Chapter Text
In all honesty, it had started on a whim and nothing more. Count Philippe de Chagny was not a fickle man and perhaps this was both his greatest virtue and greatest flaw. Once he set his mind on a matter, that was it. Men like him did not have time to be fickle. They did not have time to sit and think.
Ever since his father’s death, he took the family name and estates upon himself. At only twenty-two, he had become patriarch to his sisters and father to his brother. He oversaw the weddings of every de Chagny daughter and raised his little brother as he would a son. And then, when all was said and done, the pent-up fires of his youth returned once he was free of such obligations. When Raoul joined the navy and his sisters merrily became mothers to their own children and wives to their own husbands, Count Philippe was very much left to his own devices. At forty, he had all the vigor of a man of twenty and the gravitas of a gent his age. And though the family would always come first, Philippe rather enjoyed living for himself- for once in his life.
That was what he loved about La Sorelli. She let him live the way he wanted. The ballerina was half his age and capable of spinning words as beautiful as her twirls on stage. She always knew how to soothe his nerves and how to light his urges. She was gentle touches and breathless kisses, a butterfly more than worthy of his caress.
“My dear count,” she’d whisper into his ear, a sultry note to her smooth voice.
Sorelli was one of those exquisite people who could command attention without appearing to do so. Philippe recognized this quality because he too had mastered that skill over the years (his brother, Raoul, not so much). It came through in the flourish of her bow and her adoption of the so-called ballet rats. She taught them all she knew, for she was sure that none would ever surpass her. And she did it without a touch of arrogance. She simply did not see competition beyond herself, a lesson the Garnier’s prima donna had yet to learn.
Philippe himself had taken many young aristocrats under his wing. He did not mind telling them how to seduce pretty maidens or (how to appear) to appreciate a good opera. They were young roosters, but he knew- on sight- that none would ever overtake the shine of Count de Chagny or his younger brother. And though Sorelli never took another lover (but she no doubt had men before Philippe), Philippe indulged in plenty light fancies. It never bothered the ballerina because she knew in her mind’s eyes that these whims were nothing more. After all, these trysts all lacked La Sorelli’s natural glow, no more than sparrows before her swan. And Philippe knew this clearest of all.
He did not mind indulging because he was not married and he suspected Sorelli- despite her hopes- had an inkling that she would never be Madame de Chagny. In that respect, she seemed content to be his other half, ears and heart open to whatever he said. Philippe expected no less from a woman as worthy as Sorelli.
“My dear count,” she said one night, breaths hot as he showered kisses upon the nape of her neck, “I spoke to that man today.”
Philippe paused, reflection smiling in the dressing room mirror. “Ah, do you have another man now?”
Envy was a trait Philippe had never possessed. He was- truthfully- happy that Sorelli had another to love her.
But she merely laughed. “No, no. Though I suppose I wouldn’t mind if it was him.”
“So which man is it?”
“Were you not listening, my dear count?”
“I’m afraid I was too busy admiring your neck. So lovely and white-” He moved to kiss her again when two fingers stopped his lips.
“So you weren’t listening,” she sighed. “I was talking about the Persian.”
His brow furrowed. “You spoke to the Persian - why?”
“I don’t really know myself. We had finished rehearsing and I was making my way back here, the dressing room, when I caught him lurking backstage. He sticks out like a sore thumb- I’ve no idea how he got past us all!”
Philippe was not particularly interested in this tale, but when his hand moved to cup Sorelli’s breast, her fingers blocked his palm.
“Perhaps I should have let him alone, but I didn’t like that strange look in his eyes, and what business does he have snooping around? I know for a fact he’s not seeing anyone in our company nor is he in the opera’s employ. So I had half a mind to- politely- tell him off.”
“Poor fellow might just be lost,” Philippe said.
Sorelli shook her head. “You weren’t there, Philippe. He looked nothing like a lost man. But he is a man nonetheless- I think you know exactly what he was doing.”
“Oh, pray tell?”
“I suspected he was hoping to catch more glimpses of our girls. Your friends have done the same at one point or another.”
Philippe chuckled, mustache bristling against the shell of Sorelli’s ear. He could not fault her logic. “Ah, so our mysterious man from the east is a red-blooded rogue like the rest of us.”
