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Dear Auntie Telltale,
It’s been a long time since me or Mother have heard from you, but I know you have been quite busy as of late in St. Petersburg, especially with Signor Cecchetti leaving for Warsaw. But I have faith you face all obstacles with the aplomb I know you for—there are many a people who would balk at the prospect of dancing as Colombine in a private performance for the tsar, his family and his court! I am also happy to mention that reviews of Mademoiselle Pavlova’s performance in La Bayardère have made their way to our little corner in paradise, and I can only attribute her success to the encouragement, care and affection you have given her through all these years.
As I have turned 22 this year, I have asked again of my mother if she could tell me anything about my father. You know she’s always dismissed that question with a tired smile, as if I were a child who was too young to understand her secrets. This time, it seemed as if the question genuinely pained her, and she begged me to not ask her again. You know how she always had a hint of melancholy to her, although it never tampered with her good spirits, nor her art, nor the love I have received from her from my earliest days. Perhaps she realized in that moment that I was not a child anymore, but a man, and that I would come to leave her one day. I hope, at least, it was not what caused her to cry in her bedroom the night that followed, as her window was open and she was unaware I was outside, right underneath it.
If there is anything you can tell me, I beg you to do so. I know you are my mother’s oldest friend in this world, and that I was born not long after she left Paris, where you both performed at the Opera Populaire. It is only logical that you know who my father might have been, or that you have guesses as to whatever lover my mother had at the time. I will receive whatever information there is without judgment, as I know the world of the arts has its own rules and workings that polite society wouldn’t dare think about (at least in public), and that nothing that happened 20 years ago will make me think less of her. I have even considered making my own journey to Paris and ask around, but I believed it more prudent to write to you first. If you truly know nothing, worry not—you may not believe it, but I am old enough now to make my own way and find answers in due time.
Regards to M. le baron, and warm wishes to Antoine and Clara. If she is truly the spitting image of you at the same age, remind her to be very good, if she cannot be quiet (as she should not).
Yours truly,
Gustave Daaé
To my little Don Quixote,
I thank you for your warm letter and regret to not have written to you sooner, as you have been quite right about busy I have been. I am looking to move away from St. Petersburg, as the baron has had more than enough of the cold Russian winters. I will miss all the friends and acquaintances I’ve made there, but with my little Annette’s star on the rise, the Imperial Ballet will go forward without me. That goes without mentioning the companies vying for my attention, which is quite flattering, especially since I’ve even received some that came all the way from New York. I do believe I will remain in good old European soil, as I would like to see you and your dear mother again more than once in what remains of my lifetime.
As for what you asked of me… I have pondered long and hard about it, as I will admit to you right away it is not a pleasant story for anyone involved. Let me tell you first that your mother has been admirable throughout, as she always has been. There is a reason why she always kept you away from her world, with her house on the countryside, with Madame Valérius, your nurse, your private tutors—she has been sought by many operas because of her immense talent, but also because of her notoriety, at least in the first few years. I am rather amazed you have learned nothing of the story, but it has been pretty much forgotten today outside of Paris, perhaps for the best. I feared that the former Opera Populaire prima donna Carlotta Giudicelli’s tell-all would be much more revelatory, and that you would come to learn the truth in the worst way possible. However, it seems that she has kept all the names of the various actors vague—perhaps because there were well-regarded people still alive today who were involved. It seems she harbours no hard feelings towards your mother, perhaps in acknowledgement that her former rival was a victim as much as she was.
