A/N: In honor of my temporary boredom of Paris, I bring you the further exploits of Raoul d’Argentile in Austria at the Wiener Staatsoper--Vienna State Opera. As a quick historical note, Alcibiades (al-ki-bi-a-dees) was an ancient Greek, Athenian to be exact, womanizer. I mean he is famous for other reasons, but his playboy legacy is the premise for O in A. Enjoy!

Opera in Argent

I. The Vow of Alcibiades

That night's wine was a viridescent Riesling, and the opera was Tristan und Isolde. Raoul, the Count d'Argentile, sipped the sweet nectar while musing on the tantalizing soprano, Ava Trigvysen who was the most artistically haughty Swede to have ever graced the stage of the Vienna State Opera. Her dark blue eyes, the color of the North Sea, and blonde hair, the very hue of Baltic amber, were what initially attracted the French count to the Nordic nymph. In an upstairs lounge, he sat in an armchair of Russian velvet listening, with his imperfect understanding of German, to the other men who talked about that evening's production and, more especially, its cast.

"How sad the story is!" said Valdemar, the Viscount von Dradenburg.

"Indeed," Casper von Frintzendel agreed. "But with a name like Tristan, 'sadness', it can't be anything but tragic."

"And Fraulein Trigvysen was a marvel on stage," Valdemar continued, pouring himself a glass of Riesling. "Tenderly passionate, fiercely angry, and pensively rapturous. How she sang the Liebestod with such an anguished ecstasy. She could cause the flighty silfs, who whisk about in the curtains of the aurora borealis, to pause in their games and listen,". He then sipped his wine.

"Why, she could even make the great warriors of Valhalla cease their fighting, if only for a moment," Caspar offered.

"Such power in a voice!" Valdemar exclaimed. "I think she can stop the heart of every man for every moment in any aria."

"And yet, and how very curious it is, her own pulsing genius has never been ensnared by any man," Caspar remarked. Raoul, smiling genially, leaned in closer to hear the conversation better.

"What do you mean, Monsieur?" d'Argentile asked, setting his glass on the mahogany table before him.

"Mein Herr, you must be a visitor in our Vienna," Caspar replied in a mix of French and German, privately impressed that the foreigner could follow their lilting language as far as he did.

"Yes, I come from Paris," Raoul answered. "My German is functional at best, sparse at worst."

Inferring the veiled request of the Count d'Argentile, Valdemar said, "Oh, we can speak French perfectly, though you'll have to pardon our Germanic accent."

"Not at all," Raoul returned amiably. "But tell me, who is this fiery Trigvysen?"

"Mademoiselle Ava Trigvysen is the Staatsoper's finest soprano," Valdemar explained.

"And a Swede at that," Caspar put in.

"Really," Raoul answered. "The prima donna must have a constant coterie of admirers then."

"Oh, but she was nothing in Stockholm at the Kungliga, just a poor, unnoticed chorus girl with only her dark eyes as her most striking feature," Valdemar countered.

"They said she had no voice and couldn't hold a tune," Caspar elaborated.

"The fools! They knew not what they heard and lost a prodigy of talent," Valdemar lamented, delicately sipping his Riesling.

"So what happened to our prima donna?" Raoul coaxed, intrigued and a little annoyed at the lengthy detour he had to endure.

"Ah yes. It was good timing," Caspar noted. "She was very fortunate."

"The chorus master here at the Staatsoper," Valdemar cut in, "went to Stockholm to see his young cousin in a ballet of some sort. While the awkward ballerina practiced her pirouettes and hops, the shy Trigvysen belted out her tremulous little voice in the Ave Maria, for it was Noel at the time when monsieur went."

"Mademoiselle received a very nice gift that year," Caspar quipped.

"She caught the attention of the chorus master," Valdemar continued. "And he paid for her passage to Austria. He took her to Vienna and, after pleading with the managers, made the shy chorus girl into a first class diva."

"And here we are, reflecting on her history," Caspar mused pensively.

"But a very remarkable history," Valdemar concluded, with an extravagant flourish of his wineglass.

"Remarkable yes," Raoul agreed as a slow ironic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "But what seems even more remarkable is that she hasn't pined for an Italian tenor or languished away for the brief glance of a handsome subscriber who, of course, is already married. While this is my first night here, I'm sure a fair number of comtes, vicomtes, and dandies come to the opera, and Mademoiselle Trigvysen hasn't craved the company of any?"

"No," Caspar said with a smirk, "she's rather independent."

"It is cruelty!" Valdemar deplored. "She is unforgivably imperious and makes us all slaves."

"She's already made this slave into a babbling idiot," Caspar said tiredly, no doubt referring to the young viscount beside him.

Raoul winked in understanding. "I see," he said, "now that I think of it. I do believe Mademoiselle Trigvysen came to Paris for a brief season. But I unfortunately never saw her on stage."

"What!" Valdemar asked, incredulous. He then violently brought down his wineglass to the table.

"Forgive me," Raoul responded, amused. "But there were other sopranos and mezzos who peaked my interest."

"Monsieur, you've just committed the gravest of heresies in preferring some other singer that is not Mademoiselle Trigvysen, and what's more is that you've confessed to the chief inquisitor," Caspar noted in a resigned voice. "He'll surely have your head if he doesn't drag you to the pedestal of his goddess first."

"How you mock me, Caspar!" the viscount sighed.

"Oh leave it," Caspar coolly rebuffed. "Her single act of rejection atones for every man's sins."

Still nursing his Riesling, Raoul quipped, "Clearly, I'm in the wrong. And if Mademoiselle Trigvysen is my only vessel of salvation, then I shall seek her and entreat her for absolution." He then arose from the velvet cushioning and left a tip on the table. "A pleasure, gentleman." And with that, the Count d'Argentile quitted the lounge.

"Brave pilgrim!" Valdemar cheered after him.

"An avowed fool," Caspar muttered.

Raoul emerged onto a brightly lit hallway before walking down the stairs to the cloak room. His gloved hand slid along the polished banister as his diamond cufflink sparkled under the chandelier's illumination. Just then, as he progressed downward, a tall woman, advancing upward, brushed his arm.

"Pardon me," he said in a soft voice.

Her fair eyebrows rose, and she coldly tossed her head to the side, not saying anything while continuing on her way. Raoul paused, remembered her dark eyes and amber-colored hair, and mouthed, "O sinner, what hast thou done? Never mind. I'll have you yet, chérie." And so the count pledged himself.