She slapped him playfully. “It’s not funny, count! I was terrified of what he might do. So I was ready to tell him he could not be back there. Then he spoke to me.”
That piqued Philippe’s interest, if only marginally. “I had no idea he could speak French. I don’t believe anyone’s ever heard him talk.”
“He’s got an odd accent, but he spoke well enough. ‘Mademoiselle, have you seen or heard anything odd?’ he asked, no pretense, no explanation. As a joke, I told him he was the only suspicious one around. But the humor seemed to fly over his head. So I grew serious and told him to go home and wait for the next performance. He had no right to sneak as he did.”
Then, rather heated, Sorelli went on, “He didn’t even apologize. Just turned and left.”
“Ah, so he was the reason you were in such a foul mood today. Then, my dear, why do you let him bother you? His manners are ill because he’s foreign. He lurked because you are beautiful. There’s really no more to it.”
“But there is.” She hesitated. “Have you ever seen him up close, Philippe?”
The count had seen the Persian in passing more than once, but never paid the man much mind. He really had no reason to, just as he had no reason to know the box keeper’s name.
“Does it matter?” Philippe said.
“It does, if you pay attention. He’s handsome, my count, and not in a rakish sort of way. He looks like a statue come to life. For a moment, I even wondered what it would be like to let him look upon me in your place.”
Philippe grinned. “You sound quite taken with him. I’d no idea you liked Orientals.”
“You know that my heart is yours.” She frowned. “But that split fancy passed as soon as it came. My concern is how easily he could bed one of the girls here. I don’t think he’s a man with good intentions.”
“And why would you say that?”
“I suppose I could tell he was hiding things- I just don’t know what. And I’d rather no girl find out the hard way.”
Philippe mulled over her words. He pecked her on the cheek. “Would it ease your heart if I spoke to him? Perhaps he’d be more willing to be honest with another man.”
“You won’t hurt him? I’d hate for you to get into a fight.”
“Not if he gives me no reason to. Besides, how ugly would it look if Count de Chagny was seen punching the opera’s Persian friend.”
She was about to speak again when he shushed her, two fingers pressed to her red lips.
“And you know what, my dear Sorelli. I’m quite interested in seeing how handsome he is for myself.”
It was hard to catch Count Philippe’s eye. He would never have looked twice at Sorelli if she had been another ballet rat, for his gaze was always fixed on where the spotlight shone. And she happened to shine as bright as spring sun. Her light was not so blinding as to turn him away nor so meek as to be overlooked. Temperate, doting, and radiant. Her only flaw was having been born without money.
The Persian was another matter. Philippe had indeed never bothered to look him in the face, much less eye. He only remembered the Persian through glimpses of dark olive skin and worn coats. The most interesting thing about the man was somewhere between his peculiar hat and the fact that he hailed from the Orient. And neither trait was enough to warrant Philippe’s attention.
Even so, Sorelli’s story had tickled his curiosity, and on a whim, Philippe confronted that foreigner the very next day. The Persian had been admiring the foyer’s columns when Philippe found him.
The man was stalking around a particular column, tapping his knuckles against its carvings every few seconds. And wondering if the Persian was mentally sound, Philippe asked, “Monsieur, do you have a moment?”
The Persian whirled around, quite astonished that Count Philippe of all people was speaking to him. His eyes drifted for a moment, as if searching for anyone else the count might have been addressing instead.
“Count de Chagny,” he said, accent stirring, “are you speaking to me?”
Philippe regarded him, then. And was startled to see the truth in Sorelli’s words. How had he missed it before? The Persian was one of the handsomest men he had ever seen, his eyes a stunning jade and his face- though creased with some age- a proud balance of angles and noble charm. Grey colored the tips of his jet black hair and bristled in his neat beard.
“Count de Chagny?”
Philippe blinked, leaving the spell of those piercing eyes. “Ah, yes. You are indeed the man I wanted to see. The man from Persia, correct?”
The Persian nodded, his surprise giving way to some suspicion. “May I ask what business you want with me, M. le Comte?”
“I was hoping you could shed some light on a rumor.” Philippe leaned on the column, an easy smile from his lips. “Do you lurk backstage to call upon the Opera’s lovely maidens?”
Instead of shrinking as Philippe had expected, the Persian seemed to rise in height.