Your mother started out in the corps de ballet, as her voice was less than nothing of note when she arrived in Paris. Before she befriended me, she was said to have been practically mute since your grandfather’s premature passing. She eventually had lessons from a tutor, whose identity remained a mystery to us all until it was too late. He revealed himself to be a man hiding in the Opera’s sewers, parading as the Opera’s local Phantom, as he was tragically disfigured. Your mother was a kindred spirit of sorts to him, and he took her under his wing, but the world had been so cruel to him it corrupted him in return. He was a genius, the likes of whom I have never encountered since—and you know of all the illustrious people I’ve worked with throughout the years. She believed him to be an angel sent by your grandfather, but he was a man of flesh and bone by the name of Erik, who believed at that time that he loved her, hoping she’d return his feelings one day, as the opportunity came for her to present her immense talent to the world (which I facilitated, and I would have been rather proud of it if only I knew more and could also have avoided a lot of pain).
Her rising stardom got her the attention of many—a rather unpleasant side effect for her teacher, who was planning to keep her all to himself. That included the vicomte Raoul de Chagny, who has since become a comte since his brother’s passing and who happened to be acquainted with her since childhood. Your mother and the comte’s budding interest for each other and eventual engagement only angered the Phantom, who committed crimes in his fits of jealousy and kidnapped her during a performance. Your poor mother was at her wits’ end by then, and under the threat of having to stay with the Phantom forever to let the comte live, or leave and have him killed, her generous spirit led her to rather give this tormented soul the scrap of affection he had been denied his entire life.
It was a time, I believe, of heightened, confused emotions, and your mother was still very young. Her heart was great enough for her to consider that, perhaps, she may have feelings for either man, but she ultimately made her path on her own, as she thought then that she’d be missing something vital either way. As she told me, nothing made her feel complete, so she figured she had to become whole by her own devices.
I believe she may have conceived you in a time of such confusion, but I am convinced that there was no coercion involved. When I ask you to not think less of your mother, I speak of the circumstances surrounding you coming into this world. She never regretted your existence once, and you were always (and still are) her pride and joy. But she has always been devout, and if there is any guilt remaining, it is above all against herself, and for what indecisiveness may have led her to. Her union to the comte came in the prospect of their upcoming marriage, and her seeking the Phantom came from compassion which led to something else, only for her to leave both as she realized she couldn’t live in a lie with either of them, not knowing of your existence yet. I have supported her through the years and have been her closest (and only) confidante. It is with great reluctance that I am telling you all this, as I fear that I might permanently cloud how you see your mother. And it goes without saying that if you think less of her, I will find myself obliged to think less of you.
The comte de Chagny, from what I’ve heard, has married a few years later and had a young daughter, although I believe he is a widower now. The Phantom of the Opera hasn’t been heard of since the events at the Opera Populaire, although I’ve seen glimpses of him throughout the years, as your Gran-Gran was an unofficial helper of sorts for him, although reluctantly. If you wish to make yourself known to them, as it is your right, I have given you the last known address I’ve had of the comte, which I have written down for you below. As for the Phantom, I know of his current location, but to protect his identity as he may still have to face the law, it is better that you send his letter to me so I can act as an intermediary. I ask that you stay discreet, and not involve your mother in this, as it seems she doesn’t wish to revisit that chapter of her life. Of course, there is no way you can truly confirm either man’s paternity, and if you choose to write to them, remain transparent about this, as to not disappoint yourself, or either party. Whatever choice you make is yours, and I’d rather give you these options before you seek answers by yourself and find stones better left unturned.
[…]
I only hope that in all things, you find happiness and satisfaction, as your mother eventually did.
Take care, and hug your mother for me,
La petite Meg
P.S.: Gustave Daaé, if you do anything reckless with what I just told you, you will hear about it until your funeral, because my ghost WILL haunt you about it.
To Raoul, comte de Chagny.
Forgive me for so short a missive after all these years. Please come visit me at Skopelos, where I have now retired. I have something important I need to tell you, in person.
Christine
To Erik,
I have asked Meg to send you this – please don’t tell her about what this letter contains. Forgive me for so short a missive after all these years. Please come visit me at Skopelos, where I have now retired. I have something important I need to tell you, in person.
Christine
I’m really glad I’m that good at forging someone else’s handwriting, Gustave thought, as he sealed both letters.