Be prepared for a great misfortune [open]

[Carlotta Celestia Giudicelli]

Carlotta's head was reeling, her massive grey bouffant wig still atop, pinned to the wig cap upon her head so that it would not topple off. She was still dressed in her highly ornate countess costume adorned with Pink, white, and green laces and floral patterns. She was to perform the role of the countess in the Opéra Populaire's new production of Il Muto which they were to stage that evening.

The massively splendid woman groaned. Silly her. She had forgotten to breathe. Her professors as il Conservatorio would be most displeased with her if they ever caught word of such an embarrassing accident as this. The diva rolled to her side and picked herself up so she was sitting and then rubbed her eyes and looked about at her surroundings. What? This isn't right...

Carlotta distinctly remembered being back stage only a few minutes before curtain call last and now.... where was she? This place most certainly did not look like the inside of the Opéra Populaire! She appeared to be in a large vacant room of sorts will tall windows and a grand piano in one area along with a few chairs along the sides. The floors were made of a cool, dark-colored marble. It appeared to be a ballroom of sorts. But what on earth was she doing there? It wasn't the Populaire, nor was it any other place which she recognized.

She tried to stand herself up, but found the task rather difficult, nearly impossible considering her attire and the fact that there was nothing in the general vicinity for her to grab onto in an attempt to pull herself up. It was just then, that the large mahogany doors to the room opened.

[Raoul Christophe de Chagny]

Raoul took off his newsboy-style hat as he finally entered the manor after the seemingly endless walk back home from the village. He was wearing a green linen suit and a red tie that befitted his new position. He had been trying to sell people life insurance from seven to five, and had been playing piano at a restaurant from five to nine. By the time he got back to the manor it was nine-thirty, and he had not eaten anything save for the biscuits and ginger ale he had had at the restaurant. Besides that, he was tired. He had managed to take on another job in hopes of earning back at least a fraction of the money he had had when he was back in France.

Before he could do that he had to give himself enough stability so he could afford to take commuter train trips from this place—which was in the middle of nowhere as far as he was concerned—to London and back so that he could work at one of the bigger insurance firms. He had started a few weeks ago and so far was doing alright, having gotten a few commissions, but there just wasn’t a big market in a small village, hence why London looked so appealing. But there was no way he could afford to take the train every day. Especially not when he was taking classes at the small public university so that he could eventually practice law. He wasn’t paying much but still it added up when he was trying to save his money for an automobile among other things.

Raoul laughed humorlessly. Look at him, worrying about money. He could have had anything he wanted back in France, and he was perfectly willing to invest large amounts of money into the Opera Populaire. He was respected and powerful. Now he was just an insurance broker with a piano-playing gig on the side. He was just like everyone else. He had wanted that challenge when he was younger, when he had joined the Navy. But now he didn’t feel like he did. There was too much at stake. He needed this money…it was something that he couldn’t take away from him, something that would indefinitely tie Christine to him if his theory was correct.

He walked briskly through the halls of the manor house, looking for the dining hall. However it was relatively dark, and he was tired, and he ended up opening the double doors of a massive room which unfortunately wasn’t the dining hall. Instead he entered the ballroom, which he had not been to since his second day here. How fast time flies. He was about to leave but he saw something moving in the middle of the room. The Vicomte reached for the electric light switch and lit up the chandelier so he could see better. A woman dressed in a voluminous dress and a white wig was trying to stand. Chivalrously he rushed over to her and helped her to her feet.

“Are you alright, Madame?” he asked concernedly, craning his neck so he could see her face. What he saw surprised him. He had seen the woman at numerous productions at the Populaire in the past, and though because of his bias she was never his favorite, she was a well-respected prima donna. “Signora Giudicelli?”

[Carlotta Celestia Giudicelli]

Carlotta's eyes widened when she heard the man's voice, and even more so when she saw his face, for standing there before her was none other than the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny – the Opéra Populaire's new patron, who had come in partnership with the most recent managers, Messieurs André and Firmin.

“Monsieur le Vicomte!?” she exclaimed in her confusion. “You.... you were the one who sent me that outrageous note! What are you doing here? Where am I?[/i]”

She was practically barking at him, livid. First he had tried to sabotage her career so that his little tramp of a fancy Christine could steal her rightfully earned spotlight, and now, he was somehow connected in whatever it was that had brought her here.