“Forgive me, Count de Chagny. Are you accusing me of indecency?” the man asked coolly, the barest hint of displeasure at the tip of his tongue.
Philippe held up a hand. “Of course not, Monsieur. There’s hardly anything indecent about a man’s natural instincts, after all. I’ve seen many a man do the same.”
“I have no interest in the prima ballerina, if that is what bothers you. My tastes are quite different from yours, I’m afraid.”
The count had never taken any pains to hide his relationship with Sorelli. As long as the public knew marriage was off the table, he was satisfied. But he was not fond of the Persian’s tone. He found himself somewhere between amusement and irritation at that tiny insult. Was this man insinuating La Sorelli was not good enough for him? If so, then what did that make Philippe?
Dropping the friendly facade, the count said, “Since you did me the honor of being so honest, I shall do the same. The ballerinas often see you in places where you should not be. If not to catch a glimpse, what else were you doing? Robbery? Loitering? I am a patron here- one word from me and you could be banned from the Opera.”
The smallest of smiles flicked across the Persian’s face. “I’ve heard similar words before. Rest assured, Count de Chagny, I mean no one harm.”
Before Philippe could get another word out, the Persian was already gone.
For the next several days, Philippe only had eyes for the Persian. The man had left him seething since their confrontation and it was a most irritating feeling. Philippe could not bring himself to truly be angry with him because some part of the count was indeed impressed by the Persian’s unflappable tone. The other part told him he had no reason to tolerate this disrespect. He added Sorelli’s teasing to the affair and far too much free time on his hands.
He rehearsed in his head what he would say to the Pesian upon their next meeting, though the words always escaped as soon as he glimpsed the man’s face. To his dismay, the Persian proved especially hard to find for a man always wandering the opera house. He’d asked Sorelli if the Persian was seeing anyone in the company- if only to cast aside their suspicions- and was simultaneously relieved and annoyed to discover that he wasn’t.
In the end, Philippe thought it best to forget about the Persian altogether. As long as he was no longer a threat to the girls’ safety, Philippe wanted nothing more to do with him. Except that was not quite true.
Something in him itched to speak to the Persian again, if only for that thrill of shock. He was unused to being spoken to in that manner and he’d wondered what title that man had back in Persia. But he’d neither been rude or insulting. There was instead an eloquence to his words, a thin spark that Philippe wanted to fight. Perhaps days of idleness had truly gotten to him.
And then, as if ordained by fate, Philippe found the Persian standing at the steps of the foyer one afternoon, those eyes staring intensely at the pouring rain.
“Did you leave your umbrella at home?” the count asked. “You may borrow mine.”
The Persian started. Philippe was glad to have surprised him yet again.
“Hello, M. le Comte,” he said. “Did you enjoy the show?”
“I wasn’t fond of the lead tenor. Man has a dreadful reputation.”
The Persian nodded.
“Monsieur, I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to apologize for our conversation that day. I should not have jumped to conclusions.”
The man regarded him slowly, as if struggling to remember whether or not they had spoken in recent days. “Ah, yes, that day. Think nothing of it, count.”
Think nothing of it, he says! Philippe knew then, that the Persian somehow managed to forget their conversation. Had their roles been reversed, the count would surely not have. And so he laughed, again bested by this enigma of a man.
“I’d planned to take a hansom home,” he told the other, “but I’m rather in the mood for an early supper.”
In the moment those next words left Philippe’s mouth, he finally knew what the itch in him- that strange thrill- meant. He hadn’t felt it in quite a long time. Not since La Sorelli.
“Would you care to join me?”
He wanted the Persian.
“M. le Comte,” the man said, brow hiking up, “are you inviting me to dine with you?”
“Have you other plans?”
“No, but-”
“Then where’s the harm? Come, it will be my… apology. To new friendships?”
Philippe held out his hand, expectant. The Persian’s jade gaze floated from his fingers to Philippe’s ice blue before he shook that hand.
“Thank you, count.”
“Philippe, you must call me Philippe.”
“My apologies. Philippe.”
They shared supper in a private room at a pretentious but adequate dining establishment. The maitre d’ had cast Philippe’s guest an odd glance upon their arrival, but made no remark otherwise. And it was just as well that the staff respected Count de Chagny’s privacy.
