A/N; Perhaps I am a splendid moron, an audacious moron, but a moron all the same. K, daaling, I have decided to try again. I am reposting Khaki and very carefully considering restarting the Opera in Colore Sequens. After consulting a number of English professionals and referring to higher authorities on the intricacies of literary theft and all, I am convinced I am safely in the realm of artistic license to continue my work. However, some changes were made, though they are hard to spot. Let us keep a low profile, and we can return to Raoul and Co. I miss them too much, as do you I suspect. So, here is Khaki complete

Opera in Khaki

I. Sire de Tout l'Opéra

In a wing of Creonte's palace, Médée, after having been openly renounced by Jason and ordered into exile by the king of Corinth, raged at her maid. She vowed vengeance on her former husband who was, already on the eve of his wedding, going to marry the fair princess Dircé. Such a flagrant act of abandonment deserved no less than the summoning of the terrible Eumenides to bring blood and desolation on the house of Corinth. In a private box, Enguerrand, Count d'Argentile, and his brother Raoul, the viscount of the same, watched the passionate scene of the opera Médée with rapt attention. Their eyes, one pair a smoky gray and the other a silver-argentine, lingered on the poisoned gown and crown which Médée gave to the bride to induce her slow death at the altar.

"How angry she is," Raoul observed quietly as he gave a slight shiver at the violence of Médée's hatred.

"You would be too, mon vicomte, when you've suffered as she has," Enguerrand responded. "She's given him help in obtaining the Golden Flease, her love, and two children. And now, he leaves her for another woman and, what is more, forbids her to see her sons."

"Ah, but then, the Fates are cruel," the viscount returned, remembering the hurt expression Médée wore when granted a meeting with Jason.

The second act concluded with Médée casting dire imprecations on the marriage parade going to the Temple of Hera and thus intermission commenced.

"Not as cruel as the suspense that comes with the interval," Enguerrand belatedly retorted as the curtain fell. He consulted his velvet-lined program to see how long the break would last.

"Come, let us walk then," Raoul offered, getting to his feet. "It'll make the time pass more quickly."

"You're very restless today, mon vicomte," Enguerrand remarked with a smile.

"You cannot expect me to sit here and ruminate about the terrible Médée for a full quarter of an hour," Raoul replied. "I shall slowly turn into a misogynist, and then I shall be very dull indeed."

The count laughed softly as he joined his brother in exiting the box. "Ma foi, you'll never hate women. You're an Argentile and too susceptible to the charming wiles of the fairer sex."

Out of an old habit, the peers proceeded to the foyer de la chanson, even though they knew it would be empty. There, they were greeted by thirty painted panels featuring the portraits of the most reputed artists of the opera house.

While the young viscount gazed at the fair divas smiling with mouths of such vocal power, he asked with genuine curiosity, "Why don't they come out and let the subscribers flatter them? Surely the attention is not distasteful. But instead, they make their dressing room the sanctum sanctorum of the entire opéra."

Enguerrand neared Raoul and admired the visage of a mezzo from the first half of the century. "For all your love for l'Opéra, you don't know its legend? I thought everyone knew."

"What? What legend?" Raoul inquired, his eyebrows raised.

Enguerrand smirked and elaborated, "Ah, mon vicomte, they say that if you find a certain performer in her dressing room during intermission and kiss her, you'll be the lord of that which she performs."

"How do you mean lord?" Raoul questioned, an ironical smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Kiss la danseuse, and you'll be the Sire de la Pirouette; kiss prima ballerina, though, and you'll be Sire de la Ballet," Enguerrand explained.

"How charming," Raoul replied with a laugh.

"Oh, but there's more. Kiss a mezzo, and you'll be Sire de l'Aria; a soprano, Sire de l'Operette; and a prima donna, Sire de Tout l'Opéra," Enguerrand enumerated. "Every chanteuse holds the key to a small kingdom."

Raoul, quickly scanning the painted panels, began with a quavering voice, "Do you mean to suggest that if I kiss Mademoiselle Thétis Nereilles—“

"Your terrible Médée," Enguerrand punctuated wryly.

Raoul sighed softly, ignoring his brother, "Then I'll become Sire de Tout l'Opéra ... in name at least?"

The count, shaking his head and chuckling, said, "It's just a story, mon vicomte, nothing more, but yes. You'll be le Sire. Remember, however, the circumstances are very exacting which make it well nigh impossible. But this is the very reason why the divas stay in their rooms."

"To tantalize us?" Raoul returned, fixing his gaze on a dark-haired soprano. "To invite this charming temptation?"

"You could call it that," Enguerrand agreed, still wearing an amused smirk at the viscount's wistful expression. He then checked his pocket watch and said, "Come, mon Raoul, we must hurry if you wish to see the third act. Even Mademoiselle Nereilles is leaving her chamber for the stage. Perhaps you can kiss her during another intermission."

"How you mock me, Enguerrand," Raoul observed, following the count out of the foyer de la chanson.

"Oh, but my raillery is nothing to the taunting quips that the chorus girls would, at the first chance, direct at you if they only knew how moved you were with such a story," Enguerrand answered good-naturedly.

"I find Médée not so terrible now," Raoul returned, as he and the count climbed the stairs leading to the auditorium.

"That is because her other name is Mademoiselle la Prima Donna," Enguerrand supplied sagely. "You're but a silly little boy, mon vicomte."

"I am no longer a boy," Raoul contested hotly.

"If you insist, mon homme," Enguerrand yielded, "but you're still very silly. Come, the curtain rises, and Médée shall sing for you."

Raoul resignedly took the seat beside his brother and watched the final act in attentive silence. Médée appeared in a black veil and was deeply moved by the sight of her children whom she then killed to avenge vicariously her husband's abandonment. Shouts from the palace singled Dircé's death, and the tension mounted when Jason, impelled by pity, begged his former wife for the return of his sons. But alas, they were already dead when Médée started for the temple, setting it on fire and calling to Jason that they would meet again at the banks of the Styx. The hellish finale came as the blaze spread and thunder bolts rattled overhead; eventually the temple and mountain in the backdrop collapsed, and Médée vanished in the conflagration. Both count and viscount looked on in horror at the infernal ending which was grimly concealed by the velvet curtain that had just fallen on the scene.