![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 36/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2141
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Meg and Raoul venture underground.
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
“I don’t believe it... did you know this was here?”
Raoul raised the lantern, and Meg stifled a gasp. After they entered the tunnel that led from Christine’s dressing room the mirror had suddenly turned, as if propelled by a counter-weight, to close behind them, trapping them on the wrong side of the glass. Finding a lamp and matches conveniently hidden in a niche (Erik, it seemed, was nothing if not prepared) they discarded the candle and with more than a little trepidation made their way into the depths of the theatre. The journey seemed to take forever; twists and turns, ramps and stairs all served to confuse and disorientate. Belatedly Meg recalled Joseph Buquet’s warnings and insisted that they keep their hands at the level of their eyes. Raoul protested, but when she mentioned the Punjab lasso he glanced at the bandage which still bound his right wrist and nodded grimly. He insisted upon taking the both the light and the lead, and when Meg rested her free hand on his arm every so often just to remind him that she was still following he did not pull away. They traipsed through all manner of dirty, dusty corridors, ducking their heads at times to pass through openings which were barely large enough for a man bent double, having to stop abruptly as the ground almost gave way beneath their feet, until at length they were forced to come to a halt: their path was blocked by a huge and impossible stretch of water.
“It’s a lake!” Meg exclaimed in astonishment. “An underground lake!”
The vicomte stared ahead of him in astonishment. “It’s absolutely incredible.”
“I have heard rumours about it, but I never imagined...” She trailed off and they stood in silence for a few moments, gazing out across the still, inky black water. Somehow, the light from the lamp was magnified, settling an eerie green glow over the cavern in which they found themselves. When Meg spoke again she realised that she could hear a faint echo of her words bounced back to her. “That must be where he lives... there, beyond the lake.”
“I don’t understand,” Raoul said, “Why would anyone choose to live in such a place, so far below the earth?”
Meg felt an unaccountable sadness fill her heart. “Perhaps because they had no choice, but were forced to hide. I can see no other reason to exist in such isolation. How horrible to be driven so far away from any human contact...”
There was a long pause. She heard her companion shuffle uncomfortably for a few moments before his footsteps rang upon the rock and she realised he had moved closer to the water, holding the lantern high. “It looks deep,” he reported, glancing back towards her. “Can you swim?”
Meg shook her head. Having lived in Paris all her life there had never been a reason for her to learn. Just the thought of being pulled under the surface, of that dark water closing over her head and cutting off her air made her shiver more than the cool breeze that blew through the cavern. She rubbed her arms, wishing that she’d thought to grab the shawl which was a part of her gypsy costume from where she’d left it on Don Juan’s bed.
“We’ll have to find a way round,” Raoul muttered. “It could take hours; there’s no way of telling how wide this lake is.”
“Maman has been here many times,” Meg said, joining him at the water’s edge. “She’s never gone for more than a couple of hours, and if the journey was too difficult she wouldn’t attempt it during the day.”
“It’s a shame we can’t ask her. We have no idea whether she and Christine even came this way; perhaps we missed a turning somewhere and are miles off course!” The vicomte ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “So much time has been wasted. I can’t bear to think of Christine left in the clutches of that man for so long!”
“No harm can come to her as long as she is with my mother,” she told him firmly. “Maman will look after her.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “I wish I could share your confidence.”
Privately, Meg did not believe that Erik would hurt Christine, not deliberately at least. He had never done so before; even when he had the opportunity, on the night of Il Muto, the chandelier ended its descent almost perfectly before Christine’s feet as though its landing had been carefully calculated. Terrible as it was, it had seemed more like a warning than any serious attempt to harm her. And when the Phantom grabbed her friend back there on the stage, holding her to him, the action appeared more protective than threatening. Meg shook her head sharply. The whole situation was a muddle, a great big tangled ball of string, and right now she couldn’t find the end that would unravel it.
