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Do I Dream Again?	By : LaurieBaker Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 10050 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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A/N – This chapter is dedicated to the late Luther Vandross, who has been a source of inspiration for me several times with his beautiful songs. Rest in peace, Luther…

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“Where to, Mademoiselle?” the coachman asked.

As Christine stared bleakly out into the foggy sky of the dawn, she hardly had an answer for him. So quickly had she wished to leave the stifling existence of the de Chagny family, she had not even thought on where she would go next. The smug attitude of Lucille de Chagny as she handed Christine a check for an obscene amount of money had only made her more desperate in her haste.

“To the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires,” she answered the driver automatically. At once, she felt at peace with her answer. She would go back to Mamma Valerius, the only person she had left in her life that reminded her of home and of the girl that she once was.

When she arrived at the modest townhouse, a young serving girl answered the door, curtseying and eyeing Christine’s rich garments with envy as she announced Christine’s arrival and led her to Mamma Valerius’ bedroom. Things must not be well with Mamma, Christine noted with dismay. She had never before spent the money on a serving girl nor was she accustomed to remaining in bed at this hour in the morning. Just how ill was she now?

The gray-haired elderly woman’s frame seemed small in the large bed. She appeared much thinner and weak, yet her eyes were still alive with her spry spirit. She had a wizened face, rich with experience over the years as she had seen much of life. At the very sight of her, Christine felt as if she had found a rock to cling to in the midst of a storm.

“Christine?” Mamma Valerius cried out in surprise, extending a wrinkled hand out to her from her bed. “What on earth...?”

“Hello, Mamma,” she whispered, fighting back tears unsuccessfully.

“Oh, my dear...” Mamma murmured, gesturing for her to sit next to her on the bed.

Christine buried her face onto the old woman’s shoulder, sobbing so hard she thought she would never stop. She hated herself for giving in to the emotion which had been looming over her for days. Yet, she could not help herself. At last, she could give in to her grief in peace.

“Forgive me, Mamma,” she sniffled, trying to calm herself. “I have no right to come here and fall apart on you like this.” Especially when you look like you are unwell yourself, she thought bitterly.

“There, there, child...” Mamma soothed, patting her arm. “Why are you here so early in the morning and all upset? What does such a pretty girl have to be so upset about? Why, you’ve got the entire world at your fingertips, love, with that wealthy fiancé of yours.”

“I’ve left him, Mamma,” Christine confessed.

“What?!”

“I know you must think me mad, but I simply couldn’t go through with it,” she admitted. “I am just so confused. I felt as if I were on the verge of making a dreadful mistake. And when his horrid sister, Lucille, offered me money to go away, I accepted her offer.”

“Oh, my poor child!” Mamma cajoled. “But this is not just about the difficulties with his family nor a simple case of cold feet, is it?”

Christine shook her head. She could be nothing but totally honest with Mamma.

“You are still thinking on the Angel, aren’t you?”

Tears renewed as Mamma Valerius mentioned her tormentor.

“I also read the notice of his death in the paper, child,” Mamma said. “It is all over now and you must put the memories of your Angel behind you.”

“He was no Angel, Mamma,” she said softly. “Only a man. A lonely tormented man who I left to rot to death under the earth. I might as well have shot him.”

“He released you, did he not? That is what you have always told me.”

Christine merely shook her head, allowing herself no comfort.

“I just as good as killed him, Mamma,” she said sadly. “I’ve thought on this for some time now. He needed me. I was all that he had…and I threw him away. I had just been so hurt. You know how I loved Papa. And he knew it too. He took advantage of my grief in the cruelest sort of way. I could not forgive him for that. But I never meant for things to go so far. I never wanted him to die. And now I can’t seem to forgive myself…”

“You are not entirely to blame, dear,” Mamma said. “After all, I was a foolish old woman who led you to believe that he was the Angel of Music.” She shook her head sadly. “Sometimes the old legends and superstitions can be harmful for the unwary. You should consider yourself fortunate that you escaped from that man unscathed.”

“I don’t think that I have, Mamma,” Christine answered. “Even now, he haunts me from the grave in my dreams...” She sobbed pitifully. “And I have such horrible nightmares! And I can hardly ever just sleep anymore!”

“Oh, what melodramatic nonsense!” the woman scoffed. “You are just tired and overwrought, my dear.”

“But do you see why I could not stay with Raoul?” she pleaded. “Do you understand why I could not marry him?”

Mamma Valerius nodded. “Marriage is no easy thing, child. It would do you good to sort out your feelings alone for a while. Where are you going to go?”

“I am not sure yet,” Christine answered truthfully, calming somewhat as she considered her future. "I think I should like to continue with my singing in some fashion or other.”

“But, Christine, how could you dare to do that now? After all of the scandal?”

“There are other places in the world besides Paris, Mamma,” she answered with a shrug. ‘And I have quite a lot of money now. I could travel wherever I wanted. There has been tell of the Savoy Opera House recently opened in London. The theater has been created expressly to perform works of operettas by Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“Who?” Mamma Valerius asked.

“A composer and lyricist who are quite popular these days for writing satires,” Christine answered, trying not to sound condescending. Not everyone could be well versed in the performing arts. “They have already written H.M.S. Pinafore and The Pirates of Penzance. There are sure to be many more of these works to come. While I do not feel up to performing right now, perhaps I could hire myself out as a musical tutor of sorts.”

