While Lotte is a die-hard member of the "Christine should have married the Phantom" group, she has written fanfic in favor of Raoul marrying Christine, and that is the only reason it's under Raoul-Lovers.
"Who is that girl, Philip?"
"Who is who?" asked 22-year-old Philip de Chagny, looking up from the paper to see his 14-year-old brother, wet and sandy and slightly sunburned, standing before him.
"That girl--down there," said Raoul, pointing a pretty little girl under an umbrella.
"How should I know?"
"She�s here every day! Her father plays the violin, and she sings with him. They�re poor. People throw them money."
"I haven�t the foggiest idea who she OR her father is." Returning to his paper, Philip added absently, "And frankly, I don�t care."
"Give me my allowance a day early. Please, Phil?"
Philip rolled his eyes. "What are you going to do with it? Throw it to the paupers?"
"Phil!"
"No. I consider that a waste of money."
"Philip! They need it!"
"No. That�s my final answer."
Raoul flopped into the sand and started working his hands in it, disgust and indignant anger painted across his face. The nerve of his brother--to refuse to let him use his allowance to help somebody! Of all injustices, this had to be the worst!
After a moment, Raoul got up and headed down the beach towards the umbrella. The father was fiddling away to his daughter, who sat by his feet singing. Rich, thick, dark curls cascaded over her shoulders and her voice was high and silvery.
"Excuse me," Raoul said as the song ended. The girl looked up in surprise. "But that was beautiful!"
"Thank you," said the daughter, stealing around behind her father shyly. The man only nodded, smiling.
"I watch you two every day. What are your names?"
"I�m called Daa�," said the man. "This is my daughter, Christine," he added, as she seemed hesitant and inclined not to speak.
Wondering desperately what to say, Raoul noted, "That�s a lovely violin you have there, sir."
Daa� smiled. "I call it Phantasm Phiddle. Handmade in Sweden."
"Won�t you play some more?" begged young Chagny.
"Oh no, Father," the girl pleaded. "It�s late, and I�m hungry. Can�t we go?"
"I suppose so. Will you be back tomorrow...uh..."
"My apologies!" Raoul cried, mortified. "I didn�t even introduce MYSELF! I�m Raoul de Chagny."
"Yes, Raoul, will you be back tomorrow?"
"I hope so, sir!"
"Then we�ll perform tomorrow. Come along, Chrissy. Goodbye, Raoul!"
But the next day it rained...and the next and the next. Cooped up inside with only Phil, Raoul grew restless and longed to see the Daa�s again. But, even on the fourth and succeeding days, when she did go to the beach, she did not sing and her father did not fiddle. Worse still, she fled when Raoul got near her and her father soon followed.
"Phil, what can I do?!" cried a tormented Raoul one day, a week and a half after first meeting the Daa�s. "I want to get to know her--ah, THEM!--and yet they persistently run away! Am I that ugly?"
Phil laughed. "I dare say."
"Philip!!"
"The girl is shy, Bro. Leave her alone."
"We�re the only two kids on this beach. You�d think we�d have SOMETHING in common, if only boredom!"
"Write her a note."
"Phil!"
"Fine, then. I�m out of suggestions."
The next afternoon, Phillip felt sick, and Raoul went out to the beach alone. On a dune about 200 feet away stood Christine Daa�. She was gazing out across the sea as if searching for something miles away. She wore a light blue dress with a red scarf around her shoulders, and the gentle breeze floated her hair about her face and her skirt lightly around her ankles. Against the sun-setting clouds, she looked like a picture...only prettier.
"Of all frustrating things!" thought the little Chagny. She didn�t even see him...she just stared out across the ocean, seeming lost to the world.
Raoul turned to go back to the hotel, feeling sure that if she saw him she would run away, and he didn�t want to spoil the postcard image she had created in his mind. He hadn�t come far, however, before he heard a terrified shriek carried to him on a sudden strong breeze.
Half-hoping she was drowning (so he could rescue her), he dashed back towards the beach. To his relief (although slight disappointment), she was still standing on the dune...though now she was crying pathetically. Raoul frowned. She wasn�t hurt, but something was different. The scarf! It wasn�t around her! Poor girl! She must be freezing!
Raoul ran to the sobbing girl, jerking off his coat and draping it around her. "Don�t cry, Christine," he begged. "My coat�s really warm! Here, wear it."
Christine drew away and moaned, "My scarf! Oh, it�s gone! My poor scarf! Lost..."
Raoul looked out at the water. The receding waves were drawing it out to deeper water...he couldn�t just stand there and watch! She wanted her scarf, so he�d GET her that scarf!
He lit off across the sand, running like greased lightning. Into the icy water he leaped, paddling as soon as the waves were high enough. The hissing, sizzling water beat wave after wave against him and tried extremely hard to drown him, but Raoul was a good swimmer, AND he had a desperate mission to accomplish!
The scarf bobbed up and down with the current, elusively dodging him. But at least, he seized it and began kicking for shore. Now the waves seemed to wash him back, and violently spit him on the sand.
"My scarf!" cried Christine, gleefully running to help wet, sandy, gritty, freezing, exhausted Raoul to his feet. "You saved it! Thank you SO much! But you�re cold! Come get warm at our place. Father will play the violin and we�ll sing, then he�ll tell us stories... He knows the most delightful tales about the Angel of Music! And we can make popcorn..."
Raoul wrung the water out of the scarf as he reflected. He was freezing on the outside, but inside he was warm and cozy, and it looked like he at last had Christine for a friend.
