Page 80 of Our Strange Duet

Raoul rose dutifully, but before he could assist either of us from our chairs, Madame de Chagny waved his offer aside.

“Why don’t you go on upstairs, my dear? You must be beyond exhausted with all your travels.”

“Thank you, Mother. I rather am. Christine?” He tilted his head to the hallway for me to join him.

“Miss Daaé and I actually have a few things to discuss.”

Raoul paused, clutching the back of his chair and looking torn.

“Nothing of interest to you, I promise,” Madame de Chagny continued, seeing her son’s hesitation. “I want to make sure she’s well prepared for tomorrow with the proper gown, jewelry, you know. We’ll be introducing her to all our friends…We want to be certain Miss Daaé has all she needs to sparkle.”

Raoul raised a hand, touching it to his chest. “Very thoughtful, Mother. Thank you.” He left after bidding both of us good night. I received a kiss on my forehead, his mother one on her cheek.

“I think we ought to adjourn to the sitting room, don’t you, Miss Daaé?” she asked once he’d gone.

“That…that would be lovely,” I said, struggling to find my voice.

I followed after her as a team of servants hurried into the room and began clearing away the last of the dinner. They moved about in a familiar routine, a ballet of practiced efficiency, extinguishing candles, scooping up cutlery, and never making eye contact with either of us.

Madame de Chagny led me down a long corridor. We passed by rooms filled with tufted chaise lounges and towering wingback chairs, easels holding exquisitely rendered oil paintings, and a stronghold of drapes and curtains, all trimmed with thick satin cording. It was dizzying to see the full magnitude of the de Chagny wealth on display.

I knew, instinctively, that it was not my gown Raoul’s mother wanted to discuss. She’d been appraising me with sharp eyes since we’d arrived, and I was certain she’d now finalized her assessment of me.

“You can call me Christine,” I said as we entered a little parlor, rushing to set an air of friendliness between us. With Raoul upstairs, my protective buffer was gone, and I felt hopelessly out of my depth.

The walls were covered in more blue florals—flocked wallpaper this time—and above a marble fireplace hung a massive portrait of a young man who looked so much like Raoul I knew it must be his father.

“I’m certain I can,” Madame de Chagny began as she selected a cornflower-hued bergère chair. “But I don’t believe I shall.”

My stomach roiled, and I resisted the urge to press a steadying hand to it. I felt compelled to fill the silence with apologies or lists of my attributes, with assurances that I adored her son and was not scheming to marry myself into a family so high above my own station.

An idea took shape in my mind, and I hurried to carry it out before she could dash any possible chance of me winning her over.

“We’ve met before,” I began. “Well…almost. I’m certain you don’t remember me, but I think you would my father. Gustave Daaé? He was—”

“The violinist,” she supplied, her eyes drifting past my shoulder as if watching that long-ago summer play out. “At the café in Deauville. He was…he was quite talented.”

I nodded with pride. “He was a wonder. I…I want to set your mind at ease. I know my arrival here was a surprise. I’m not sure what Raoul has told you about me, about us,” I said, spinning his engagement ring round my finger with a nervous energy I hated myself for. “But I want you to know that I love your son. I love everything about him. His smile. His kindness. His good heart. I’d love him regardless of who he was. If he were a grocer or butcher or even a stagehand at the theatre, I’d love him. And I want to assure you that I’m just like my father. I plan to work, to sing. I don’t want you to think that I can’t take care of myself or that I’m using Raoul for…whatever. I’m not. He’s been wonderfully generous to me, but once the opera reopens and things return to normal, I intend to go back to work. My life isn’t going to completely change just because I marry Raoul. I…I thought you should know that.”

With my piece said, I sat down, fingers twined through each other with painful ferocity.

Madame de Chagny studied me. I couldn’t begin to guess what thoughts were going through her mind. Her blue eyes were flat and unreadable. She opened her mouth, but then abruptly closed it, as if reconsidering her words.

Oddly, the longer she went without speaking, the more the ache in my stomach lessened, and I dared to think I had won her over. She now understood who I was and what I was about. We were much the same, she and I. Since her husband’s death, she’d become an independent woman, running the estate until her son decided to return and take it over.

And now she knew how much I cared for Raoul. Surely that had to set her heart at ease.

In time, perhaps she’d come to care that much for me. I fancied she might even embrace me now, a welcome addition to her family, pleased to finally have a daughter of her own.

“You little fool,” she spat out instead, surprising me with both her words and the fury behind them. “Did you imagine that was something I’d relish listening to? Did you think that would reassure me? That I’d celebrate such a laughable declaration?” She let out a harsh tfft, silencing any inclination I might have had to answer. “You’re going to marry my son, become the vicomtesse”—here she snorted; she actually snorted!—“and continue to work? As an opera singer, no less?” She shook her head, her composure completely broken, as tears of amusement welled in the corners of her eyes. She wiped them aside with an elegant hand. “Do you even hear the absurdity of what you said?”

“I—”

“You don’t,” she snapped, steamrolling over the words which would not come out of me. “I can see it as clearly as the dim-witted expression painted across your face. You’ve no idea what it takes to be part of his world, the things you’ll need to know, the things you’ll need to do. Not just for him, but for the estate, for our legacy. Do you know how many centuries of traditions we de Chagnys uphold? Do you comprehend the weight and privilege of our title? The responsibility? The commitment?”

“I do,” I promised, racing to get the words out.

“You don’t,” she disagreed. “Otherwise, you’d never suggest such nonsense. Imagine, trying to run a household such as ours from a dressing room in Paris. Imagine, strutting about the stage, pregnant with Raoul’s heir. It’s clear to me you do not belong here, Miss Daaé. You may have blinded my son with your wiles and charms, but you will not pull the wool over my eyes. I see you. I see everything about you.”