The Length and Breadth of Scandinavia (Phil)

[Christine Daaé]

It was early in the morning on the thirteenth of December. Christine had spent much of the night before busy baking and preparing for the day. It was, after all, her very favorite celebration today. The Festival of Sankta Lucia was a grand tradition among a large number of Swedish families, and while it was generally a tradition among the Lutherans and Christine's family was Catholic, her mother had grown up a Lutheran like of the majority of Swedish families, and insisted upon keeping some of the traditions after she had converted to Catholicism in order that she and he could be married. Christine's father, in turn, continued to keep these traditions after his wife had died, observing them in a sort of fond remembrance of her. This was Christine's favorite of the traditions they had kept.

She had made several holiday treats: pepperkakor, glögg... and she had gotten up early this morning to make some fresh saffransbuller and coffee. She was dressed as the martyr saint Lucia (as was the tradition for the eldest daughter) in white robes with a red sash (in this case, her mother's scarf) tied around her waste and the “crown of light” (which was pretty much a wreath-like headdress with candles in it), her long blonde locks hanging down undone.

She had arranged many of the treats on a tray, and had already brought some into Mamma Valérius' room and left them there for her for when she would wake up. She had also left some for Raoul, though she suspected he may be a bit confused waking up and finding a plate of sweets and a cup of coffee beside him instead of his wife...

After delivering the treats to their rooms, She had come back into the dining room and took the unlit crown off of her head. She hadn't bothered to light any of the candles yet, as she expected both Raoul and Mamma to be asleep, and didn't particularly have any plans on waking either one of them up. She had set the crown on the table before her, near the remainder of the saffransbuller and pepperkakor, and had taken a box of matches and was just beginning to light them when she heard a click of the door and saw someone enter.

She had never seen the man before, though there was some vague trace of familiarity about him which she could not quite place. “Bonjour, Monsieur,” she said, as the flames from the two candles she had already lit danced lightly. She rose in greeting him, as was the polite custom in her own time, at least. This man didn't appear to be one of the ones from this strange and ultra-modern world... “I'm sorry; I wasn't expecting to see any one else up and in here so early... Is there anything that I can help you with?” Perhaps this man was one of the 'new arrivals,' as she had never seen him before...

[Philippe Maurice de Chagny]

Philippe woke early in the morning with a kind of melancholy. He had dreamed about Paris and the countryside, as well as his former life on the seas... When he found himself in the strange bed he only reluctantly occupied in the manor, instead of the comfort of his home, he felt the inexplicable need to sob. He wished more than ever that he was only in some severe coma where he was in a prolonged state of dreaming...

He didn't cry, however... He hadn't cried since perhaps the day his mother died, not really at least. It wasn't that he was above it, it was only... he felt tears were not the best way to make his situation better. Perhaps it was something his father taught him, or even his brother and his bold ways.

Despite his misgivings about his situation, Philippe wasn't the type to wallow in self-pity. He always needed to be doing something with his time, so he decided to go eat breakfast. He dressed in something warm, for the hallways were chilly this time of year, and set off to the kitchen. He'd made good use of his time in the Manor by memorizing the corridors, and he got lost less and less as time went on until he knew the manor like his own house. He found himself there easily, but when he pushed open the door he found he wasn't alone.

His eyes widened a bit, and he almost left to come back later. He was in no mood to socialize, and didn't exactly look his best... But she addressed him in his native French, so he was intrigued. He recognized what she was doing as a Scandinavian tradition, his brother having talked about it from what Christine had told him. Saint Lucie, or something like that? He wasn't exactly sure, but he entered the room with interest all the same. "To be honest neither was I... I was just going to the kitchen for some breakfast, you see, Mademoiselle," he said, though upon coming nearer to her he noticed the tiny gold ring on her hand. "Pardon me," he began again with the tip of his head to her hand. "Madame."

[Christine Daaé]

Christine listened to the man as he responded to her addressing him, delighted that he had replied in French. While she had been forcing herself to learn more English as of late, it was still always quite comforting to hear words in a more familiar tongue. While it wasn't her mother-tongue, she had lived in France for most of her life and knew French better than any other language.

