*Read First:* Seeing that the popular consensus is that "Raoul is a Fop," I was reminded of my very favorite literary fop, P.G. Wodehouse's ingenious creation Bertram "Bertie" Wilbeforce Wooster from the Jeeves stories. And thus, this story was born. I'd much prefer if you would kindly turn a blind eye to any discrepancies in the timeline continuity, since the Jeeves stories exist primarily in the 1920s, while Phantom is rooted sometime in the 1880s. Maybe meet halfway, and imagine this takes place in the early 1900s, or something? Much obliged. I'm going mostly by Leroux, with maybe a little of ALW's stage show thrown in if the mood so strikes me. And since Wodehouse's stories and the TV series starring Fry & Laurie are practically inseparable in my mind, I feel little need to make that distinction.

Oh, by the way, I do not own any of the following: the rights to P.G. Wodehouse's work, Gaston Leroux and ALW's Phantom, or any such lah-de-dah.

1

The day, as Jeeves would put it, was clement, from its sunny top to its grassy bottom. The sky was a blue of the brightest, most vivid shade, and the birds sang a rousing chorus upon the twigs. The slightest of breezes stirred the leaves, carrying the scent of honeysuckle into my flat (that is, if that's the flower I want—I should have asked Jeeves if said plant is even in London before I supplied the mental image). In other words, the morning was absolutely dripping with blooming atmosphere. My memory might be clouded, but I'm not absolutely sure little cherubic children weren't partaking in pastoral dances in the grassy knoll just outside my flat as I leaned out the window, taking it all in.

Yet if one of those happy shrieking imps, bouncing around caked in dirt and smudged stockings, had happened to glance northward into my direction, a shade might have been cast over his mirth at the comparatively gloomy countenance Mr. Bertram W. Wooster wore that sunny morn.

After all, the morning might have looked promising from an objective perspective, but that's where the objective perspective always makes its bloomer: it's never very subjective, is it? Can't help it, I suppose. Part of its nature to turn a blind eye to that side of things.

The answer behind my stormy brow and stony eye was not far in seeking.

I don't know how well up you are in the Wooster archives, but if you've delved in at all, you'll quickly discover three important things about Yours T. One, I'm absolutely helpless, like a wailing babe left to fend for itself amongst ravenous, unkindly wolves in the woods, without Jeeves, that kingliest of all valets. Second, I am forever at the mercy of demanding aunts, alternating primarily between Aunt Dahlia, the good and deserving aunt who nevertheless doesn't shrink away from placing her beloved nephew right square in the middle of a crosshair in a nasty sitch, particularly when it comes to pinching cow creamers or giving away grammar awards at Market Snodsbury; and Aunt Agatha, half Vampire Bat and half War Banshee, who drinks the blood of unproductive persons on the eve of every full moon. Third, while I'm still shy fifteen or twenty years from the age people start generally defining a confirmed bachelor, many of my acquaintances have flirted with labeling me that anyhow, since much of my adult life thus far has consisted of racking my brains—or, more appropriately, Jeeves's brains—in coming up with ways to extricate myself from joining in that most eternal of sacred ties, matrimony.

And on the day I just now described, I was hounded on all sides by two of these three. The first one was giving me no grief, I'm happy to relate. Jeeves remained in my employ, and in that particular respect, all was right on God's Green Earth, or however that wheeze goes. But the other two were grieving me to the utmost.

Talking of Jeeves, just as I was heaving a regretful sigh on my plight, he shimmered in with the usual mid-morning tea, always to be counted upon to cheer the young master somewhat, if not entirely, at least on this given day.

"What-ho, Jeeves," I said, but without my usual vigor.

"Feeling more rested, sir?" He asked with the proper feudal concern. My limited faculties are not the most adept in handling anything akin to a heavy burden, and I had let Jeeves know upon awakening that mine had been a fitful night, of tossing and turning to a frightful degree.

I gave a bitter sort of laugh. "Physically, Jeeves, but the soul is filled with something-something. Would 'sadness' do, do you think?"

