Phantom of the Opera The Life and Death of Christine de Chagny

The Books of the Life and Death of Christine de Chagny

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera.In addition,this paper is a work in progress. Negative comments are extremely appreciated so long as they do not criticize the plot (which I happen to like and will not alter.) Please critique my historical accuracy: I want to make this the best that I can make it. Thank you.

Forward:

There was no reason why Christine should not be happy. She had a loving husband, a comfortable home, good friends, talent, and work enough before her to keep her busy with the toil of life. So why should she relinquish it? That is the question. Because we know that she does. In our minds is the insistence that she go back, that she return to him. To darkness. To death. Why would someone want that? I set myself the challenge of finding the reason that we all knew must exist. I could feel a truth out in the abyss waiting for me as I chased one Christine down a path only to find that it was a false Christine after all. She flickered before me as if reflected by the endless spinning of a mirror on its edge, and there were a hundred Christines laughing and then gone. Like a blind woman I grouped for her, and finally found something that might be called Christine. This is her tale.

Chapter 1: Death

Doctor Lennartsson rode through the snowy woods of Röstånga at a brisk pace, his breath forming quick bursts of white clouds in the moonlight that disappeared in the dark. He was not going far, and yet he carefully kept his horse to the path, for this area of the village was one that he visited but rarely, being a little out of the way. The Ménard's house was set back from the rest of town, nearly into the heart of the forest itself rather in the valley. It had been built by an eccentric inventor years earlier who had died childless and without kin, and consequently the town took possession of his house and property upon his death. However no one had wanted to live so far from the center of town, and the villagers had bided their time many months before the borgmästare had received word that there was a young Frenchman looking to buy. He had his doubts, not being overly fond of the French, but the man himself and his wife had come personally come to his house to discuss the matter. He was won over by their gentle unassuming manners and after only a few meetings more Ménard had secured the property. Everybody had been astonished that so young a couple would want to take the small secluded home, but the wives of Röstånga only nodded their headings knowingly: young people would have their whims, and in a few years doubtlessly they would grow sick of such retirement.

Three years' time had proved them wrong, and yet they had not produced much more general knowledge of the couple than three day's after their arrival had done. They kept almost completely to themselves. Hardly anybody had spoken with them beyond the usual pleasantries which commerce necessitates, and nobody was intimate with them. However there was nothing slangy in their ways: the man especially had such easy genteel manners that he had obviously been well bred, a suspicion confirmed by the clear evidence of his independent wealth. Where it came from nobody knew, though the postmaster noted that Hr. Ménard received regular letters from a solicitor's company in Paris. They were occasionally seen at town festivities, but did not really mingle with anybody. The inhabitants could only shrug their shoulders at the ways of such foreigners, but the couple remained more or less well liked despite their oddness.

It had become obvious to everybody a few months ago that the young woman was expecting: an event that had turned the two introverts slightly more open to society. Hr Ménard had hired Lukas Svensson's daughter to assist his wife in addition to the French manservant and housekeeper they already employed. Sonja Svensson reported them to be everything that was congenial and friendly. "They're like two children they are together. They read so many books - books upon books - all fairy tales! Hr Ménard has the most gentle way about his wife: you can tell that he worships the very ground she walks upon." What was more, the young Sonja swore that the woman sang more beautifully than anybody she had ever known. "'Tis like angels' voices echoing in the house when she is baking. The first time I heard it I was stopped in my tracks. She only hums softly sometimes but it is as if heaven were whispering in my ears." Nobody really took Sonja seriously: she was an excitable girl. However, as Fru Ménard grew more pregnant the young couple started preparing for a baby, and now Hr Ménard could be seen jovially almost skipping into town, ordering small things for his wife, anything that he thought she would like. He joked with the shopkeepers, he invited them and their families to tea and the families came. No one had ever seen the couple looking so well - Fru Ménard positively glowed. Everyone offered their assistance and quite a few women contributed swaddling cloths and clothes for the child. But the old wives of the town shook their heads: one should never give anything to a child who has not yet been born.

Doctor Lennartsson had been called to the Ménard's house in the last few weeks to check upon the expectant's mother's condition, and he found everything normal, save the unusually petite body of the mother was a bit more swollen than was typical. He knew that the child was due any day now. He had warned the Ménards to keep a midwife alert for the time when the child was to come.

