To begin, the odd affair with Lady Blakeney seemed to trigger six months worth of long, hard, and might I add, dangerous cases, most of which brought me closer and closer to scrapes with death. Some of my most marvelous cases took place in that six months, but my companion, Dr. Dawson, seemed determined to put a stop to such adventures. For health’s sake, he prescribed a vacation to some other country while he remained in England to see to affairs. In general, I find holidays to be extremely boring. After all, what are they for? They were created so you don’t do anything. And what could be more dull than that?

With the restoration of the monarchy, heads cooled in France considerably, and it was there that the good doctor sent me. Paris, specifically. However, neither of us knew what awaited me there. For one reason or another, France seems to generate fantastic, mythical mice, which end up being not quite so mythical, more so than most countries it has been my pleasure to visit. Why escapes even my reasoning. Perhaps it is something in the water. After all, their sewage system is questionable. But I digress.

I was staying in a little hotel on the Rue Scribe by the name of Le Rouge Foucon, or The Red Falcon. It was a nice little hotel, and the room was quite comfortable, but I was still bored out of my senses. I decided to pick up a novel, and was on my way out to read it in one of the many little cafes around Paris, when a most extraordinary thing happened.

There was a knock at my door, and I opened it to discover I had a caller. The mouse was a little shorter than I am, with blonde fur that was clearly starting to go grey. He was in his early to mid forties, and dressed quite well. A member of the upper class, it would seem. He had a thick moustache under a well proportioned nose, and grey eyes. He seemed the kind you would find constantly smiling, but was, at this moment, quite distressed.

“Pardon moi, you are Monsieur Basil of Baker Street, yes?”

His English was not at all bad, though I occasionally found it hard to decipher it through the accent, which was, on occasions, as thick as his moustache.

“Yes, Monsieur de Chagny, do come in.”

He was absolutely astounded that I knew his name, and would have asked me how I knew it, I think, but he took out his pocket watch and clucked his tongue. He clearly didn’t have the time to spare.

“I would come in, monsieur,” he explained appreciatively, “but I’m running late. I stopped by to invite you to join my brother and I in our private box at the Paris Opera House this evening.”

Opera is a fine art, but I’ve never been all that keen on it. I told him it was a kind offer, but rather sudden, and I wasn’t sure I could attend. He was quick to tell me that it was a matter of somewhat grave importance, which did intrigue me. Well, I’d been doing nothing for nearly a week. Even if the matter wasn’t as grave as he said, it might prove some small entertainment. I agreed to come, and he was clearly relieved. He gave me the number of the box, the address of the Opera House, and the time of the performance, and with that, went quickly on his way.

I also had the pleasure of meeting said brother at the performance that night, but the youth seemed a bit melancholy and distracted. He was exactly twenty one in age, about his brother’s height, and blonde. He had brown eyes, and a moustache as well, but his was pencil thin. Monsieur le Viscomte was an officer in the navy, and had two months leave in Paris. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father followed a few years after from a broken heart. Phillip had poured money into his education, which was a good one, and his sister had raised him for the most part.

Being raised by women tends to lend one, in my experience, genteel manners, and a somewhat shy personality. Monsieur le Viscomte had both. That was why his elder brother was devoting that two months into giving him as disreputable a past as possible. It did not seem to be working too well, from what I was given to understand, but it did bring the siblings closer together.

All through out that evening's splendid performance, young de Changy seemed a bit distracted. La Sorelli, the prima ballerina, and special acquaintance of Monsieur le Comte, did far better than I had been promised. La Carlotta did, indeed, sound stupendous, and it was not until the third act that Raoul sat up and took notice. This was because of a short, but lovely aria, that was given, by a young, blonde, sweet creature by the name of Christine Daae. He suddenly was sitting up, and staring with wild intent upon the girl, and began to lean out of the box as though to see her better. It was during this performance that Monsieur le Comte began to grow twitchy, and scowled. The aria finished, the girl cleared the stage so that La Carlotta could continue with her own, very fine, solo. Raoul sank back into his chair, gave a very brief sigh, and paid no more attention to the performance until it’s conclusion.

The poor young blighter was clearly, and desperately, in love.

What a terrible, ridiculous, popular affliction this love is! I consider myself one of the lucky few who have managed to evade it all these years.

At the end of the evening’s entertainment, young de Chagny explained to his brother “I’ll be back in a moment, Phillip,” and raced off with the wind at his heels. I was quickly drawn aside by Monsieur le Comte, and he said:

“Well, Monsieur Basil, you see? For a time I encouraged my brother in this foolish escapade. It is not healthy for the young to be too well mannered, yes? But now it has gotten out of control! He’s racing here and there and everywhere, and I’m certain he’s gone mad!” “I’m not talking about simply because he loves the girl. I’m talking about the fact that he thinks that she’s being stalked by the Angel of Music!”

Now there is a sentence to catch a man’s ear. Surprised, I inquired “What?”

Monsieur Phillip rolled his eyes. “It’s some nonsense about a story from when they were children. If you would call upon me at my address –” here he pressed his card into my paw “- tomorrow, I would be most eternally grateful! I will explain the whole blessed business to you! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to see Mademoiselle Sorelli.”

