoli, and all had the same unfortunate taste. I observed that her things were neatly arranged on her dressing table, and her costumes had been stored away somewhere. One of the gas jets on the wall was still burning faintly, and I turned it up as to look into the corners of the room. Illuminated, the room still failed to throw up any sign of my mysterious rival. I rather growled my displeasure as I turned around to open a dresser and began pushing through the rows of gowns inside.

“Steady on!” Wooster cried, and clutched my shoulder as if to stop me. “You said we weren’t going to search her room!”

“Well, we’ve got to find out where the man’s got to, haven’t we?” I wondered, vaguely, how I had managed to hamper myself so thoroughly in my own investigation. I could simply have forced Wooster to leave when I first met him at the door, but, no.  “He didn’t leave, but he isn’t here… he must be hiding somewhere!” I turned out into the center of the room, and spoke firmly, “We won’t leave until you’ve shown yourself! If you don’t answer, you are a coward!”

“My dear fellow!” I don’t think Wooster cared to throw his lot in with mine to this extent. He hissed his words sharply under his breath, and his marble-blue eyes spun about the room. “He’s clearly not here, this mystery chappie… I don’t know what’s happened to him… but he’s not here! We’ll have to leave. Come back some other time, when we have Miss Daaé’s permission….”

I shook off my broken reed of a companion and made a final search under her dressing table, behind her screen and beneath the rug, searching for any sign at all that a man had been there this evening. There was none… and I confess that I began to think myself a little mad. I collapsed into the chair before Christine’s dressing table and held my head in my hands.

“Wooster….”

“Still here, my good man,” Wooster burbled, sounding as if he wished he weren’t.

“Wooster, you did hear a man’s voice coming from Christine’s dressing room, did you not?”

“Most assuredly! Well… that is to say… it was a very sweet sort of voice, wasn’t it? I suppose that it might have come from an unusually deep-voiced woman….”

I shot a glance at him from between my fingers. “I’d forgotten. You didn’t understand what the voice said, did you?”

“Only caught the lady’s name, I’m afraid.” I laughed bitterly. “What did the voice say?”

“Truly frightening things, Monsieur Wooster.” I’m not an actor. I’ve never practiced to be one, anyhow. But these lies spilled from me with such ease that I might have done from birth. “He threatens her in ways only a man can. I-- we-- must stop him before he can act.”

“Good Lord!” Wooster had come over rather pale. “And you let her walk out of here without an escort?”

“I know that she’ll be safe tonight. She has friends who walk the same way home.”

“But… but… he could be waiting! We’ve got to go find them, before he tails them from the opera house!”

“Monsieur Wooster, we’ve found no secret exits, have we? I’m sure that he hasn’t--”

Before I could utter another word or even a sigh, Monsieur Wooster had bolted from the room and began racing down the corridor. I pursued him. I couldn’t risk him catching Christine, even if he couldn’t speak French-- I didn’t know if she had any English, and I couldn’t guess what he might try to tell her.

Wooster clearly knew nothing about the Opera in general. He took several wrong turns early on--thankfully, as he was considerably faster than I-- and we soon ended up in a part of the theatre near the back of the stage with which I was also unfamiliar. I called out to him, but he paid me no heed. When he finally did stop, it was so suddenly that I nearly ran him down.

“What are you doing? Wooster… Christine doesn’t know what this man… has been saying to her…. She doesn’t understand… and I don’t want to frighten her,” I chided him breathlessly. He didn’t respond, however, as he was staring down at a stretcher held up between two workmen that seemed to be blocking his way. Still out of breath, I smiled at the men before us, and attempted to be cordial through my gasps:

“Good evening, gentlemen! What is that you have there?”

The men looked at each other, and refused to smile back at me.

“‘That,’ Messieurs,” proclaimed the shorter and darker of the men, “is Joseph Bouquet. He was found hanging tonight, between a farm-house and a scene from Roi de Lahore .”

I bowed my head, and intended to remove my hat. I would have, too, except that Monsieur Wooster chose that precise moment to collapse into my arms.