“Where is the stage? I'm due on any moment now,” she said in her native Italian air.

[Raoul Christophe de Chagny]

That was the first time he had been called by his proper name in what seemed like forever. It was almost comforting. Since coming here his title did not seem to have any weight with anyone, so he had sort of relaxed in his insistence that people refer to him as ‘Monsieur Le Vicomte.’ But the fact that someone was calling him this without him having to tell them to almost made him feel like his old self again. Her accusation completely threw him off. “Note? What note?” He then noticed how Carlotta was dressed—in a costume. From…Il Muto? The opening night of that performance had been the day after the gala. He had seen it in the play on the television that he had watched on his birthday with the blonde Christine.

His eyes flashed with recognition. “I didn’t send you that note, Signora—it was from the so-called ‘Opera Ghost’. He’s only a crazy aficionado who thinks that he owns the Populaire. I’ve been here for months. I’m not quite sure how I got here myself…but I’m afraid there isn’t a way out—or back to Paris, that is. We appear to be in the future.” he tried to explain, certain that she wouldn’t believe a word he was saying. How had she gotten here? And if she was here…

“Where is Christine? Have you seen her? Is she here?” he demanded. He needed to see her again, it was imperative—and preferably before Erik got to her. He shook his head when she asked him where the stage was. “Back in Paris—we are in England, Signora, somewhere north of London.”

[Carlotta Celestia Giudicelli]

“Oh, si! This so-called 'O.G.',” the diva laughed bitterly. Of course it was the 'Opera Ghost.' The same 'Ghost which had been plaguing her and sabotaging her for the past three years. It was only natural, of course, to blame it on the ghost. But Carlotta knew better. The ghost was a silly tale made up by the impressionable minds of the ballet rats in an attempt to explain the incompetence of the manager. And the ballet mistress encouraged it by playing delivery boy for this mysterious so-called ghost. Naturally he would blame the already existing non-existent scapegoat.

“I know better than that, Monsieur,” she said bitterly. “It was you! To further the career of that precious little ingénue you're taken a fancy to. Your Christine.” The name left a foul taste in her mouth. It was far too close to that of her wretched perfect older sister. Well you know what? Cristina wasn't so special. And neither was Christine. In the end, they were both just pretty, sought-after skinny girls and their talent (or lack there of) would take them nowhere in life other than becoming the housewife and baby-maker for the first man who came along with enough cash.

Of course! He immediately began asking about Christine! Christine, Christine!.... “How should I know where the little toad is now? Why should I care even? The last I saw of her she was backstage in her pageboy costume – the silent role as is well due to her.”

And then it struck her exactly what he had said: Somewhere North of London... The stage is back in Paris... there isn't a way out – or back to Paris... in the future.... “Monsieur le Vicomte, what kind of a fool do you take me for? I was just in Paris, about to go onstage at the Populaire! How could I possibly be in England and in the future?”

[Raoul Christophe de Chagny]

“Yes, the O.G.” Raoul answered, completely serious in spite of her tone. Then, a few seconds later she accused him of having sent the letter. “I didn’t send it!” he protested staunchly. “I’m the patron. If I wanted to advance Christina Daaé’s career I would not have to go behind anyone’s back to do it. I would simply threaten to withdraw my funding and that would be the end of it.” he stated in exasperation. Not that he would do that anyway. Yes, he cared about her career, but he would not resort to such unethical means to help her. What kind of a man did she take him for?

His eyes widened when Carlotta told him that she was still backstage—at the Populaire? Maybe she was in the opera house here? Seized with urgency and excitement, he turned around and almost sprinted to the door, flinging it open with all of his might. “I must see her!” he said more to himself than to Carlotta. Dear God, what would he even say to her? He didn’t know—there was a plethora of emotions running through his mind. Excitement, joy, anger, hurt…he couldn’t begin to know what he would say if he would even be able to speak. Oh to see her again, to know she was real and not just some childish figment of his imagination…

He paused at the door when Carlotta countered his claim that they were in the future. “Mamma—Madame, Madame…I mean, Signora!” he corrected himself, not understanding why he had slipped up like that. Perhaps it was because of that strange dream. “Signora, we are in England, I can assure you. And we are in the future! Here…look at this.” From the briefcase slung across him he withdrew a book he often read in between calls to clients—an investment guide—and opened it up to the front page. “See? ‘Copyright 2012.’” he read, pointing the words out with his finger.

