Chanson de L’ange
(The Angel’s Song)
by Paisley Swan Stewart
(c) February 2005

A retelling of Gaston Leroux’s Phantom of The Opera;
Inspired by Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Musical;
And the performance of Gerard Butler

[link]


Prologue:

Looking back on the events of those early days, I concede it is only now
through adult eyes that I can even begin to describe what happened to me.
All childish innocence and ignorance have faded into sepia photographs,
hopelessly romanticized by the passing of time and my aging memory. The
girl I once was is little more than a stranger to me now, a far removed
shadow of the woman I am today.

I often wish I could have prepared and yes, even warned her about the events
which were to come... but even if I could have, would I? And would it have
changed anything...if she...if I had chosen differently, if I had understood
and known the truth? Or was I in some way destined to make that strange
journey, irresistibly drawn to him for a greater purpose than I could have
possibly imagined?

My woman’s heart willingly embraces the truth now... and I must tell it.
Though even after all these years it still threatens to split my soul
asunder... I must speak of it.

They say that pain is a patient teacher, that a wound burns and bleeds to
purge the body of life threatening infections. Pain is a warning against
danger and alerts one to escape further injury by avoiding the behavior
which causes the pain. If treated swiftly most flesh wounds heal over time,
perhaps leaving only the slightest scar, hardly visible.

But emotional pain is a vicious tearing force, capable of inflicting wounds
so deep that no balm, and no stitching of flesh together can ever bring
wholeness to the sufferer. These invisible scars mar more than the surface
of the skin, burrowing into the recesses of the mind and deforming every
pure intention. This pain paralyzes the soul and renders one the shell of a
human being, who desperately reaches out through a haze of devastation and
inconsolable grief for a reason to live.

No one knows for certain why some souls must endure unbearable pain and
suffering, whether self inflicted, or carelessly inflicted by others; why
some creatures are chosen for sorrow, and others destined for joy. We do
not choose our place or time in the world, nor can we change our past. Each
soul is blessed with the spirit of life, and with the ability to make the
best of what it is given. The ability to love or to hate; to heal or to
wound; to shed blood and draw the darkness of hell up into the world, or to
rise above the pain and the heartache, to fearlessly lift our eyes
heavenward.... and to make the music of angels.

Chapter 1
Orphan in Winter

The bleak sky hung gray and heavy, forecasting a winter storm. Barren trees
thick with ice, bent unnaturally in the silvery sheen of late afternoon, and
huge snow-dusted monuments encompassed the grave site. Ominous winged
angels, statues of saints, and mysterious creatures whose forms might have
turned to stone under enchantment, stood watch over the dead. Their hollow
eyes stared unblinking, their frozen hearts numb to my grief.

It was with acute emotional pain that I watched my father lowered into the
grave dug for his coffin. The wind whipped strands of hair against my cold
cheeks, and with a bouquet of red roses clutched in my gloved hand, I
watched in horror as darkness swallowed him whole. Shivering in my black
dress and heavy winter cloak, I tightly held to the hand of Madame Giry, a
woman I barely knew, whom father had chosen to be my guardian. Scriptures
spoken by the priest echoed eerily through the labyrinthine mausoleum, and
there my father would lie forever among those benevolent stargazers, whose
cold countenances made me shiver beyond the chill of the day.

A burial plaque was all that marked the thirty-seven years of my father’s
existence on earth; a stone marker with engraved name and dates, saying
nothing of the man who lay there. There was no mention of the life he had
lived, the places we had traveled or the music he had created with his
beloved violin. They don’t engrave those things on grave markers, for only
the memories of those left behind can truly tell the story of a life. My
father had been my only companion. He had been both father and mother to
me and his music would live in my heart forever, but on that winter
afternoon as I watched the ground steal him away, his beloved face began to
recede from my inner eye.

