Down in the Depths

Title: Down in the Depths
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Fandoms: Phantom of the Opera / Twilight Saga
Pairing(s): Bella/Compte de Chagny, (slight) Christine/Viscompte de Chagny, (implied) Phantom/Christine
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2.5k
Warnings: kidnapping, affairs (mistresses), implied time travel, drug usage, vampires, ghosts, class distinctions, gambling, French dialogue
Summary: Le Compte de Chagny takes Bella Swan to the Opèra Populaire.  Little did he know she would be kidnapped by the Phantom of the Opera…

Down in the Depths

Bella stepped into the carriage, lifting her bustle so that it didn’t drag on the ground.  She hated trying to clean her dresses without a washing machine.  1880s Paris was a drag like that.

The footman closed the carriage door behind her and got into the front seat, the carriage starting up to take Bella to the illicit poker match in the heart of Paris. 

When she reached her destination, she sighed when the door wasn’t opened by her footman, but instead by the Compte de Chagny.  She looked at him in disappointment.  “André,” she sighed.  “What are you doing here?  Should you not be with your mistress?”

“She bores me,” the Compte reminded her as he lifted her down.  “Your company is much more preferable.”  When she had stepped onto the sidewalk, the Compte looked at her with his bright blue eyes and he asked, leaning forward, “Might I tempt you away from the game and escort you to the Opèra Populaire tonight, Mademoiselle?”

“Really, Compte?” she asked with a smile.  “You would be seen with little old me?”  Letting go of his hand, she picked up her skirts and walked forward.

However, the Compte hurried forward and stepped in front of her, brandishing his walking stick.  “You won over twenty thousand francs last night.”

Bella looked up at him.  “I can win more tonight.”

“You could.  Or you could enjoy yourself.”  He reached into his breast pocket and took out two tickets.  “Hannibal is playing tonight.  La Carlotta is singing.”

“La Carlotta?  Indeed?” Bella asked, smiling at him.  She had no idea who La Carlotta was.  She made to step forward, but the Compte stepped back in conjunction with her and gave her a sly smile of his own.  “You are wearing feathers in your hair.  You were feeling whimsical tonight.  Did you do it perhaps for me?”

Bella looked up at the feathers in her hair.  She had actually worn them to impress the Compte.  He had been frequenting the poker match the past three weeks and she was hoping he would be there that night.  She knew he would have to marry a society lady, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t flirt with him.  “Your point?”

“Let me show you off,” he wheedled.  “I am certain you are wearing a stunning dress under that cloak.”

She was actually.  Bella invested in her wardrobe.  Men were more willing to part with their francs if they had a beautiful woman to look at.

Reaching out, she took the tickets from his hand and inspected them.  “La Carlotta can sing?” she asked.  “I have never been to the opera.”  Renee could hardly be called cultured.  Charlie certainly couldn’t.  Edward played piano music on his cd player, never anything with singing.

“She can, Mademoiselle,” the Compte assured her. “She is considered the best opera singer in the world.”

Bella looked up into his piercing blue eyes.  “You must take me back home immediately after the opera,” she bargained.

“You should not like to have a light supper?” he inquired.

“Is that the custom?”

“It is, I assure you.”

She looked at him carefully.  “I will decide after the opera.  However, if I want to go home, you will take me home.  I insist, André.”

“Very well,” he agreed, lifting up her free hand and kissing the back of it, all the while looking into her eyes.  “We have an accord.”

Bella looked into his eyes carefully and, seeing no sign of deception, she turned to her carriage driver and instructed him to return home for the evening.  Then she allowed the Compte to escort her to his carriage, after surrendering the tickets back to him, and took the trip back across Paris to the opera house.

When they arrived, the Opèra Populaire was a hive of activity, and the Compte handed her out proudly, walking with her on his arm.  Bella tried not to look around at all the wealth on display, but it was rather difficult.  When she was seated in the box, she was given a pair of opera glasses and the Compte pointed out the ladies of society.

Then, ten minutes before showtime, a young man with eyes equally as blue to the Compte’s appeared in the box, looking surprised at their presence.  Bella looked him up and down before turning to the Compte.

He cleared his throat.  “My younger brother, Raoul, le Vicompte de Chagny.”

Interesting how titles were employed in France.  Bella honestly couldn’t follow them in the least.  They were nothing like Jane Austen.

She nodded her head.

The Vicompte looked to his elder brother and the Compte brushed him off, not bothering to introduce Bella. 