[Carlotta Celestia Giudicelli]

Carlotta turned pale, her green eyes flaring. Christina... He had just called her Christina! Oh Cristina... Cristina: that spoiled perfect wench of an older sister who had made her childhood miserable. No matter. It was just a mistake... “Monsieur de Chagny,” she said, resuming her rather cool attitude. “You would be able to do no such thing, as I have a contract with the opera which the new managers cannot do anything to change until it is up.” After that however...

And then... Mama? “I most certainly am not you mother, Monsieur le Vicomte and I can guarantee you that I am not even old enough for such a thing to be possible!” She knocked away the book he was holding and straightened her back, attempting to make herself appear taller and more threatening than she really was. “Più non posso! I have an adoring nation waiting to hear my singing. Take your ingénue toad and your ridiculous books from the future and stand out of me way!”

[Raoul Christophe de Chagny]

He saw the livid expression in her eyes when he mentioned Christine, and he cocked an eyebrow before she resumed the conversation. “Oh? Well then, we would have waited until it ran out and dropped you then—if I told them not to renew your contract, I can assure you they would comply. But honestly, Signora, I would have no reason to resort to puerile pranks in order to get rid of you. I am a powerful man, I have much more subtle ways of getting things done.” Was a powerful man. “But that is beside the point! I have no reason to want to dismiss you, and I am not the one who sent that note!”

“I know that.” he insisted irritably when she insisted that she was not his mother. “I don’t know why that—“ He was cut off when she knocked the book out of his hand and started yelling at him. But he could barely hear her. “What…did you just do?” he mumbled in shock, voice and temper rising as he kept speaking. “How dare you! Signora, you are most certainly not my mother because my mother had manners! How dare you treat me like this…how dare you treat a book like this!” He scrambled to pick up the tome and glared up at her. “Don’t you understand? There is no adoring public because no one here even believes we exist!”

[Carlotta Celestia Giudicelli]

“Monsieur le Vicomte, I have sang on many of the most well-known stages in all of the most prestigious houses in Europa. Do you honestly think that anyone in their right mind would hire an inexperienced, unknown, untrained ballet rat over a highly regarded diva by the greater part of the continent? Even with your funding, the audience attendance would drop because, in the end, people don't want to listen to some amateur warble on, attempting to stay on pitch.”

It was true. A well-paying audience didn't come for trial and error performances. They expected professional level quality for what they paid, as they came to enjoy an evening of art and of social atmosphere. They didn't want to be the test audience for new and inexperienced 'singers' – if you could even call that Christine a musician of any sort.

She chose to ignore the rest of what he was saying. The man was obviously raving. Noble of birth hardly meant that he was right in the head. His speaking and thoughts of that ballet rat clearly proved otherwise.

[Raoul Christophe de Chagny]

“No.” He shook his head vehemently. “She has a beautiful voice, and if you don’t realize that then you have no concept of beauty at all!” he snapped acerbically. He couldn’t believe the way she talked about his Christine. There he went again…she was not even here and he still hoped that she would love him. “No it wouldn’t! She’s flawless, Signora, flawless! And she has natural talent—the most wonderful voice I’ve ever heard, I tell you! She’s a siren—listening to her is like being in the heavens for a few moments! People young and old would flock to the Populaire to hear an angel, no, a goddess present them with the gift of song! Her aria…her aria was magnificent! Magnificent! And you can never take that away from her—she’s wonderful, understand, wonderful!”

He finished, smoothing down his coat and tucking his book back into his bag. “Christine Daaé is a fantastic artist and I have all the faith in the world in her.” Raoul stated more calmly. “And her gala performance has proven that—the audience loved her. Maybe you’re too deaf to realize that, but she is much much better than you give her credit. She is a rising star.”

[Carlotta Celestia Giudicelli]

((many dancers in the Victorian era had side-jobs as prostitutes. Prostitution was (and is) legal in France.))

Carlotta rolled her eyes as she listened to the Vicomte speak. How very typical. The papers were right. He was having a love affair with this Christine, and she had been right too. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that he had been the one behind that heinous note she had received that morning. All the faith in her in the world? Carlotta scoffed. He would sure be in for a surprise when he learned about the usual side-job of a good number of the ballet rats.