Memories of father playing gypsy melodies and the music of Mozart, drifted
through my mind as snow flurries began to swirl, and gazing upward I
squeezed my eyes closed whilst snowflakes melted on my lashes. Looking
down with an ambiguous expression, Madame Giry took my hand and led me to
the grave’s edge, where with vapored breath, Father Manning recited the last
scriptures. He spilt a handful of frozen earth over my father’s coffin,
and I flinched, wishing to cover my ears from the terrifying sound of dirt
thudding on the coffin lid. The few living souls attending the service
offered a final prayer, and Madame Giry instructed me to drop my roses into
the grave.

At only ten years of age, I could not comprehend the finality of death, or
understand how quickly a living being could be reduced to a six foot long
box in the ground. I wanted to throw myself down on the coffin, and beg God
to bring him back, but instead, I could only whisper goodbye as the roses
fell from my hand.

Father was lost to me and I slowly turned away, my eyes burning from tears
and the cold wind. With the sound of shovels piercing the frozen earth,
Madame Giry led me through the massive iron gate where we boarded the
carriage that would take me to my new home...the Paris Opera House.

The carriage wound its way down through cobbled streets and wide avenues.
Shops and markets were deserted and dark, but for a few beggars and
vagabonds who hovered in doorways out of the cold. The Christmas holiday
found families and merchants comfortable in their fire-lit homes, as a
winter storm gathered force. Bitter wind began to howl, sending brittle
leaves spiraling up into the air, while tree limbs crackled and frozen rain
pelted the already slick street.

“We are almost there, my dear,” Madame Giry spoke quietly.

I could feel her eyes on me, but kept my attention straight ahead and nodded
without speaking. Gently she tucked her hand under my chin and turned my
face toward her own, patting my wet eyes and cheeks with her cotton
handkerchief.

“I know how difficult it is for a child to lose a parent, Christine,” she
told me, “Gustave was a decent man and a wonderful father who will never be
replaced in your life.... but I promise I shall be good to you, and in time
you may even come to think of me as a mother, or at the very least... a
friend you can trust.”

Nodding my head I stared out the window and answered dutifully, “Yes,
Madame.”

“A mother.” I repeated within myself, fresh tears making silent pathways
down my cheeks.

Her words stung as I thought about my real mother and the mystery
surrounding her death. I knew only her beautiful name, Katrine Daae, and
that she had been born and raised in Paris. Father never spoke of her and
there had been no reminders of her in our Parisian apartment or our home in
Sweden. No photographs or mementos of Katrine Daae were among our family
treasures, and only a portrait of my father had been packed with my few
belongings in a small suitcase, now on its way to my new home.

I had been told mother passed away shortly after I was born, but beyond
that, I had no knowledge of where she was buried or how she had died. Late
at night when he thought I was sleeping, I often heard father playing his
violin; lovely gypsy melodies that were both beautiful and melancholy. I
used to wonder what could have been the source of so much beauty and sorrow,
and I would lie in my bed listening, comforted by the violin’s haunting
sound. Father had promised that when I was older, he would tell me more
about my mother, but as our carriage journeyed to the Opera House district,
now that he was gone, I feared never knowing her story.

I held my breath as the horses trotted up to the largest and most beautiful
building I had ever seen. Father and I had traveled extensively before
coming to settle in Paris. Our travels had taken us to great cities
throughout Europe and Scandinavia, but Paris boasted some of the finest
architecture in the world, and this ornate structure was the crown of
Parisian artistry and skill. Blinking my eyes, I craned my neck, placing
the palms of my gloved hands on the window.

Corinthian columns framed the building’s massive entrance and supported the
arches of the theater’s dome. Wreathed by engravings of flowers and
cherubim, the arches were suspended between earth and sky. Voluptuous bare
breasted angels perched atop the highest edifices, seeming to have dropped
down from heaven to grace the world of men, and stone gargoyles crouched in
the shadowed archways, as if they had crawled up from deepest hell. Webbed
bat’s wings wrapped around their grotesque forms, revealing only a glimpse
of malevolent mouths and eyes.

In time I would come to learn that angels and demons both shared
guardianship over that magnificent palace, a garish monument to music and
humanity. Both light and darkness sought influence in the comedies and
tragedies of the souls who inhabited the Opera House, where the human
condition was little more than a drama, played out on a stage of choices.