The Persian spoke little, perhaps overwhelmed by the high atmosphere (though he showed no sign of shyness). Philippe had offered him red wine, but the man politely refused, choosing rosewater instead. It was only when the count himself had downed at least three glasses of wine and made his way through half a steak that he felt comfortable conversing.
“So tell me, my friend,” he said, “why do you lurk about the Opera all the time?”
“It excites me. I very much enjoy the beauty of its interior.”
Philippe laughed, unsure why he was laughing. “Is that all?”
“No… I am a paranoid man who tries to do the night guard’s job.” The Persian smiled. “Perhaps I have too much time on my hands.”
“That, I believe.” Philippe raised his glass. “You and I both. To wasting time together.”
The man accepted his toast, and the rest of their dinner passed rather pleasantly. Philippe asked for his opinions on the season’s shows, Parisian weather, and pieces of boring gossip he thought safe to share.
And then one dinner led to another.
The Persian’s lips tasted of cinnamon and spearmint. Philippe learned this after another of their many dinners. He remembered that the Persian had paid the bill this time, a noble feat for a man whose funds seemed so limited.
Having had too much to drink, the count leaned towards him and said, his mustache still stained with wine, “I talk about nothing a lot these days. But you always listen to me. I haven’t had a man listen to me in so long.”
And it was true. There were too many subjects he did not broach with Sorelli, because then he’d remember that he could not share with her a marital bed. She would never bear his children and he could never keep her in his home. It never weighed on his mind unless he let it, and when he did, it burned at his eyes and left a lump in his throat.
He considered his friends just that, friends to play cards and smoke with. Most of them were vapid, pretentious fellows anyway. And Raoul- only Raoul had listened, but Philippe always took care to hide his troubles from Raoul, crafting a perfect world for the boy.
With the Persian, it was different-- the man listened intently to whatever he had to say, no judgement across his features regardless of Philippe’s woes. There was an understanding in his eyes, a wisdom that calmed the count beyond words. With him, Philippe could speak of his troubles with Sorelli, his concerns for his nieces and nephews, the itching fear of mortality that crept within him- especially when he looked at Raoul, strong and young. With the Persian, Philippe feared nothing.
“And I haven’t had a man speak to me in so long,” the Persian answered gently.
And as if expecting what to follow, the Persian tilted his head. Philippe placed his lips against the man’s own. He made it slow, careful to savor every second and taste.
Mint and roses followed him home, the count half stumbling as his companion hailed a carriage. He did not get drunk often- he could hold his liquor well- but it was freeing nonetheless to openly laugh and speak while the Persian helped him to his door. The man did not come in, despite Philippe’s insistence.
“I fear you may regret it in the morning,” the Persian had said.
“Yes, that’s true,” the count agreed, “I have enough regrets already, wouldn’t you say?”
Philippe had taken men before, though none of it had been anything beyond a fancy. They were usually fair aristocrats, silver-tongued and easily smitten. Perhaps Philippe indulged them because they admired him so, or perhaps it was because he enjoyed the thrill of hiding their kisses. And yet they did not match up to La Sorelli and after one night, he’d perhaps not see each man for another year or so.
With such men and women, he remained untethered.
But with the Persian, Philippe found himself going back again and again, as if addicted to aphrodisiac. Not since Sorelli had he found himself so smitten with another. And the Persian certainly made his attentions worthwhile.
Their hands would brush behind the stage, one man lurking about and one man en route to Sorelli’s room. Most nights, Philippe would beckon the Persian to dinner, the door shut tight, and they would kiss, sometimes light, sometimes with tongue and teeth. He had a flat near the Opera, one used specifically for reasons such as this- and there, in the guest room’s silky sheets, he’d ask to touch and be touched.
“Are you fonder of men or women?” the count once asked, the first time he’d invited the Persian into his empty flat.
Biting a cigar, the man replied, “What do you think?”
Philippe held out his hand and the Persian passed his cigar into that palm. The count smoked it, mouth closing around where the Persian’s lips had touched. “Then, if you have no qualms, my friend, I’ll make this clear. I want to trace your body in my bed. I want to feel you grow hot and wet against my skin.”
He looked the Persian in the eye. “Do you wish to do the same with me? One word and it shall be done.”
“Philippe,” the man said, biting his lip, “what do you think?”
They woke up in the morning, naked and tangled in the same sheets.