“Go lie down in the guest room,” Mamma suggested. “It is a small room no larger than the size of a closet, but it will serve. Get a few hours sleep and we shall discuss the matter once you are more recovered.”

Christine nodded as she arose, kissing Mamma’s hand before leaving. Retiring to the guest room, she shut and locked the door, wrenching off her clothing and her corset as quickly as possible. At last, she felt she could breathe again. Corsets had never bothered her so before, but now she felt caged up and stifled all of the time. She yanked her hair down from its tight bun at the back of her neck. She just wanted to be free, to be free…

Dressed only in her undergarments, she stared at her reflection in the mirror over the bedroom dresser. Her dark eyes were wide with despair and panic with her hair wildly curling about her bare shoulders. Who was this deranged woman staring back at her in her reflection? And as she stared, she strained to see another reflection: one of a man and a mask…

“Angel…” she whispered.

Shaking her head in despair, she turned away from the mirror and flung herself onto the bed, burying herself under a woolen blanket. She was truly going mad.

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I am your Angel. Come to me, Angel of Music…

Would she ever forget the first sight of that mask in her dressing mirror at the Paris Opera House?

Still high from the euphoria of the first triumph of her life on stage, Christine had been drowned in praise from all quarters. The Managers, the corps de ballet, other principals of the Opera Company, strangers…everyone seemed to adore her. Yet she only craved the approval from her Master. Only he understood how hard she had worked to get to this moment. Only he knew how much this triumph really meant. Together, they had worked so hard, rehearsing each song with agonizing detail and repetition. Yet the hours had flown by, even when he would be the cruelest of task masters. Her love of music combined with the steady presence of her teacher did not make practice a hardship but a pleasure. And as she had been on stage that night, she had no stage fright. All of those eyes upon her only added to the excitement and exhilaration of her passion. She knew that somewhere he was watching her. And she sang every song, every note, for him.

But his praise had been short lived when the Vicomte de Chagny came to visit her backstage, insisting that she join him for supper that evening.

How afraid she had been that her Master would leave her forever, abandoning her for her lack of discipline and faithfulness when her sights had been swayed by the dashing Vicomte. She pleaded with him to forgive her. To her surprise, he had not only found pity on her but appeared right before her eyes. Her Angel come down from the heavens for her!

When his masked figure appeared from out of nowhere to gaze at her from her mirror, a voice of sanity tried to implore her: Christine, get hold of yourself, this cannot be! Yet, she ignored that warning. This had been her invisible Angel who had been coaching her for months. Long ago, she resigned herself to the mysterious and the supernatural which could not be explained. Surely, coming for her out of her mirror could not be such an impossible feat for a true angel.

And how like a mysterious otherworldly figure he appeared with his intense eyes peering at her from the white mask, with his immaculate hair slicked back in precise perfection, with his handsome fine clothing of black! Had she ever seen anyone so compelling, so fascinating, so enigmatic as this apparition before her eyes? And had there ever been a moment as exciting as taking his gloved hand as he led her through the pathway of the mirror into the strange dark twisting labyrinth which seemed to go on forever?

Christine’s heart raced as she joined him on the strange journey. Her mind seemed drugged and fuzzy with a bizarre excitement as they continued deeper and deeper into the earth. So beside herself was she with euphoria that she was unaware that she was only dressed in a sheer dressing gown of the wispiest silk. She had already forgotten that Raoul de Chagny was awaiting on her for supper and might become concerned for her. She did not fathom the danger of joining a strange being to descend with him into an isolated world of darkness.

Her mind raced with questions. If he was an angel, why did he appear so human? Why did he wear a mask? Why was heaven underground instead of high up in the clouds? Yet she could barely feel lucid enough to try to discern the answers for herself.

Christine could recall very little of their journey, only bits and pieces. Everything had seemed so surreal and fuzzy to her. She could only recall glimpses of long passageways, of candles floating from the dark, of a boat in the mist. Yet the overwhelming memory was of their singing together in the dark.

Never had his voice been so beautiful and commanding as it had been as he took her down to his home. Nothing seemed to exist but that voice. With an unspoken demand, he ordered her to sing for him. She barely recognized the sensuous tones which exuded from her, barely even registered the words escaping from her lips in song. Together, their voices merged and entwined, twisting about wildly in the euphoric aftermath of their shared triumph. And she was helpless to do anything but ride the waves of their duet, straining to master each refrain, reaching higher and higher with her voice as he coaxed her to even greater heights. Whatever he asked of her, she would give and delight in the giving. She heard nothing but the sound of her trills, accompanied by his frantic gasps of pleasure. Yet still, he drove her on mercilessly until she cried out with a note she had never dreamed possible.

So intense had the experience been, she had almost fainted…

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“Angel!” Christine moaned, thrashing about in her sleep. “Angel!”

As awareness slowly came to her, she realized she had not slept long, only for a half hour or so. She had dreamed that she had once more sung with the Phantom in the darkness of the earth, still believing him to be her Angel of Music. And her body burned with that incessant need once more that she did not understand, a need which she was sure could never be fulfilled for her now.

With a moan, she buried her face underneath her pillow, trying once more to sleep, knowing that it would be a futile attempt.

Sometimes, the dreams were even worse than the nightmares…

And she knew that she would leave Paris. For she had to get away…far away from here…far away from Raoul and the Opera Populaire…and her memories of the Phantom of the Opera…
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Do I Dream Again?