Humans could embrace the light within themselves, or be seduced by the
hissing caress of darkness. Each soul was subject to dreams and desires
which led to eternal life and joy, or to disaster and damnation. I couldn’t
help feeling that I was being thrust into this drama, and that forces were
gathering around me to determine the direction of my life once I walked
through those doors.

Snow was steadily falling as we pulled to a stop, and Madame placed her hand
on my knee, pointing up to the roof, “If you like, Christine, my daughter
will take you to see the statue of Apollo.” she said, trying to engage me in
conversation, but as I looked up to the gigantic figure who overhung the
very pinnacle of the Opera’s roof, I could only stare in silence, feeling
powerless and afraid of the forces that now held my life in the balance. My
fate was being decided.

Madame Giry took my hand as the driver assisted us down from the carriage.
My father’s violin case and my bags were carried up the granite staircase by
a porter, while the driver tipped his hat and waved us away.

With each step toward the grand entrance, dread inched icily up my spine.
Dark and nearly deserted, only a small staff of maids and chamberlains had
been left behind to oversee the building. The Opera was closed over
Christmas, until it would open again on New Years Eve for the annual Bal
Masque. With dreary daylight giving way to winter gloom, gas lamps and
torches were lit on the grounds, and I clung to to Madame Giry’s hand as
she led me up the snowy stairs, “Tomorrow you shall have the grand tour of
our lovely lady,” she smiled, “But for now, we must get you settled in your
room.”

With the opening of the massive doors, I drew in a sharp breath as we
entered the grand Foyer. Only a few lamps reflected and sparkled across the
marble and golden surfaces, but even in near darkness, the beauty and size
of the place were spectacular. From the main floor, we proceeded to the
left of the grand double staircase, and entered a long narrow corridor which
took us to the very back of the building, and to a plain wooden door.
Madame pulled a set of large keys from her handbag and with a quick twist of
the key, the door opened into yet another narrow and gloomy hallway. I was
immediately struck by the contrast between this quarter of the building and
the Grand Foyer. Whereas the Foyer sparkled with Parisian wealth and
luxury, I could sense the oldness of these corridors, the musty odors of
stone and damp souring my senses.

Taking an oil lamp from a bracket seated in the wall, Madame held my hand as
we wound our way down a flight of stairs. Her silk skirts and woolen cloak
brushed the walls as the porter followed behind with my belongings. The
stairway curved downward with rough stone walls on either side, giving me
the sense that I was making a descent into an ancient castle. Reaching the
bottom stair, Madame smiled and tugged on my hand gently as we looked down a
long stretch of wooden doors, each painted a different color.

“This is the dormitory wing, where you’ll be staying, Christine... just a
few doors down from my apartment.” she said, guiding me to the end of the
hall where a torch flared and smoked, casting long shadows across the
plaster ceiling.

The hallway was mostly quiet, with only the sound of muffled wind greeting
our arrival at a rose colored wooden door. “I chose this room especially
for you, Christine,” Madame informed me cheerfully, slipping a key in the
padlock. “Most of our girls must share common quarters, but now that I am
your guardian, I’ve made arrangements for you to have your own room, close
to mine.”

She led me into a small room furnished with a coal burning stove glowing
from the corner; a single bed draped in layers of quilts, with a pink lace
coverlet over top. A small chest of drawers, a cedar trunk, and a stuffed
armchair upholstered in worn damask fabric, filled out the the modest but
homey furnishings. A rose patterned carpet lay atop the wooden floorboards,
and a rose colored stained glass window embellished with brass fittings, was
set high in the wall above the bureau.

As an only child, I had always slept in my own bed, even if it was in
makeshift quarters behind the kitchen pantry, or my own little corner of our
small apartment. I was thankful for a room of my very own, fearful that I
might not be welcomed by other children, and wishing to be left alone.
Though it wasn’t fancy or richly appointed, my Opera House room was inviting
and cosy, and I was tired from the dreary day, longing to unpack my things
and crawl beneath the covers. I sat down on the foot of the bed yawning
repeatedly, as the porter deposited my suitcase and violin on the floor.