In the excitement of his new love, Philippe felt that he had neglected Sorelli. For a time, he found himself going to her dressing room less not because he wished to see her, but rather because he wished to see the Persian on the way. And more often than not, he chose to return to the flat early rather than to visit Sorelli at night. Thoughts of her soft flesh were replaced with hard muscle, her pointed jaw replaced with graying beard. And one way or another, his feelings for Sorelli and the Persian had switched-- now it was her he wished to talk to and him he wished to bed.
“I will continue to see La Sorelli,” he once told the man, “I will always love her. If this bothers you, then we must terminate our arrangement immediately.”
The Persian had merely reclined, legs crossed as he thought over Philippe’s words. He always had that air about him, the confidence of someone who did not care for what would send any other man frothing at the mouth.
“Does your arrangement with me bother her?” he asked Philippe, “I think that is the more prudent question.”
“No. She’s rather amused by it. She thinks you very handsome.”
“I thought she had a sour impression of me.” He smiled, a low smirk.
“Ah, my friend, just because she finds you beautiful does not mean she likes you.”
“Fair enough.”
Philippe was fortunate in the respect that neither of his lovers was prone to jealousy. The Persian, for all his charm, was a somber man, seemingly resigned to the idea that Philippe would never be his. But he also acted like a man who had no intention of becoming Philippe’s either. And Sorelli never sought to make Philippe’s hers-- but she did wish to be his.
And that was where the problem lay. She could never be his wife, and so long as his attentions were divided, no one could belong to him. His family was his own. And all else was best left outside.
But in his way, he did love her.
It had been raining outside when he found her room, eager to tell her she was not forgotten. To his disappointment, the Persian had not been nearby, but perhaps it was for the best. He was not the object of Philippe’s concern now.
“And here stands the fairest of them all!” he announced, swooping in to hug her from behind.
Sorelli nearly squealed in his embrace, laughing high as she returned his kisses. Then she was upon him, exchanging words of how much they’d missed the other.
“My dear count, how have you been? I see you so rarely now.”
“Good. Very good, my love.” He kissed her hand. “And you?”
“I still live by what I love: dancing, and-”
She pecked his mouth. “-you.”
Sorelli on his lap, Philippe told her of the flat and the Persian’s involvement. The ballerina’s face had fallen slightly when he mentioned it- for it was there that Philippe used to bring her- but he was quick to tell her that the Persian insisted on paying rent.
“Not much, mind you, I haven’t the need to charge him. But one night became two, then three, and really, we only spend the weekends at our own residences now. He thought it fair to pay for his bed if he’s all but living here.”
“That’s smart of your friend.” She wrung her hands. “It makes him your equal in a way, doesn’t it?”
Philippe did not think of it that way. He shrugged. If anything, it was only another of the man’s quirks.
“How nice,” she muttered, “to be your equal.”
“Enough of our friend,” he said, “what of the Opera now? Any new gossip for my ears?”
“No new scandals, if that’s what you wish to hear. But I know how much Count Philippe detests scandals.”
He nodded in agreement. She sighed. “Then do you wish to hear about the opera ghost?”
The ghost had been a rumor from the start of Philippe’s patronage and frankly, he thought of it as frivolous nonsense. He’d told Sorelli this multiple times, for as intelligent as she was, Sorelli and the others in their company had the same bad habit of falling for superstition. They blamed the ghost for anything, from accidents to missing props, and it proved to be quite the source of entertainment for the younger dancers. There was also something about stealing francs from the managers, which Philippe found to be a pathetic excuse for embezzlement.
But now it seemed, the ghost was feeling particularly mischievous, going as far as to harass M. Poligny in his daily life. The manager could not sleep a wink or do his paperwork without fear of this phantom exposing his secrets.
“A decent man would not have to fear revealing his secrets,” Philippe scoffed.
Sorelli’s tale had affirmed one thing: Count Philippe did not care about the ghost or its managers.
When he left Sorelli that night, Philippe was accosted by an anxious stagehand, a lad far too incensed to speak coherently.
“M. le Comte,” he said, “please hear me. You’re a good man and nobody here’s wanting to see you harmed.”
“What is it?” Philippe asked, worried that some murder had taken place.
“The Persian has the evil eye. If I were you, I’d stay far from him.”
Philippe laughed in his face.