She smiled, when he corrected his addressing her to 'Madame' from 'Mademoiselle'. “Oh, it is quite fine, Monsieur. I haven't been married long... Do you like coffee and saffron buns? I've made plenty; you're welcome to have some... I'm sorry. I must look silly dressed like this.”

She laughed a bit at herself and shook her head before going back to lighting the last couple candles of her headdress. “I'm sorry, I don't believe that we've had the pleasure of meeting previously,” she said as she turned back to him. “My name is Christine Daa– de Chagny... Forgive me. I'm still getting used to this... And your name, Monsieur?”

She put out the match she had used to light the candles and set it on the edge of one of the trays until such time as she could go douse it. After all, it would be rude for her to do so now, since she was in the middle of an introduction.

[Philippe Maurice de Chagny]

Philippe seemed more comfortable with this girl than others he encountered, so he stayed. It was polite of him to do so, and he was starving! He grinned and laughed at her fretting. "Don't be absurd, you're only celebrating a holiday, am I right?" He shoved his cold hands into the pockets of his warm dressing gown; a bit inappropriate in front of a girl he didn't know, but he hoped she wouldn't think less of him. "And I wouldn't want to intrude, but coffee does sound lovely."

He watched her curiously as she lit the candles on the wreath. From what he remembered, it was supposed to be a headdress of sorts. "Isn't it a Scandinavian holiday? My brother is... fond of Swedish things, I believe, so I recognize it a bit." He'd prefer not to mention that Christopher fancied Christine...

When the woman turned about to introduce herself, he pulled out one of his hands to take hers, aiming to kiss it in his gentlemanly fashion. She seemed like a Victorian lady of great taste, so he assumed she'd appreciate the gesture, unlike some of the more modern women he'd come across. However, as her name rolled over her tongue he froze. De Chagny? That was impossible!

The Comte instead used his raised hand to rub his mouth, his eyebrows contorting in a confused manner. "Did I... Did I hear that correctly? De Chagny, you say?" Not to mention she said her given name was Christine. But he distinctly remembered Mlle. Daaé to be of the brunette persuasion. Was he mistaken? And had his brother already married the girl, without his permission?! "I'm sorry, but I'm confused, because... well... I myself am a de Chagny. I am Philippe, the Comte de Chagny." He swallowed a bit, masking his discomfort with a glistening smile. "You must be married to one of our cousins? There are branches of the family in America who retain the surname." He could only dream, but he got this feeling this woman was definitely connected more to his brother than any of his other relatives...

[Christine Daaé]

“Yes,” Christine said with a smile, nodding happily in confirmation of him knowing the holiday’s origins though she certainly had not expected so much. “The festival of Sankta Lucia. Oh, no, you’re not intruding at all!” She poured a mug full of coffee, diverting her eyes from the man in the room. It seemed he hadn’t expected to come across anyone so early either, or surely he would have finished dressing.

It seemed that the two of them were having a rather pleasant interaction until something happened which Christine couldn’t help but to think was just the slightest bit odd. After she introduced herself to him, he seemed to freeze for a moment, as if in shock. He asked her if he’s heard her correctly when she’d told him her name, a question to which she gave a somewhat confused, “Yes,” in response. “My name is Christine de Chagny…”

As the man then continued to explain why he was confused by this statement, Christine felt a wave of shock sweep over her body like a splash of icy cold water. She paled, her eyes widening, and staggered back a little, passing a hand over her forehead. She caught herself and forced herself to sit down, lest she faint from the shock of it.