“What do you think, my dear.... will it do for now?” Madame asked, seating
herself beside me.

Gazing about the room with another yawn, I nodded my head and whispered
wearily, “It is very nice, Madame. Thank you.”

The room’s one truly remarkable feature was the floor length mirror which
dominated the wall opposite the bed. With its unusual size and golden
embellishments, the mirror seemed an odd fit to the room’s shabby and
girlish decor, but I could not take my eyes off the reflective glass.
Flickering light reflected in the mirror, and strange shadows danced on the
sloped ceiling and across the floor.

While I continued to gaze at the entrancing mirror the porter took his leave
closing the door behind him, as Madame helped me remove my boots, hooded
cloak, and dress. I was as emotionless and obedient as an automaton, when
she opened my suitcase and pulled out my night clothes, slipping the
nightgown over my head.

“I see you’ve noticed the mirror Christine,“ she spoke soothingly, doing up
the little buttons at the back of my nightgown as I pulled off my stockings.
“It is very old, and has been hanging somewhere in this Opera House since
before the ballet dorms were added many years ago. This room was mine when I
was just a few years older than you Christine.” she explained, rising up
from the bed, and walking gracefully across the carpet. Caressing the
golden frame, her slender fingers slid along the detailed leaf and vine
carvings, and she glanced back at me, speaking with a hushed voice, “I used
to dance before this very mirror for hours at a time.” she said wistfully.
“You will find many mirrors in the opera house, Christine, but this is one
of my favorites.”

“It is beautiful,” I answered sleepily. My eyes feeling heavy, I dangled
my legs over the side of the bed and asked her, ”But Madame, why do I need
such a big mirror?”

There was something unsettling about this mirror, and I wasn’t at all
certain I wanted those strange reflections and shadows looming over my
sleep. Gliding back to my bedside, Madame unbuttoned and shrugged off her
heavy coat, draping it across the footboard.

Turning down the blankets, she answered my question with a patient sigh,
then began unpacking my cases, and storing my clothing in the bureau.
“Christine, my dear,“ she she said as she emptied a carpet bag, “It was
your father’s wish that you master all the performing arts under my care.
You will be a student of dance, of voice and of theater, and one day if you
work very hard, you may even perform with the Opera company.”

I looked up wide-eyed, my mouth gaping open and simply unable to grasp her
words. At only ten years old, I could not imagine how I would ever fulfill
father’s wishes. Without him, the very notion of performing was impossible.
My only thoughts were of his loss, and not of a future where he was no
longer a part of my life. Slumping my shoulders and folding my hands in my
lap, I tried not to cry, staring at the rose designs woven into the rug.

“A dancer must have a mirror child, and a great singer must observe her
reflection while she sings.” Madame instructed, as I puzzled over her words.
It was in that moment when I began to realize just how different my life
would be in the Opera House. I had never even been to an actual opera, and
now I was being groomed as a professional singer. Performing with father at
country fairs and in small concert halls was far less intimidating than what
Madame spoke of. I had always loved singing with my father on those small
stages for farmers and merchants, but what would it be like singing on a
real stage with lights and a large audience? The very thought terrified me.

Sitting down beside me, Madame unwound my braids, combing her fingers
through the length of my hair, as I closed my eyes and leaned my head back
with each gentle tug. Removing a hair brush from a drawer in the bureau,
she brushed out the tangles, and I found comfort in the feeling of her hands
on my scalp and neck. Separating my hair into equal sections, she expertly
combed my chestnut waves until they shone, and again my eyes drifted back to
the mirror and our reflection.; myself and the strange woman who would now
be a mother to me.

Following my gaze, Madame Giry remarked breathlessly, “Mirrors are
enchanting things are they not my dear? One could almost believe them
magical,“ she sighed, twisting my hair into two new braids, and fastening
them with ribbons. “Well I expect that is because they are often depicted as
such in myths and stories.” she added, tying the ribbons into bows.