Raoul was pacing along the shore, the lamplight bobbing with his long strides. Not wishing to be left in that strange murky glow which seemed to hang in the air, Meg followed, scurrying to keep up. They had not gone far when something caught her eye as the beam from the lantern passed over the rock beyond them. In the uneven wall was a dark hole which she realised as they approached was the entrance to a smaller cave; the light caught on something, made it gleam momentarily, and she gestured to Raoul to bring the lamp closer. When he did, she was able to see that it was reflecting from the rowlocks of a small wooden boat. It had been tucked away there, from the prying eyes of any visitors, for all the world as though the cave were a boathouse on the river. The oars were lying in the bottom, and Raoul quickly discovered that both they and the boat appeared to be sound and watertight.
“Have you ever considered becoming a detective, Meg?” he asked when she gave him another triumphant grin, helping him to push the boat from its hiding place. He handed her gallantly into the bows and then stepped aboard himself, taking up the oars. “You would be an asset to the Sûreté.”
Meg settled herself, holding the lantern out before them. “I don’t think they have a ballet chorus,” she said as they pulled out onto the lake and headed into the darkness.
________________________________________
It was a strange sensation, travelling along in almost complete silence; the only sound their breathing and the steady splash of the oars in the water. Meg wondered if Erik had brought Christine this way that first night. Had it seemed magical to her, or merely strange and disconcerting? Christine had told her very little about her initial encounter with her Angel of Music, almost as if she could not really remember what had happened. Were there more of the Phantom’s tricks in store for them? Belatedly, she remembered her promise to her mother than she would never approach Erik and felt a little trepidation. OG would not be pleased to find that he had trespassers in his kingdom.
The boat passed under what almost appeared to be a low gateway in the rock; Meg ducked instinctively even though there was probably more than enough room above her head. They emerged into a smaller cavern, this one lit by branches of wrought iron, the intricate metalwork holding candles which had burned down low, spent wax guttering all over their delicate stems. Before them was a jetty carved out of the rock, and moored at it, shifting on the swell created by their approach, was a black gondola very much like the one she had once seen in the prop store in the third cellar above. However, while the discarded boat upstairs was shabby and peeling, this one had been given a recent coat of paint and its gilding was pristine. The interior was lined with brilliantly patterned and well-stuffed silk cushions, across which lay a long wooden pole. Meg recalled the pictures in a book her mother owned of the gondoliers in Venice, propelling their craft along the canals with just such an instrument.
“I think we may have found the Phantom’s lair,” she said softly as their little boat bumped against the shore.
Raoul nodded and jumped out, turning back to assist her. By the time he had secured the craft, Meg was prowling up and down the rear wall of the cave, her fingers running over the rocky wall. The vicomte joined her, before he stepped back to observe their surroundings and exclaimed,
“It’s a dead end! Oh, Christine, Christine. We’re further away from her than ever!” He sat down on the floor, shoulders slumped and head bowed in defeat. “How many more tricks does that bastard have up his sleeve?”
Meg stopped briefly to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder before returning her attention to the wall. “Remember what I said, Monsieur. You have to think like the Phantom. If you were living all the way down here, would you leave a signpost to let any intruders know your exact whereabouts?”
Raoul groaned. “Mademoiselle Giry – Meg – must you be so wise and logical?”
“At least one of us should. Do you not think so?”
He just grunted in response, and so Meg continued with her explorations. It took some time but eventually she made out a dark shadow where there should not have been one, a thin strip running several feet up the wall. Motioning Raoul over with the lamp once again, she rested a hand against the rock and found to both her surprise and satisfaction that it gave beneath the pressure. An invisible door swung slowly open on well-oiled hinges revealing an incongruously ordinary hallway, as though someone had buried a house deep beneath the Opera. Cautiously, she stepped inside, ignoring Raoul’s hiss of warning, moving quickly when she felt broken glass crunch beneath her slippers.