Then the new manager of the Opera came out and announced a cast change.  Bella leaned out to the Compte and whispered, “You have failed to deliver, André.”

“I do not know what to say, Mademoiselle,” he apologized.  “La Carlotta is on all the promotional material.”

Once Christine Daaé came out on stage, Bella listened to her attentively.  After the first Act and the raucous of applause, Bella leaned over and inquired, “Is she good, then?  I am uncertain how I am supposed to tell.”

“Are you completely uncultured, Madame?” the Vicompte cut in from where he was sitting in the second row, his blue eyes flashing.  “Mademoiselle Daaé is an absolute triumph.”

Bella glanced at him angrily. 

The Compte, however, was the one who spoke.  “I would remind you that Mademoiselle Swan is a guest of the House of Chagny, Raoul.”

“I thought I detected a foreign accent,” the Vicompte scowled. 

The Compte’s eyes flashed blue.  “You will leave this box, Raoul.”

The Vicompte stared at him.

The Compte just stared back.

Bella held her breath.

After what seemed like an indeterminate age with the applause in the background, the Vicompte lifted his chin but stormed out of the box.  However, he grabbed Bella’s arm and pulled her out with him.  She tripped on her dress and began to fall backward.  The Compte tried to catch her, but she fell to the side behind the curtain and then—somehow—she was grabbed by a third figure and pulled even further, a handkerchief pushed over her face.

She heard shouting but the world went black.

When she woke up she was no longer in Box Five.  Bella could hear the lapping of water and she was lying on silk sheets.  Bella didn’t own silk sheets.  She lived in a barely respectable area of Paris and owned utilitarian sheets on a wrought iron bed.  She looked around her.  This couldn’t really be called a bed.

Somewhere she could hear music—organ music.  Sitting up, Bella looked around.  Her neck hurt.  She reached up and realized her hair had been unpinned and was falling around her shoulders.  Quickly looking down at herself, she was glad to see that she was still dressed in her evening dress.  She wiggled her toes.  Her shoes and stockings had been taken off.

Lifting herself up on her knees she looked around. 

There was a lake and she was in a large cavern.

“Bonjour?” she called out.  “Y a-t-il quelqu’un là bas?”

The organ playing suddenly stopped.  She heard someone moving somewhere and then the curtains around the top of the bed were pulled back and she saw a man in a mask appear.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” he greeted, holding his hand out.

“Where am I?” Bella inquired, allowing him to help her to stand.  “Did I hit my head?”

“I was most careful,” the figure promised her.  “You are unharmed.”  He led her out into the greater cavern and she looked around her.  “You were sitting in Box Five.”

She turned and looked at him strangely.  “I was a guest of le Compte de Chagny.”

“You are not la Comptess?”

Belle blushed.  “No, I am not.”

“But you will be soon,” the figure insisted as he led her to a chair. 

Her feet were cold against the rock floor, but Bella didn’t think to complain.  She had no idea who this man was and she couldn’t say where she was exactly.  She thought the worst thing to happen to her was being locked in the dungeons of the Volturi, but being trapped in a cave would be nearly as bad. 

“I doubt André would ever ask,” she whispered distractedly, looking up at the cavern ceiling.  “Why am I here?”

“I warned that there would be consequences if Box Five was not left open for my use.  Your disappearance is the consequence.”

Bella’s head whipped around and she blinked at him several time.  “You intend to keep me here?”  Her voice sounded strained to her ears.

“For a little while,” he placated.  “I will return you.”

“You will—”  Bella swallowed.  “I see.”  She looked around again.  She was sitting at a little table.  The bed—that was not quite a bed—was hidden by the curtain.  She could see a table with several drawings and tools strewn across it, and over there was the organ she had heard earlier.

“May I ask your name, Mademoiselle?”

Bella looked back at him.  “Do you need to know for the ransom letter?”  She looked him up and down, taking in his well tailored suit and pocket watch.  “I suppose you need to ransom me.”

He made a sign of acquiescence. 

“Bella,” she told him.  “Isabella Marie Swan.”

“You are French then, Mademoiselle,” he decided.  “ ‘Isabella Marie’ is a French name.”

“Yes,” she agreed.  “I am aware.”  Bella was looking around again.  “How long are you keeping me for?”  She didn’t bother to ask her captor’s name.  She didn’t suppose it mattered.  He was wearing a partial mask to hide his face from her.  She doubted he would be forthcoming. 