Philippe!? But that was impossible! Philippe had died several months beforehand! His body had been found, drowned and left on the edge of the underground opera lake on the Rue Scribe side… She looked up at the man in the dining room with her, her blue eyes wide with shock, wondering whether or not this was a dream or if she was imagining things… or if it were all truly real…

“N-no,” she stammered, in response to his wonderings about her having married one of his American ancestors. “I’ve n-never been to America b-before…” She looked him over with a rather bewildered air. She had known vaguely what the Comte Philippe had looked like – she’d seen him in passing at the opera – but she’d never actually spoken with him face to face… It was always through one of the many letters he would send on behalf of his brother, which she had written back to him asking him to stop sending those, as well as the ones he’d sent to the managers on her behalf. Of course she'd seen him in his box during performances, and in passing in the backstage of the Opéra, but still... Could this man be the same Comte Philippe she’d known back in Paris? And if it were, how was he not… dead?

She shook her head in disbelief, clearly upset, as she tried to fathom the situation at hand. “This cannot be…” she mused aloud in a sort of distraught whisper before looking back up at the man again and resuming a more audible tone which she attempted to render as pleasant, but still shook with mixed emotion. If this were, in fact, Philippe, Raoul would surely be overjoyed to see his brother once again, but then again… if it were, then what would become of them?… “My husband’s name is Comte Raoul de Chagny…” She swallowed hard. “He assumed the title after his older brother, Philippe, passed away some months ago…”

[Philippe Maurice de Chagny]

The girl seemed just as in shock as Philippe was at the moment, maybe even more so. He stepped forward to offer her is arm when she began to wobble, but she sat down quickly enough. Something told him it would not be so simple an explanation than a distant relative would provide, especially when she confirmed his theory was inaccurate. "Are you alright, Madame? Do you... need some water?" He looked about the table for some, but there was none.

"This cannot be..." she began cryptically. Philippe didn't like the sound of that. He sat down himself next to her, preparing himself for the worst. She paused before continuing, and if Philippe thought he'd been confused and nervous before, he was even more now.

"My husband's name is Comte Raoul de Chagny..." A thousand thoughts immediately ran through Philippe's mind. Complete shock was an emotion that lingered in them all. Why hadn't Raoul told him? This did not look like the Christine from that summer by the sea! Who did she think she was, spreading lies like that? She probably wants money, that's it...!

The most harrowing thought, however, she addressed in her next sentence. The terrifying thought was... "Comte Raoul de Chagny"?!

"He assumed the title after his older brother, Philippe, passed away some months ago."

The Comte fell back in his seat, his eyes nearly popping out of their shells... Dead? He was dead?! Of course, all the facts pointed to this being an impossibility, but he took a deep breath, just to be sure. She was utterly ridiculous! Had his life officially veered into the absurd? ... Was he dead, and was this all just a strange, unexpected kind of heaven? Was it hell?

Oh, God no... Philippe was beginning to lose his mind! He stood, opening his mouth to shout at her for her lies, but upon seeing that she was so frightened herself, he closed his lips and sat back down. Why blame her for what was clearly his mental instability? He'd never been thought of as insane before in his life... Was it he or she that was in the wrong here?

With flurried hands he took the coffee she'd poured him, drinking it black and piping hot. The burn grounded him in reality. When he paused, he swallowed hard and smiled with trembling lips. "Well, as you can see, I am not dead, and my name is certainly Philippe Maurice, le Comte de Chagny. So, whoever informed you of my untimely demise before you left Paris must have been mistaken!"

[Christine Daaé]

Christine let out a small burst of nervous laughter before rubbing her temples when the man asked her if she needed a glass of water, as if trying to reassure herself through it, though surely it must have sounded more like she was mad to any outsider who knew nothing of the severe peculiarity of the situation at hand. “No… No, thank you. I fear water won’t help any… I’m afraid what I am really in need of is a doctor… Oh heaven… Oh heaven….”

She began wringing her hands as she sat there, trembling and pale as if she’d just seen a ghost, which in this dreadful place was not entirely out of the question. She could have very well been speaking to one that very moment… What was going on here? It had been some time since she had been so very confused. She’d thought that the confusing situations had finally settled down since the wedding, but apparently she had been mistaken.

She shook her head and then clasped her hands over her mouth, looking over at the man again with her blue eyes wide in shock. He seemed upset, which was understandable considering both of their circumstances, as he downed the coffee she had given to him previously and then looked at her with trembling lips pulled into a smile of sorts. She merely shook her head even more at his next words.