As she looked around, it became clear that her impression was not far from the truth: this was indeed a house encased within the rock. Meg wasn’t sure exactly what she had been expecting when she thought of the Phantom’s home, but it had certainly not been this. Far from being a refuge, a hideaway bearing the basic necessities, this was more comfortable and better furnished than many a Parisian apartment. The hall stretched ahead, doors leading from it indicating further rooms, its panelled walls decorated with paintings and tapestries. A stand bearing various hats and coats had been hidden behind the door, and on a wooden table were thrown the usual debris of everyday life, from gloves to letters to keys. All that was missing was a mirror. The glass had come from a pretty table lamp, the broken body of which rolled across the floor when Raoul accidentally touched it with his foot.
“My God,” he said as he extinguished their lantern, superfluous in the gas lighting which illuminated the hallway. Meg had no idea how such a thing could be achieved so far underground. “Your mother was right: he is a genius.”
Meg began to reply, but before she could speak a door opened further down the hall. She heard her mother’s voice call out, and automatically started towards the sound; as she did, Christine all but flew through the doorway. She stood for a moment, staring at them, eyes wide and hair dishevelled; the colourful dress of Aminta that she still wore rusty with dried blood. Several seconds passed as no one dared to speak or move, and then Christine’s face crumpled and she threw herself at Raoul, beating his chest with her tiny fists.
“This is all your fault!” she cried, fighting him as he caught hold of her wrists, trying to halt her sudden assault upon his person. “You did this – you’ve killed him!”
“Me? What did I - ” He stopped, holding her away from him, and looked her anxiously up and down. “You’re not hurt? He’s not harmed you? The blood - ”
“It’s Erik’s,” Christine replied tonelessly. “He’s dying, and it’s all your fault.”
Meg turned her gaze from one to the other, and realisation struck. “Christine, surely you can’t think that Raoul fired that shot?” she asked. “He couldn’t have reached the pit until just before the gun went off.”
“I know what I saw,” her friend insisted, chin lifted stubbornly, her eyes not leaving her fiancé. “I saw you pointing a pistol at him.”
“Christine,” Raoul began, but she pulled away from him. “Christine, please. There was no other way, you know that!”
“Come and see,” she said, turning and walking back towards the open doorway. “Come and see what you’ve done.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2141
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Meg and Raoul venture underground.
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
“I don’t believe it... did you know this was here?”
Raoul raised the lantern, and Meg stifled a gasp. After they entered the tunnel that led from Christine’s dressing room the mirror had suddenly turned, as if propelled by a counter-weight, to close behind them, trapping them on the wrong side of the glass. Finding a lamp and matches conveniently hidden in a niche (Erik, it seemed, was nothing if not prepared) they discarded the candle and with more than a little trepidation made their way into the depths of the theatre. The journey seemed to take forever; twists and turns, ramps and stairs all served to confuse and disorientate. Belatedly Meg recalled Joseph Buquet’s warnings and insisted that they keep their hands at the level of their eyes. Raoul protested, but when she mentioned the Punjab lasso he glanced at the bandage which still bound his right wrist and nodded grimly. He insisted upon taking the both the light and the lead, and when Meg rested her free hand on his arm every so often just to remind him that she was still following he did not pull away. They traipsed through all manner of dirty, dusty corridors, ducking their heads at times to pass through openings which were barely large enough for a man bent double, having to stop abruptly as the ground almost gave way beneath their feet, until at length they were forced to come to a halt: their path was blocked by a huge and impossible stretch of water.
“It’s a lake!” Meg exclaimed in astonishment. “An underground lake!”
The vicomte stared ahead of him in astonishment. “It’s absolutely incredible.”
“I have heard rumours about it, but I never imagined...” She trailed off and they stood in silence for a few moments, gazing out across the still, inky black water. Somehow, the light from the lamp was magnified, settling an eerie green glow over the cavern in which they found themselves. When Meg spoke again she realised that she could hear a faint echo of her words bounced back to her. “That must be where he lives... there, beyond the lake.”