“A few days or perhaps a bit longer.  As long as it takes the managers to give into my demands.”

Bella looked at him incredulously.  “You are ransoming me to the managers?  What would they care if I live or die?”

“You were the personal guest of the Compte de Chagny.  He is a patron of the Opèra Populaire.  He will insist on your return.”

Bella could only hope so.  She had a flirtation with the Compte de Chagny and he had gone so far as inviting her to the opera.  He had wanted to be seen with her in society.  If he had simply wanted her for his mistress, he wouldn’t have bothered.  He would have paid for her upkeep and visited her when he pleased.  She would hope that his sense of honor was intact.

Licking her lips, she asked, “May I write him a note?”

“I will read it,” her captor warned.

“I know,” she agreed. 

He poured her a glass of wine.  She looked at it suspiciously.  He left her and after an hour, she sipped at it. 

He went back to playing the organ.

After a dinner of cold chicken, he let her write a note.  It was only three words: “Je suise desolée.”  Bella once again opined that she took Spanish in high school.  She had had to learn French from scratch when she had traveled from Italy into Switzerland and then up through France.  Her intention had been to catch a boat to America and find Carlisle Cullen, but she had never made it that far.  She also had no idea where the Carlisle in 1881.  She knew Carlisle was living on his own.  For all she knew he could be at Volterra Castle, where she had started out.  It would be just her luck.

She fell asleep to the sound of organ playing.

Her captor gave her a book on the third day as she was doing nothing but sit around and do nothing all day.  He seemed to finally realize that a young woman should be entertained.  She had spent months in the Volturi prison and had learned how to live in her head, but reading Aristotle was certainly preferable.

When she finished her volume, she asked for another. 

He gave her Voltaire.

She was sensing a pattern.

All he did was play the organ, the same musical passage again and again, driving her slowly insane.  She never thought to complain, of course.  He was keeping her in a cave, on an island, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to get to his rowboat in time if she tried to run.

On what she thought was the eighth day when she was reading a Bible he had given her (also in French), he came up to her with a handkerchief.  She pulled away, but he shushed her.

“Do you want to go back to the surface or not?” he asked her quite seriously.

“Is it laudanum?” she asked with a quiver in her voice.

“Mademoiselle.”  His voice was stern.  He approached her and carefully lay the handkerchief over her mouth and nose after shushing her several times as if she were a scared horse.  The last thing she heard was: “Tell le Compte de Chagny not to sit in Box Five ever again.”  The world went dark.

She woke up on the floor of an opera box.  Her stockings were back on her feet and her shoes were lined up next to her head.  He had kept her feathers.  Perhaps they were some type of trophy.

Blinking several times, Bella took a deep breath and slowly sat up.  When she was carefully putting her shoes back on, there was the sound of rushing and the Compte appeared in the door, looking about wildly.

“Isabelle Marie,” he cried, leaning down and clasping her to him.  “You are alive.”

She breathed in his scent and felt tears in her eyes.  “I do not like being kidnapped, André.  You promised me a night of pleasure.”

He ran a hand through her hair and just pulled her closer. 

“What did he ask for?” Bella asked carefully.

The Compte pulled away and looked into her eyes, searching.

“André,” she demanded.  “What did that strange man ask for?  I know he demanded a ransom.”

“The last manager gave him use of Box Five along with a monthly salary of twenty thousand francs.  He also insists that Christine Daaé get larger roles.”

Bella breathed out.  The last part was peculiar but she thought little of it.  “He expects the managers to pay him twenty thousand francs a month?”

“They capitulated when you were not returned after over a week,” he told her carefully.  “I made my displeasure known.  We are never returning to the opera.”  The Compte said this last part firmly.  “Next time I will take you to the National Ballet.”

“Will you?” she asked quietly.  “Do you expect there to be a next time?”  Her dark eyes flashed.

He smiled at her triumphantly.  “Certainly I do, Mademoiselle, especially as I announced to all of Paris that my future wife was missing and it was the incompetence of the Opèra Populaire that was at fault.”

Bella’s eyes widened.  “Pardon?”

“You heard me,” he whispered, his eyes tracing down to her lips.  “I fully intend to marry you, Isabelle Marie.”

“What will your mother say?” Bella breathed.

“Raoul is in love with an opera girl.  Maman can say nothing,” he told her with a small smile, and with that, he leaned in and kissed her.

The End.