" 'Sorrow" might be a bit more poignant, considering the circumstances, sir."

"Right-ho."

"'This night I'll waste in sorrow, for my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.'"

"Now that's a catchy one, Jeeves, and gets across just what I want. Not one of yours, by any chance?"

"No, sir, it was penned by the bard himself, William Shakespeare."

"Ah."

"From his Venus and Adonis, sir. Perhaps a bit romantic in context, but by itself the line does indeed seem to encapsulate your current woeful and watchful state, if you do not mind my taking the liberty in saying so, sir."

"Not at all, Jeeves, not at all." I let another of my sorrowful sighs fill the room. "Quite frankly, my heart's not the only one sick to death of the situation."

"Understandable, sir."

"I mean, confound it, Jeeves, you know!" I shifted, visibly perturbed as I thought about it all again. "I mean, really! It's all a bit thick, isn't it? First Aunt Agatha becomes enamored of the idea that Madeline Bassett would make perfect wifely material for one Bertram Wooster, and knocks herself out trying to make me see the light of day. Well, that's fine, as M. Bassett had, I thought, practically tied the knot already with that beastly Spode fellow, so I had no real fear of Aunt Agatha's plans coming to any fruition. 'Let her have her fun,' I said to myself in that thoughtless, lark-like way I shudder to think back on now. But then that gorilla in human form Spode had to go out on one of his tirades right in front of the Bassett beazel, condemning all petunias as useless weeds that should be stripped from the earth to give way to planting more 'useful' stock like potatoes and yams. Well, at the thought of every pretty petunia in the land falling sway to the gardener's shears, the Bassett gave a yelp not unlike that which precedes the heroine's swoon at the end of every second act in every blasted musical revue there is, and gave Spode the push. And you know what that means."

We exchanged meaningful looks. Our meaningful looks usually went one way: I with my eyes popped open a fraction wider than usual, lips drawn into a humorless smirk; and Jeeves, never one prone to any over-exertion of his facial muscles, raising his eyebrows discreetly and puckering his mouth slightly as if sour lemon dwelt within.

Perhaps I should explain a bit, since Jeeves and I seldom openly discuss what that that signifies. Wouldn't be fitting or chivalrous. We Woosters are known for being the preuxest of preux chevaliers, and it would seem almost like taking a girl's name lightly for Jeeves and I to roundly chew the fat on such a grisly subject.

The fact of the matter is, un-preux as it may sound, there were few females I was more allergic to than this same Madeline Bassett. Now, if someone happened to know her only by her looks, this person would undoubtedly think me next-door to loony for this opinion, as she's certainly an eyeful in a lissome, golden-haired, saucer-eyed sort of way. But just try having some normal conversation with her, and you'll find it quickly devolves into squashy baby-talk about how daisies are parasols for the faerie ladies, and that clouds are but pillows for an angel's weary head. Soppy is the word I want. Absolutely drippy. And while that sort of sickly-sweet behavior gives me a distinctly queasy feeling like drinking tea with expired cream in it, I'm constantly threatened with the prospect of one day strapping myself to her for better or for worse. And that's without Aunt Agatha's prompting.

You see, once upon a time, I took up with Madeline the cause of my friend Gussie, who was just the sort of fish-faced fathead who'd fall for a drip like her. And Madeline, the silly twit, interpreted it as a proposal from me. She refused me then for Gussie, then later on for Spode, but always with the caviar—no, that's not the bally word…what does Jeeves always say?…ah, yes—with the caveat that when her current gentleman makes the proverbial ass out of himself, I'm the next in line for the chopping block.

And now she had broken off her engagement with Spode, a man of about eight feet ten inches who gads about hollering in peoples' faces and crushing civilizations beneath his heels. She then quite promptly wired me from Totleigh Towers, from whence she hails, letting me know that with my Aunt Agatha's hearty approval, we could renew our engagement. She also added that although she'd most likely never love me with the fervor of a million exploding stars, she'd try her best to make me happy, or some such drivel.