I looked up at her face, fascinated by her unusual features and startling
posture. Even when sitting, Madame’s spine was perfectly straight, her
shoulders back and chin erect. She seemed never to slouch, and when she
walked across a room, there was no hesitancy or clumsy bounce in her fluid
movements. Following our move to Paris, I had seen her from time to time in
our apartments, but I had never actually been bold enough to observe her
beauty. Now with her close proximity, I studied her physical appearance
with interest and curiosity. Her hazel eyes were kind and mysterious, and
reminded me very much of the tabby cat owned by Madame Valleria, father’s
wealthy patroness. Madame Giry’s eyes appeared either green or golden,
depending on the color she wore. Her ivory complexion and high forehead
were smooth and luminous in the room’s soft glow, making her appear younger
than her twenty-nine years. A thick braid trailed gracefully down her back,
its rich auburn color accentuating her feline features.

She smiled at me and set the brush on my nightstand, as I pulled my feet up
onto the bed. “Christine, would you like tea before you go to sleep?” she
asked kindly, cradling my cheek with her hand.

Shaking my head, I drew my knees up to my chest. Although I had eaten very
little in the past two days, my stomach felt oddly full, “No thank you,
Madame, I am not hungry at all.” I answered.

“That is understandable, dear,” she replied with a single nod “I will bring
your breakfast in the morning, and after you’ve had time to adjust, you will
take your meals with my daughter and I in the dining hall.”

Slipping my toes under the heavy quilts, I lay my head back against the
pillow, grateful for the bed’s warmth as my legs stretched under the soft
layers. Madame pulled the blankets up to my chin and bent over me with a
kiss on my forehead.

“You’ll see,“ she said, pulling matches from her pocket, and lighting the
oil lamp on the bureau, “You will be happy here, and tomorrow Christine, you
shall meet my daughter Meg.”

When I did not immediately reply, she stood regarding me for a few moments
then turned into the doorway. “Good night my dear,“ she said over her
shoulder, as she gathered her cloak, took up her lamp and tiptoed across the
rug, “If you need me, I am just down the hall, mine is the blue door on
the right.”

“Good night, Madame” I answered yawning and rubbing my eyes.

With the soft rustling of silk, the door closed behind her, and I was alone
in my strange new room, in a strange and frightening place. The room was
deathly quiet, and I lay with the blankets pulled up to my chin, trying not
to look at the mirror. I considered bolting out the door to Madame’s
apartment, but I did not wish anyone to know how truly frightened I was.
How would it look if I cried out for Madame on my very first night, I would
surely shame my father, who had taught me to look after myself. With all
our moves and travels to foreign cities and villages, I had often slept in
strange houses, and sometimes we even camped out of doors. Surely I was
grown up enough to stay in this room on my own.

But the terror of the moment and the weight of the day’s nightmarish events
suddenly bore down on me like the heavy lid of father’s coffin. My heart
pounding, I could scarcely breathe and jolted upright, throwing back the
blankets in a panic. Panting breaths came hard and fast, and I clutched my
arms around my body, as the memory of father’s death rose up in my mind.

Pain gripped my belly, and I gagged back the meager contents of my churning
stomach. Tears stung my eyes and flowed in a sticky mess, as I sobbed
violently, rocking back and forth on the bed until the neck of my night gown
was soaked through. I couldn’t comprehend that father was gone. So quickly
he had taken to his bed with fever, his violin ignored for days as Madame
Giry brought a succession of physicians to his bedside.

To no avail potions were poured down his throat and herbal tinctures rubbed
over his feverish flesh. Day by day I watched him change from my strong and
handsome father, into someone I did not recognize. In the hours before his
death they allowed me into his sick room where he lay on the bed dressed
only in his nightshirt, shriveled and dusky, his once handsome face gaunt
and his eyes sunken, his lips drawn back and his teeth yellowed. With short
gasping breaths his frail hands clasping the sheets, he gestured for me to
approach. Oily sweat coated his skin, and he barely knew me; losing
consciousness, and then rising up from the death throes just long enough to
gurgle my name. His voice was so weak that I had to put my ear to his
mouth, and his breath wreaked of death.