With that, he disappeared in the same direction his brother had taken. I’m still not sure what possessed me, but something about the words “Angel of Music,” lured me in like a fish to bait; I decided to follow the younger de Chagny, discreetly, of course, and see if I could learn anything.

I made a few inquires with some of the ballet girls that were bustling around back stage, and one, a child of about eleven named Meg, was quick to point me in the right direction. Mademoiselle Daae’s dressing room was down a dark, poorly lit hall, which made it very easy for me to remain hidden as I watched the small scene take place.

Le Viscomte de Chagny was, indeed, there, and so was the object of his affections, only she was resolutely turning him out. The poor lad looked close to tears, begging resolutely.

“Christine, why won’t you see me?” he sobbed, wringing his hands in a most pathetic fashion. The girl, three years his junior, was quite upset herself, and clearly did not want to discuss anything else with the boy.

“Raoul, for the last time; Leave it alone! It does not matter!” Her voice in speaking was much like that in singing. It rang with a clear, sweet sound through the melancholy hall, and played as music on the love struck pup’s senses.

“Christine, I’m only worried for you! This Angel of Music you keep hearing, he’s no angel at all! He’s a demon in disguise!”

That clearly enraged Mademoiselle Daae. She glared daggers at the boy, and shouted quite fiercely “You get out of my sight, Raoul de Chagny! I don’t ever want to see you again!” With that, she resolutely slammed the door in his face, while he angrily pounded on it, crying her name. Giving up, he walked away to find his brother, but I was intrigued all the more, and remained behind. He was so totally blind to the world that he nearly ran into me, and even then did not notice my presence. Carefully, I placed my eye to the key hole, and was the only witness to a remarkable event.

The girl was at her dresser, crying her poor blue eyes out, when a voice from absolutely no where, rang throughout the room. I consider myself a reasonable mouse. I am not prone to believe that voices come from no where, but, try as I might, I could not find the source of this one. It did not seem to alarm the girl, who looked up, trying to dry her eyes. The voice was singing, and a more intoxicating sound I have never heard. It made eyes go blind, and words run dry, for all focus was on the ears, trying to soak in as much of the music of that man’s voice as possible.

It held Miss Christine in rapture for a moment, before she softly called out “Angel?”

“I’m here,” was the returned whisper. “But you are crying! Tell your angel why.” No longer singing, it still held some indescribable note that assaulted the senses. The child faltered; there was a reason, one that I did not yet understand, that she did not tell the voice of the spat between Raoul and herself.

“I’m merely tired,” she explained.

The voice hummed sadly, before saying “Have you been working too hard? Have I been making our lessons too strenuous? They are paying off, sweet Christine.” If I had been influenced that this voice was, in fact, an angel, this was now entirely banished. There was a dark, possessiveness in which he said the name “Christine.” It seemed to me that Monsieur le Viscomte might be right. It now seemed more like a demon than an angel. The girl did not hear this note in his voice; she continued unperturbed.

“Never, Angel!” she exclaimed. “You could never do anything wrong! I’m just weak. I’m trying to be stronger.”

“You flatter me,” it purred, still in that sweet whisper. “Soon, we will fill all of Paris with your own voice, and you will be a grand, grand star! And then, if you are not as sweet and kind as you want me to believe, you will forget your angel.”

She seemed to want to cling on to that voice, for it did sound like it was receding away from the walls from whence it radiated. “Angel, don’t leave me!” she cried, standing up. “I won’t ever forget you! I’ll sooner die!”

The voice remained, or returned, I do not know which. “How nice…..” it replied softly, almost with a frightening air. “How kind. You are so good to your poor angel.”

“Poor? Are you unhappy, Angel?”

“My only happiness is you, child.” It paused, timidly venturing the next sentence. “Tell me, do you love me, Christine?”

“How can you ask that, when I sing only for you?”

“How nice….” It repeated. Still, she had not said that she loved this angel, but he seemed not to notice. “But,” he continued, “you did also say that you could not bestow your affections to anything upon the earth.”

“Yes,” she repeated slowly, “I did say that.”

“But maybe you can bestow affections yet. Maybe only on your angel, hm?”

“Of course,” she agreed, but it was not enthusiastically. “I can love eternal things……Eternal things don’t leave.......”

“Yes…..The time is coming, Christine, when you will be blessed by the Angel of Music, and then I will let you know everything you ever wanted to know. You will see your angel, and he will be with you. Forever. That is eternal.”

Something made her shiver. The promise was almost a frightening one. “I think I will go home now,” she whispered, taking her furs from off the hanger and draping them over her small shoulders.

“We will have our lesson tomorrow morning?” he asked.

“As we always do.”

“Good…..” it purred. “Then, sleep well, dear Christine.”

“Goodnight, Angel,” she replied, and I hastily backed away and behind the door as it opened. She did not notice me. She seemed only to wish to hurry and leave that dressing room, leave that voice. I walked inside, carefully, quietly, trying to find where the voice was hidden. I searched every nook and cranny of that room, but there was not a soul.

Well then, who was right? Was Monsieur le Comte’s brother mad, or merely jealous of an Angel? Was Mademoiselle Daae being tutored by a faceless angel, or a formless demon? What mysteries did this strange Paris Opera House hold? At that moment, I couldn’t have said. It held still far many more than the few I had unearthed, but, all the same, I was at last reassured that my holiday would not be boring. Adventure was high in the air!