She had half a mind to tell him such, but then again, it would be much more amusing to see the man be absolutely shattered when he discovered the vulgar nature of the ballet rats and dancers in general. Then he would come groveling back on his hands and knees, begging to have her stay, as his short-lived romances and fantasies would have been destroyed and he finally would have realized what really continues to pack audiences in the House, and that is professional quality high grade performances in which true art and talent is displayed and not the untrained inexperienced filth they were forced to put up with the previous evening.

“She is an untrained, inexperienced rat who got lucky after I was sabotaged and demanded that something be done about it before I sang for them again. It is not in my contract that I should have to put up with falling backdrops, or heinous threats in the mail or patrons who don't know a thing about la musica!” she said in her highly dictated Italian accent, tears stinging at her eyes. She had gone through so much to get there. She had spent her entire childhood playing second fiddle and she was not going back for anything.

[Raoul Christophe de Chagny]

As usual his face contorted in indignation when Carlotta insisted that Christine was simply an untrained ballet rat who had gotten lucky. “Signora, you are sadly mistaken—she is wonderful!” She was, and he knew it wasn’t just him. And it certainly wasn’t just because he was in love with her. The audience had received her quite well as far as he was concerned. “She is very talented, without a doubt. Maybe you’re just jealous because now you have some worthy competition. Like I said before, Signora, she is a rising star.”

At her comment about being sabotaged, Raoul raised an eyebrow. “Sabotaged? What do you mean?” Was it the incident with the falling set piece? It had happened in both the play and the film he had seen, and in both cases everyone present save for the managers attributed it to the Phantom—which it probably was. She went on to mention falling backdrops, confirming his suspicions. “Signora, like I said before it was the man who lives in the cellars of the opera. You know him as ‘O.G.’ but his real name is Erik Lenoir, and he is a lunatic. He’s the one who sent you the letter, not me.”

He crossed his arms, offended when she suggested he knew nothing about music. Well, fine, he was patron but that didn’t mean he didn’t know anything. He was about to say as much when she started crying. Sighing to himself, he wordlessly withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.

[Carlotta Celestia Giudicelli]

Carlotta reached out a chubby hand and and took the handkerchief from the Vicomte and sobbed into it, blowing her nose and whimpering in her native Italian tongue. “Oh! Che cosa è quel fantasma miserabile fatto a te, povera donna ...”

Oh! What has that wretched ghost done to you, you poor woman...

She blew her nose again. “Si! He has sabotaged me for the past three years! With costumes too small and sets and backdrops falling, and toads in my dressing room! Ha! I am sick of it, do you 'ear me? SICK OF IT!” and she let out another sob.

[Raoul Christophe de Chagny]

Raoul listened, blinking, as the woman muttered something in Italian. He understood—most of it, that is—but it was almost as if she was admitting that there was a ghost. “He’s not a ghost, Signora, he’s a man. A strange, demented man whom I intend to put behind bars as soon as possible.” How he was going to do that, he had no clue. He had not been convicted of a crime, and he had no proof that he had committed a crime. It was frustrating, because in France—in their own time—he could have him guillotined easily. He wanted to kill him but he would go through the proper channels. That was what made him better than him.

He was a bit stunned at her outburst. Normally he would say she was overreacting, that there was no such thing as ghosts, but all of these things seemed like things that Erik had done—according to the stories he had heard and the film he had seen. Yes, he was certainly the culprit. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to her crying and yelling. He wanted to comfort her but he had a feeling he’d just get slapped. “Signora Giudecelli, I can assure you that this ‘Phantom’ shan’t bother you or anyone else again, because soon he won’t be in a position to be bothering anyone.”

[Carlotta Celestia Giudicelli]

The grand diva laughed bitterly through her tears as The young vicomte spoke of how he intended to put this 'Phantom' behind bars. “And just how exactly do you intend to do that, Monsieur le Vicomte? For the past three years, no one has done anything to stop these things from happening!”

She muttered something in her native Italian tongue about incompetent managers and good-for-nothing stage-hands before blowing her nose again. “He is ruining the opera, Monsieur le vicomte. Ruining it! He has no respect for the fine arts!”