“Ch...st...ine, I....will not leave...you alone.” he panted, a strange
sucking sound in the back of his throat.

I could only lay across his chest, my little hands clutching his face,
begging him not to leave me.

“apa...please don’t die...” I whimpered. “lease don’t leave me!”

“I promise.” he forced between violent gasps, “I ...will send the
angel...remember the angel.”

“But I don’t want an angel...I want you to stay here with me.” I cried,
holding onto him in desperation and fear. Burying my face in his
nightshirt, not caring that he was unwashed and sweaty, I prayed for God to
let him stay. I didn’t want an angel, I wanted father to get better, to
leave his bed and again play his violin. I wanted him to eat meals with me,
to sing with me and tell stories like we used to.

What good was an angel? No angel, no matter how holy or beautiful could
ever take the place of my father. I had heard the legend many times, the
story of the Angel of Music who appeared only to the most deserving of
souls. The legend taught that the Angel of Music was sent from heaven to
watch over those children who had been given the gift of music. Father
explained that it was the angel’s duty to protect and nurture that sacred
gift. The angel was never visible to the child, and often appeared when
least expected. If a child was lost and heartbroken, the angel would come
to comfort her. Suddenly his celestial voice not of this world, would call
out in the night when the child was sleeping. Father said that those who
were visited by the Angel would experience an ecstasy unknown to the rest of
mankind, but proud and foolish children were denied visitation because they
were not found worthy. Only the humble and the gentle were blessed by the
angel’s holy presence.

I imagined the Angel of Music to look like the stained glass seraphim in the
chapel windows; with flowing robes, white swans wings, and golden hair...
but I only wanted my father’s gentle brown eyes and soft dark hair. His
tattered work clothes and his calloused fingers were more to me than any
angel’s crown.

“I don’t want an angel,” I repeated stubbornly, “I want you, papa... please
don’t go away.”

Father moaned and writhed in the bed, as Madame Giry tried to comfort me. He
drifted in and out of consciousness for another hour, intermittently opening
his glazed eyes and twitching violently. They wiped his brow and parched
lips with a cool cloth, while I hovered in the corner, Madame’s arms wrapped
tightly about my body.

Finally with a shattering wail, arching his back in rigid spasms, he called
out my name! I ran to his bed, and he took hold of my hands, looking into
my eyes for the last time.

“I love you Chris...”

And then he fell back on the mattress, his body going limp, the muscles and
lines of his face became relaxed and smooth, as if he were only sleeping. I
waited, expecting him to move... watching for the breath to raise up his
chest.... but he never moved again. The only sounds in the room were my
sobbing and a ticking clock. I lay across his chest for some moments
clinging to him, listening for that familiar thrum of blood and life pumping
through his body... but there was nothing.

A mysterious dark power had taken my father to a place where I could not
follow, and my grief was unbearable as I clung to his cooling body. Madame
Giry came up from behind me and placed her hands gently on my shoulders.

“You must let him go Christine,” she implored, “Your father is in God’s
hands now.”

“apa!” I wailed in the memory, papa!”

“Father,” I cried aloud in my Opera House room.

The grief was all too real, the memories too sharp. I could not bear it.

Sobbing and choking, I slipped off the warm bed and knelt on the floor,
folding my hands in prayer as I had done nightly throughout my childhood.
But he had always been at my side, waiting to tuck me in and kiss me
goodnight. Now he was gone and who would hear my prayers? I believed in
God, but on that night even God seemed too far away to hear the longings of
a frightened child.

“Dear God, please let me hear his voice again,” I begged.

My prayer was met with silence as I awaited a reply, but only the moaning
wind met my plea. I had never felt so lost and alone.

“I’m afraid.” I cried. “Oh papa, I’m so scared.”

With all the loneliness of the world crashing down around me, I knelt on the
floor until my legs ached and grew stiff with the cold. I sobbed into my
hands when no one answered, drawing my knees up to my chest, trying to
stifle my tears in the sleeve of my gown so no one would hear.