“No…” she murmured. “I… I saw… we both did… On the shore of the underground opera lake… on the Rue Scribe side…. Oh heaven, what is going on…” And then something occurred to her… Maurice? “No… No, the Comte Philippe Georges Marie de Chagny…” She looked at him with even more confusion, dropping her hands to rest in her lap. Were there more than one Philippe as well? What was next!? More than one Mamma Valérius?

[Philippe Maurice de Chagny]

What reason would Philippe ever have to be underground? Especially underneath the opera house... If anyone would be inspecting the Populaire's cellars it would be his brother, the patron of the house. What... happened down there that everyone keeps making such a fuss about?

Then she corrected him. Imagine, correcting him on his own name! "Georges Marie...? What are you talking..." But then, he understood. Not the same person. He recalled the two girls who came up to he and his brother in town... They seemed to think he was playing the part of himself in a musical based on his brother's life? If there could be things based on his brother's life, then perhaps wherever this woman came from there was another person just like him? And Raoul?

"Yes, I... I think I understand... Well, no, frankly I don't understand, but as long as I'm not dead I'm willing to listen. Now, my name is definitely Philippe Maurice de Chagny, and my brother's is definitely Raoul Christophe de Chagny. You don't... really look like the woman my brother is in love with anyhow..." Philippe wrung his hands, trying to talk himself into some sort of plausible theory. "Do you know my brother? He says he's lived here for quite some time now. I'm sure they can't possibly be the same people, as I'm not dead!"

The thought of someone like him being dead terrified him though. Was this his fate? To die... underground?

[Christine Daaé]

Christine let out an audible sigh, quite relieved that this was somehow some different Comte Philippe de Chagny, though she remained a bit jittery now with the prospect that perhaps the Philippe who was now her brother-in-law could possibly be brought to the Manor. It wasn’t that she was afraid of him at all, but that she was concerned about how Raoul may take it. After all, she knew for a fact that he would not approve of their union, and didn’t wish for her husband to have to face the extra concern of his disapproving elder brother returning from the grave. He’d already taken the news of his death difficultly enough. What if he thought her a liar if he did come here somehow? Would he be cross with her? Combining that with his brother’s influence… would he leave her? It wasn’t something she’d considered previously, though now… now she was not so sure. The good thing was though that this man was not the Philippe she knew…

“No, no, I…. I’m sorry for the confusion. I thought you were someone else…” She forced a smile onto her face, masking her newly found inward concern and putting on a pleasant air for the other in the room. This is a holiday. No time for being down when one should be cheery… He explained that his brother’s name was Raoul Christophe de Chagny, a comment to which her smile turned genuine. “Yes, I’ve met your brother before. And no, I know I look nothing like her… I’ve met her before as well, actually. Is he well? I haven’t seen much of him since he came to my husband’s and my wedding…”

She didn’t speak any more on the topic, as she wasn’t sure what she should say, or what should remain unsaid, as this man was apparently Raoul Christophe’s older brother. It was probably better not to say much about It unless asked first. “He was the first person I met upon coming here, actually, and I have the privilege of considering him to be a friend. He’s quite a gentleman.” …when he wishes to be.

She gave a bit of an uneasy chuckle at his next statement, blushing a bit with embarrassment. “No… no, they are different people, I assure you…. Oh dear… I’m terribly sorry about this. This is all so horribly awkward….” She clasped her hands together in order to prevent them from nervously wandering about, adjusting her clothing and things about the table. “I… uh…. Would you like some more coffee?” She winced, closing her eyes. This was probably what she hated most about the Manor… this awkward multiple versions of the same people.

[Philippe Maurice de Chagny]

Philippe joined the girl in sighing with relief when she revealed her mistake. He leaned back in his chair slightly, taking a deep breath and airing his collar from the sudden heat that had procured around his face and neck. "Thank God! My dear, I was beginning to have a heart attack, and then I would most assuredly be close to death!"

