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Post by Philippe Maurice de Chagny on Jun 14, 2013 16:53:14 GMT -5
intro post tbc
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Post by Philippe Maurice de Chagny on Jun 14, 2013 17:00:30 GMT -5
The Eighth of February, Two-Thousand-and-Thirteen
It is still strange to be writing that year. During my internment here I have discovered so much has happened in the hundred or so years that I should have been deceased that I have a hard time believing. Mlle. Daaé, my brother’s... Well, the one associated with Christopher showed me a “video” from the year 1969 of the first man walking on the moon! I have seen a film recently that recounts a second world war. What on earth could have spawned the first to be so great that world wars are in existence? Music has been altered drastically, as well. I am told people do not take any of the great masters seriously any more... It seems the lower classes have taken over the world in the time that I should have been dead...
But I am living. In 2013. I keep thinking perhaps I will wake up and it will be some sort of elaborate dream, but the notion is becoming less and less plausible. Being rich means nothing here! I am a French Count who should very well be in a grave, and I am supposed to be fictional?! What sort of power would I have if I tried to exercise it? I have money, but that will dwindle eventually... I am afraid I might have to join my brother soon and procure a menial job.
I do not... mind working. It is nice to be useful, but I have always tried to not let my title go to waste like I used to, if only in my mother’s memory. When she died, and father soon after, responsibility has meant a great deal to me. But in this place, what am I to do except sit here waiting for something to happen?
Only in the privacy of my journal do I dare voice how I feel... I wish mother was here. Yes, I am forty-one years old, but suddenly being held captive I have the fright of a five-year-old. What was once my confidence is now my uncertainty. Mother was always the one to make me feel sure about myself when life told me I should think otherwise... The one person I could talk to my problems, would love to speak with, doesn’t want anything to do with me because I... am denying his happiness.
I recall what he said to me when I first arrived. He was glad to be in England, though I very well wouldn’t put it past my Yank of a brother. However, this century suits him so well... I feel the odd man out, like I was in my own household years before. I wish I could share Raoul’s enthusiasm. He is so happy, because he is with the woman he loves, but he doesn’t stop to think what kind of future he will have with her. I look into her eyes and see my gypsy; so free and easy, as if she’s floating along a spring breeze... And when I look at my little brother, I see that same optimism and innocent trust that he puts into her hands. I don’t want him to lose that innocence, like I did twenty-five years ago.
I suppose he expects me to stay out of his life, but I am his brother... However I am not his father. He is an adult, so I must surrender graciously. But if I do, when Raoul is finally hurt like I predicted, can I refrain from saying “I tried to warn you?”
I must, if I am to have a relationship with him. He is the only person here who I can safely say I trust, and unconditionally love. As much as he is like our father, he has our mother’s eyes and spirit. My only regret is that I payed more attention to him as a boy... I should find him, perhaps. Though he might be working at the courthouse... I could go to the village and ask him to lunch.
... And then what? Tell him I still don’t approve of his choice? I can’t think straight... I need some air, but it is snowing outside. I hate the cold, but dammit I need to ride! I’ll go, if only to stretch Aleta’s legs.
Philippe Maurice,
le Comte de Chagny
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