Now, what alternative did Bertram have at this juncture? One cannot simply break off an engagement with a girl counting on you to follow through. The Code of the Woosters dictates that at all costs a girl's feelings must not be hurt.

"What's to be done, Jeeves?" I appealed to him. I had received the wire last night, and Jeeves assured me he'd contemplate the matter and get back to me bright and early. That pledge did much to lighten my mood, though nothing could lighten it completely. No, not whilst the prospect of forever making kissy faces at Madeline over the breakfast table for the rest of my life hung over my head like The Sword of Damocles, if that's the fellow whose sword I'm thinking of.

Jeeves straightened his tall form, head bulging at the back as it always did (evidence of the formidable brain that dome housed), and said, "I think we might have a reasonable solution at hand, sir."

Jolly cove, Jeeves. There has seldom been a time while he's been with me that he hasn't come to his master's rescue when called upon, usually with an absolutely corking idea to get said master out of the soup. That is, so long as I don't go off my head and wear purple socks or alpine hats with feathers in them. My aunts assure me that I'm a blithering fool without Jeeves, and so far, I'm in no position to disagree with them.

"Well done, Jeeves! Once again, you never fail to amaze me! Other great thinkers of our generation shrivel away into nothing at the very sight of your proud, fish-fed visage. What's the sketch?"

"It occurred to me, sir, that perhaps a visit abroad, prompt and without notice to either Miss Bassett or your aunt Mrs. Gregson, might hinder Miss Bassett's perception of you as a responsible future mate."

Though my faith in Jeeves is usually unflappable, I'll admit I did deflate a bit at this pronouncement. "High-tailing it, you mean? I don't know, Jeeves. Miss Bassett is surprisingly determined and pigheaded for a girl who thinks sunbeams are stairways to pixieland. She might not be so easily deterred."

"True, sir. But if it were a prolonged absence of perhaps several months, not only would the scales perhaps fall from her eyes, but in the interim she might be given reason to reflect and mend relations between herself and Lord Sidcup."

"Spode, Jeeves, Spode! I refuse to hear that Yeti referred to as Lord Anything."

"Very good, sir. In the meantime, a prolonged absence might even make Mrs. Gregson subject to forgetting any alleged wrongdoing on your part."

I did some pursing of my own lips. "Pink so far, Jeeves. Except for one thing. You keep gumming on about taking a 'prolonged absence,' but how would we go about prolonging? I can't think of anything I'm keen to take up for 'several months' abroad, much less a couple weeks, really."

A sage smile flitted across his lips—or, rather, one corner of his mouth slinked upward about a quarter of an inch, since that's the limit to Jeeves's smile—as he gave one of his signature soft coughs. "Perhaps this missive will supply us with our answer, sir." And here the man revealed a silver tray with a letter atop it. Funny thing about old Jeeves. One can never quite tell from where and whence he enters a room or keeps various items about him, but specter like, all proper things appear at the proper time.

"Great Scott!" I called out as I espied the seal on the envelope. "It's from Raoul de Chagny!"

"I took the liberty of noticing that, sir."

"Good ol' Raoul!"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'll be blown," I muttered as I tore open the envelope and prepared to digest its contents. I really was blown, too. Odd sort, old Raoul. One of those dreamy, romantic types. Not quite as dangerously far gone as Madeline, but still, definitely of the brooding, contemplative temperament. He was actually some sort of nobility in his native France—a vicomte, viscount, or both. I was never too clear on it, really, and he wasn't the type to chat it up. When he was about fourteen his older brother Philippe, who was also his guardian, sent him away to boarding school in England, apparently in order to "forget a girl." Now, getting sent away to "forget a girl" at age fourteen lends one a very romantic edge, and we were all quite curious about him, since as fate would have it I was a fellow school chum of his.