In the middle of this night Doctor Lennartsson and his wife had been awoken by somebody banging on the door downstairs. It was Herr Ménard's manservant. He begged the doctor to come as quickly as possible: Fru Ménard was in labor and very unwell. Doctor Ménard had told him to fetch the midwife at once, and he proceeded to dress as rapidly as possible and set off on his horse. Now riding he quickened his pace: he could see the lights of the Ménard's house growing stronger in the distance. The moon shone in the new fallen snow which was churning dust beneath the horse's feet. He checked his steed: he had reached their home. He was glad to see that Herr Ménard's horse was also there: the manservant had evidently returned with the midwife. Doctor Lennartsson knocked on the door.

Herr Ménard opened the door immediately, and Doctor Lennartsson clearly saw the panic that was written upon his face. "Something is wrong: the baby won't come and Christine is in terrible pain," trembled Ménard. Ménard must have been so worried that he did not even invite the doctor inside: Lennartsson entered the house at once without being asked and hung up his own coat on the rack. "Let me see her," he said.

Seven hours later Christine gave birth to a baby girl. Or to what would have been called a baby girl had she been born alive.

Four hours after Doctor Lennartsson had arrived he had thought that both mother and child would surely die: the baby was coming feet first and the strain was too much for her small mother. He told Herr Ménard that he had been lucky that his wife had survived the ordeal. Ménard had looked at him with red, incredulous eyes. "Lucky?" he whispered. "You think that this was lucky?" Doctor Lennartsson had gently told him the facts: most women lose at least one child, and that the first birth was the hardest one. "God will give you another chance. Have faith. The Lord will guard the soul of your lost child for you in heaven." He had hoped as he said the words that the young man would believe him, though he knew from experience (and having lost his own son) that it was nearly impossible to believe that anything good would happen when all of your hopes had died.

The doctor did not return to his home until the second day's afternoon, sleeping in the Ménard's a few hours and tending carefully to the mother, who remained in grave danger for a day more. When he was convinced that she had passed the most serious stage he ventured home to collapse and barely change his shirt before returning. Fru Ménard's state was a little better: he had left careful instructions which were all followed to the letter. In a week's time her body was on the road to recovery mercifully without any signs of infection. Doctor Lennartsson almost lived at their house during this time. It became obvious to him that Fru Ménard would survive more than a few weeks: she would probably make a complete recovery. This was little consolation to her though, as he tried to cheer the spirits of the husband she did not speak a single word the entire time he stayed with them.

Herr Ménard fared very badly during his wife's illness. He tried to put all of his effort into caring for her, but Doctor Lennartsson could see that he was heartbroken. As he left, promising to come back at least once a week to monitor Fru Ménard's improvement, he encouraged the young man not to be alone under any circumstances. Doctor Ménard's wife visited them regularly, but she saw that Herr Ménard was distracted and sad, and Fru Ménard almost numb with grief. They insisted upon burying the child's body in the graveyard of Röstånga with a quiet solemn ceremony by the town priest, something totally outrageous by the standards of the villagers. They even gave their child a name: Adèle. Doctor Lennartsson practically forced Herr Ménard to contact any remaining family he might have and urge them to visit. In a week's time two Frenchwomen traveling only with a single servant came into town to stay with the Ménards. Sonja, who was still with the family, reported that the ladies only spoke French, and that Herr Ménard only addressed them by their first names even in her presence. Although he said that they were his sisters this was very strange: he told Sonja also to only address them by their first names, even though their clothes betrayed wealth that their meager means of travel did not. They stayed for three weeks before leaving. The Doctor and his wife wished for Fru and Herr Ménard's sake that they would go with them, knowing the dangers of being alone. Yet Doctor Lennartsson had other patients to attend to, and they could do little more than urge others in the town to visit them despite any coldness they might be received with. The townspeople, who were really warm and sympathetic at heart, reached out to the young pair as best as they could. Few had not known someone in their own families who had lost a child at birth. Herr Ménard seemed to gradually recover his spirits, but his wife did not. On the outside she smiled, she poured tea, she engaged in conversation, but something hollow seemed to take up the blackness within his eyes. Sonja Svensson, dismissed at last from her position, said sadly that she no longer sang.

The snow melted into cold rain which dewed the new leaves in the warming earth, and in the church graveyard a little mound of earth grew trails of grass upon it. In a house near the woods, a young man and his wife carefully put away clothes for children that would never run about the trees in Skåne.


End file.
