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Christine can’t believe her eyes when she first sees him. “Raoul, is that you?”
His eyebrows leap up, and he runs over to her with a grin, arms open wide. They’re attracting a little attention, now, from the other orchestra members and the handful of ballerinas that are still lingering after rehearsal. Christine hesitates, but only for a moment. She wraps her arm around Raoul’s back and gives him a firm squeeze. He’s grown taller, and her head rests easily on his chest, but the fond laugh of greeting is still familiar.
He does not hug her in turn, but keeps his arms outstretched. One hand is occupied by a violin, and the other by a bow. He holds both very carefully.
“Christine Daae—my God!” He laughs again. He is delighted. “I didn’t recognize you at all. But then, you aren’t wearing your red scarf.”
At a distance, and among a crowd of ballerinas, the lack of recognition can be forgiven. The teasing cannot. Christine hits him lightly, and hears a small gasp of amused scandal from the ballerinas in the background. Reminded of the crowd, she steps away from him, though it’s too late to save propriety. She gives him a look up and down, and from head to toe, he’s still dressed the same as any orchestra member. Well, not quite to toe—the shoes are shiny and look a bit expensive. Still not dressed anything like the Vicomte de Chagny, which if she remembers correctly should be his title now. (She should remember correctly. He’s been on her mind these past ten years.)
“But what are you doing here?” she asks him. “This—you can’t really have joined the orchestra.”
“I can’t?” Raoul tilts his head mockingly. “You think I’m really that poor a violinist? But your father used to say I had at least a little talent.”
“No, but you’re… well, does your family know about it?”
“They weren’t very happy,” Raoul admits. “But there was nothing they could do about it. Nothing I could do about it either, for that matter.” He hesitates. Then, conspiratorially, he pulls her over to the right wing, which is a bit emptier just now, so they will not be overheard so easily. “Christine, I must tell you a secret.”
“A secret?”
There is a smile on Raoul’s face. It is wide and bright and uncaring, and perhaps a little unnerving, a little not right. (Though, what does Christine know? She hasn’t seen him in years.) “I’ve been visited by the Angel of Music.”
Christine looks at him. She expects him to laugh. This is a joke, surely—a joke about how good he has gotten as a violinist, for they’ve given him the place of First Violin in the orchestra, and the Opera Populaire’s orchestra is quite competitive. But the gleam in Raoul’s eyes is far too sincere, and his voice was so low that he clearly did consider this an important secret. She wets her lips. “The Angel of Music?”
“It happened just like your father always said. I was practicing violin one day and I heard a voice calling out to me. At first it was very frightening. But it was friendly, and it assured me it meant well. And ever since then, it has taught me how to play violin far better than I did in the past. Of course, since I had been so blessed, I could not keep my gift to myself. The Angel told me I had to go out and perform in the world, and so I will. This is only the beginning.”
He is insane, Christine thinks to herself. The gleam in his eyes suddenly looks manic. And yet, a part of her also says, no, it can’t be, Father said he would send an angel to me, to me, not to anyone else, to… But it is all too absurd. “Your family,” she says again, “they know about your taking a position here?”
“They don’t approve,” Raoul says, “but I told them I could play violin here, or run away and become a traveling player, and they still prefer to keep me in sight. So.” He shrugs. “I will admit, I think Philippe helped me get a position in the orchestra. But I will prove myself in time. The Angel of Music has high expectations, and I will do my best to fulfill them.”
He really must be insane, or at least have some sort of delusion. Good old down-to-earth Raoul, it seems impossible. In every other way, too, he is much the same. Christine thinks she must talk with Philippe the first chance she gets. He’s never liked her much, but he cares about Raoul, and he’ll know better what’s been going on with him. And surely something must be wrong with Raoul now, or Raoul must have suffered some way in the past, for his thoughts to have twisted and turned in such a way.
It can be fixed, surely. He can be brought back to reality. Or, Christine can humor him for now. He confided this in her because he thinks she will believe him, because she too knows the story of the Angel in Music. She does not believe him, but she will not break his trust.
“I’m happy for you, Raoul,” she says. She takes his hand in hers, and feels it shudder, slightly—shivering or simply vibrating with energy, it’s hard to say—and she squeezes it, and says, “Will you go out to dinner with me? There are so many things I want to ask you.”
“Oh, Christine! I have so many questions for you, too. Let me pack up here, and then…”
“Well, I have to change anyway. I’ll meet you at the front,” Christine says.
“I’ll order my horses,” Raoul says.
Christine shakes her head. Of course Philippe would never let Raoul run around unattended or without a proper coach, but for a violinist, it’s just too ridiculous. Still. “Then I’ll be with you shortly.”
As she walks away, Meg sidles up. “I heard the new violinist was a nobleman. You know him?”
“He learned violin from my father,” Christine says absently. “We’ve met.”
“Ohh,” Meg says, and Christine can tell her acquaintance with the Vicomte de Chagny will be prime subject matter for the ballerinas’ gossip chain for the next week. Usually it would worry her, but right now there are too many other things to think about. She smiles at Meg, perhaps a bit dismissively, and hurries away to change.
But when she goes to the front, Raoul is missing. She’s barely waited a minute before another violinist runs over and hands her a note.
“Dear Christine Daae,
Do not be concerned about M. le Vicomte. He is with the Angel of Music now. He cannot waste time consorting with ballerinas and the like, so please do not meet with him in the future, and maintain a more professional relationship.
Regards,
O.G.”
Others at the Opera Populaire have received notes from an “O.G.” before. Christine has heard about them. “Opera Ghost”—Meg’s mythical phantom of the opera.
But a phantom is no angel. And the handwriting here is not Raoul’s—this man cannot be a mere delusion either.
Her throat tightens, and she heads off down the street to seek out the de Chagny manor. There is something very wrong here, and if Raoul is willfully blind to it, then she will have to be the one to get to the bottom of the matter and put things right.