He was a little shy at first, since if he has one fault outside of that dashed reverie he's forever sinking into, it's being about as bashful as a ewe lamb. But he soon proved to be the most amiable of chaps once you got to know him, and once his English accent improved and you could understand what he was bally well saying. At first I was wary that his romantic nature would make him the French equivalent of my friend Richard "Bingo" Little. Bingo is all right in small doses, but two of him would go a long way to driving one absolutely batty. Bingo, when all is said and done, has a kind face, but also has the unfortunate tendency to fall passionately, madly in love with every other girl he sees, most usually in Spring.

However, Raoul proved himself a one-girlie sort of fellow, and confided in me how lost he was on that particular girl he was sent away for. Apparently she was in training as a great opera singer, and was quite beautiful, to boot. Swedish girl, by the name of Christine, as I recall.

The last time I enjoyed Raoul's company had been sometime about a year ago, when he came round to my flat during a brief stop on a world tour he was taking aboard a naval ship he was training on, of all things. There's another thing that differentiates him from my usual set. He not only landed a cushiony position on board the Borda—thanks in part to his connections, I should imagine—but he managed to do so without sinking the ship or driving the crew to abandon him on an inhospitable island somewhere in the South Pacific, which would have occurred to any other member of the Drones club of which I'm a member.

We'd had a warm chat when he came to visit, and he was looking forward to the rest of his tour in that quiet sort of way he has. He was quite in awe of Jeeves, of course, and let me warmly know that a man with my lack of brains was lucky indeed to have someone like that looking after me. I nodded agreeably and then he was off.

Yet here he was, judging by the return address on the envelope, back in France already!

The letter was a doozy:

Bertie, old friend,

I have found her again. My angel, Christine Daae. I am currently on furlough from my ship, and must return within a month—but I can't do it, Bertie, I can't! I found her singing in the Paris Opera House, and oh, Bertie! Her voice! I soar with each note that divine voice sings!—the old boy's a bit of a verbose prune—But alas, Bertie, a mysterious darkness falls over our new-found love.

It is not my brother's disapproval of which I speak. I am already prepared to break with him if need be, and that has ceased to weigh on me, dearly as I love Philippe. No, the current drama I find myself immersed in appears almost unearthly. I have a rival, but he's no mere man, though whether he be devil, angel, or monster, I cannot tell.

Bertie, I turn to you now in a time of deep distress. You are the dearest friend I have in England—give credit where credit is due, he's also a very affectionate scout—and I know I can count on your assistance. Please come, Bertie. You are my only hope in gaining the hand of the woman I worship beyond all reason.

Your dearest friend for life,

Raoul de Chagny

P.S. Do bring your man Jeeves with you. Dashed clever soul.

"Well, I really and truly am blown," I reiterated dumbly. "Raoul's found that girl again! That Christine…Christine…" I scanned the page looking for that dashed last name of hers that looked a devil to pronounce.

Jeeves filled it in for me. "Christine Daae, sir?"

I blinked at him, close to agog. "Well, how do you know that, Jeeves?"

"You mentioned once that Mr. de Chagny was besotted with a Swedish opera singer by the christian name of Christine, sir. I happened to glance upon a glowing review of a young Swedish singer by that name in the evening papers a few weeks back, praising her performance as Margarita in Faust at the Paris Opera's recent gala performance. I surmised she could be the very young lady of whom Mr. de Chagny harbours that great fondness, though I admit it was perhaps a bit far-fetched for me to assume so at the time."

"She dished it out all right, then? Her performance, I mean? Fruity and all that?"

"She was apparently something close to a revelation, sir."

"Well, that's good for merry old Raoul, then," I decided. "Hate for him to fall for a loud old hog like that Cora Whatsit Tuppy Glossup was all for a few years back. Remember that screeching relic, Jeeves?"

"I do recall, sir."

"Scary prospect, that Cora. I'm glad Tuppy wised up—thanks to your guiding hand, Jeeves—and went scuttling back to my cousin Angela."

"A most fortunate outcome, sir."

"Bad business, these opera singers mostly, wouldn't you say, Jeeves?"