He then listened as she spoke of his brother, and by all means it sounded just like him. He was grateful that his brother was behaving himself, and had made friends. Philippe was always so worried about him... He grew up a lonely child, and thus became abrasive to others as a means of communicating. The Comte had been hoping Raoul would grow to use more tact when making the acquaintance of people, especially ladies, and it seemed he had. She spoke quite fondly of him.

"I have not seen Christopher in some time, in fact rather sparsely since I first came here and stumbled upon him in the village some time ago. I'm glad to know he has been well..." 'Though if he would talk to me on occasion, that would be nice.' Philippe clenched his fist. His absent brother had more of a presence over his mind than he cared to admit.

The woman was beginning to grow uncomfortable, and he could see her face heating up with embarassment. "No, please, it's not your fault," he began, reaching forward slightly as if to calm her fears. "I suppose I'm just as confused as anyone..."

Philippe clasped his hands together, leaning his elbows on his legs and looking at her sympathetically. It wasn't particularly proper of him to do, but he wanted her to know he wasn't judging her dismayed frame of mind. "More coffee would be lovely, Madame. Merci." He gave her a soft, inviting smile. Yes, he was known to charm and comfort ladies in need... Perhaps it was habit, or maybe a subconscious need.

"Tell me, what is your husband like? You say he and my brother are completely different people, yes? And... what kind of man was this 'deceased' version of myself?"

The Comte wasn't sure if he really wanted to know, however... his curiosity was piqued. The situation was so madcap and odd that he might as well play along!

[Christine Daaé]

Christine chuckled nervously, forcing a more pleasant and at ease expression onto her face. “Yes, we wouldn’t want that now…” The fact that he was not the Philippe she knew, was a relief at least, but that didn’t mean that there was not some embarrassment that had come with the mistake. Instead, she busied herself about, fretting unnecessarily over the arrangement of the pot and coffee cups on the tray, her fingers dancing about from object to object.

She relaxed slightly as he continued to speak about his brother. After all, there was much less for her to be concerned about now. This Philippe spoke of his brother, whom he called ‘Christopher’ –a name at which Christine could not help but to smile a little. It was an almost cute name, and she suspected that the other Monsieur de Chagny surely would have been quite embarrassed from being called by it in front of someone else.

She relaxed a little more as they continued on and he reassured her that everything was fine. He told her that he would, indeed, appreciate some more coffee, at which statement she was eventually able to relax her hands over the pot and pour more coffee into his cup. She allowed herself to breathe and her hands steadied.

“My husband? Well… for one, the two of them are physically quite different. They’re about the same height, similar eyes, but my husband’s hair is much lighter than your brothers… closer to my shade, really. And their personalities are extremely different.”

She paused before continuing on. After all, she had to be quite careful about what she said. Being kin to Raoul Christophe, this man might take some offense if she were too terribly frank about the differences between the two. “My husband is… a rather shy type, generally, which is not at all like your brother from how I have come to know him.”

She wasn’t certain how much more she could really say without insulting the other, which was not her intention at all. “I’ve also noticed your brother, well… he… he tends to be a bit more…. hotheaded than my husband…” She winced a little. “I… I’m terribly sorry… I don’t mean to sound rude by what I say. I do consider your brother to be a friend, and what I say is not because I think ill of him at all…”

But then… then came the dreaded question to answer: what kind of man was this 'deceased' version of myself?

Christine set the pot down again and sat back in her seat. Her eyes flitted away to the far wall for a moment, recalling the memories of Paris, and then she looked back at him. “My husband’s brother… he was a well-respected man. He was a principal patron to the opera house, of which I, like any of the other people who worked there, was very grateful…. He wanted what was best for his brother, for their family… which I completely understood… and agreed with. I knew very well that it was out of question for his brother and me to marry, and made that quite clear to the younger on several occasions. However, there were other instances with him of which I was not in accordance with…. He… wrote to me on several occasions asking… favors for his brother…. Favors which I declined, and respectfully replied that he never ask of me again….”