"Not necessarily, sir," he countered. "Miss Daae is apparently a very comely and charming figure on the stage."

I shrugged. "Well, I suppose she'd have to be to keep Raoul in thrall so long. Well, anyways, apparently not everything is as full of daisies and sunshine as we'd like for the new young couple, Jeeves. They appear to have caught a rather mysterious snag in the proceedings."

"Yes, sir."

I frowned a touch at the man's airy tone. "What mean you, 'yes, sir?' You sound as if you already knew that."

"I assumed as much, sir. In fact, that is why I proposed a prolonged absence abroad, anticipating Mr. de Chagny in need of our assistance."

I was back to blinking and agogging. He couldn't have read my letter before I had. For one thing, the seal was unbroken when he gave it to me, and for another, that's just not the sort of thing Jeeves goes in for. He has his subtle ways, but peeping at the master's correspondence is most certainly not one of them. I was beginning to suspect telepathy.

"And how, pray tell, did you anticipate all this? Speak, Jeeves, you frighten me with your strange ways."

Another of his soft coughs preceded his response. "An additional article I chanced reading last evening connected Mr. de Chagny with Miss Daae, and not without implications of a third party involved. Superstitious stagehands believe this party to be the infamous Paris 'Opera Ghost.'"

"Eh?"

"The Phantom of the Opera, as he's otherwise known. Reports from various members of the Opera Populaire claim him as a spectral figure in human form with a hideous countenance, making demands on the managers for box seats, a salary, and, currently, the furthering of Miss Daae's operatic career. When I noticed the de Chagny family seal upon the envelope, I thought it not very far-fetched at all that the letter might be the young viscount asking for assistance."

I relaxed a bit, hearing this altogether human explanation, though it did give me pause to find out about this Phantom fellow. "Psh. Rubbish, Jeeves."

"Sir?"

"This Phantom business. Sounds like a prank Claude and Eustace once played on their housekeeper when they were little, making strange, strangled noises in the night to convince the poor woman the place was haunted. They started whispering into the vents, warning her that if she didn't give them leave to slomp around the place in muddy galoshes, the ghost would give her what-for. Think something similar's afoot, Jeeves?"

"I doubt if your cousins are behind the current happenings, sir."

"No, no, Jeeves. That someone's making an absolute monkey out of the managers at the Paris Opera."

"The reports are strange indeed, sir, but I agree that most likely some entirely human element is at hand."

"Hm," I replied sagely. I was lost in thought for a moment. But, considering the depths of my thoughts, that never takes very long. "There it is then," I proclaimed brightly when I emerged. "I don't fancy plopping myself indefinitely into a haunted opera house of all places, but Paris is a sunny berg with romance lacing the air and whatnot. Could be a gas. Plus, Bertram Wooster is never one to let down a friend in times of need, is he? And I am curious to meet this lass Raoul's been wild about since he was but a mere stripling, this Christine Day—Dyer—Dahee—oh, blast it, Jeeves, how do you pronounce that damned name?"

"Die-ay, I believe, is the correct enunciation, sir."

"Die-ay, eh? That's what you get from D-A-A-E with that little dash on top of the last letter?"

"An accent, sir."

"Well, of course you'd say it in an accent, but it's still a rummy little symbol to attach willy-nilly to the last letter of a word. Why not just spell the cursed name how it sounds, Jeeves?"

"The Swedish alphabet works in mysterious ways, sir."

"Undoubtedly. Still, confounded name or no, I guess there's no harm in meeting the girl, is there?"

"No harm as far as I can tell, sir. Again, may I remind you a sojourn to Paris would also be prudent in escaping the clutches of Miss Bassett and Mrs. Gregson, sir?"

"Well, that tears it. We are definitely going. Go forth and buy first class tickets for the earliest departure to Paris you can find, Jeeves! And you'll be more than willing to counsel young Raoul once we reach Paris's gleaming shore?"

"If I can, sir."

"Swimming!"

"Indeed, sir."