“I don’t understand,” Raoul said, “Why would anyone choose to live in such a place, so far below the earth?”
Meg felt an unaccountable sadness fill her heart. “Perhaps because they had no choice, but were forced to hide. I can see no other reason to exist in such isolation. How horrible to be driven so far away from any human contact...”
There was a long pause. She heard her companion shuffle uncomfortably for a few moments before his footsteps rang upon the rock and she realised he had moved closer to the water, holding the lantern high. “It looks deep,” he reported, glancing back towards her. “Can you swim?”
Meg shook her head. Having lived in Paris all her life there had never been a reason for her to learn. Just the thought of being pulled under the surface, of that dark water closing over her head and cutting off her air made her shiver more than the cool breeze that blew through the cavern. She rubbed her arms, wishing that she’d thought to grab the shawl which was a part of her gypsy costume from where she’d left it on Don Juan’s bed.
“We’ll have to find a way round,” Raoul muttered. “It could take hours; there’s no way of telling how wide this lake is.”
“Maman has been here many times,” Meg said, joining him at the water’s edge. “She’s never gone for more than a couple of hours, and if the journey was too difficult she wouldn’t attempt it during the day.”
“It’s a shame we can’t ask her. We have no idea whether she and Christine even came this way; perhaps we missed a turning somewhere and are miles off course!” The vicomte ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “So much time has been wasted. I can’t bear to think of Christine left in the clutches of that man for so long!”
“No harm can come to her as long as she is with my mother,” she told him firmly. “Maman will look after her.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “I wish I could share your confidence.”
Privately, Meg did not believe that Erik would hurt Christine, not deliberately at least. He had never done so before; even when he had the opportunity, on the night of Il Muto, the chandelier ended its descent almost perfectly before Christine’s feet as though its landing had been carefully calculated. Terrible as it was, it had seemed more like a warning than any serious attempt to harm her. And when the Phantom grabbed her friend back there on the stage, holding her to him, the action appeared more protective than threatening. Meg shook her head sharply. The whole situation was a muddle, a great big tangled ball of string, and right now she couldn’t find the end that would unravel it.
Raoul was pacing along the shore, the lamplight bobbing with his long strides. Not wishing to be left in that strange murky glow which seemed to hang in the air, Meg followed, scurrying to keep up. They had not gone far when something caught her eye as the beam from the lantern passed over the rock beyond them. In the uneven wall was a dark hole which she realised as they approached was the entrance to a smaller cave; the light caught on something, made it gleam momentarily, and she gestured to Raoul to bring the lamp closer. When he did, she was able to see that it was reflecting from the rowlocks of a small wooden boat. It had been tucked away there, from the prying eyes of any visitors, for all the world as though the cave were a boathouse on the river. The oars were lying in the bottom, and Raoul quickly discovered that both they and the boat appeared to be sound and watertight.
“Have you ever considered becoming a detective, Meg?” he asked when she gave him another triumphant grin, helping him to push the boat from its hiding place. He handed her gallantly into the bows and then stepped aboard himself, taking up the oars. “You would be an asset to the Sûreté.”
Meg settled herself, holding the lantern out before them. “I don’t think they have a ballet chorus,” she said as they pulled out onto the lake and headed into the darkness.
________________________________________
It was a strange sensation, travelling along in almost complete silence; the only sound their breathing and the steady splash of the oars in the water. Meg wondered if Erik had brought Christine this way that first night. Had it seemed magical to her, or merely strange and disconcerting? Christine had told her very little about her initial encounter with her Angel of Music, almost as if she could not really remember what had happened. Were there more of the Phantom’s tricks in store for them? Belatedly, she remembered her promise to her mother than she would never approach Erik and felt a little trepidation. OG would not be pleased to find that he had trespassers in his kingdom.
The boat passed under what almost appeared to be a low gateway in the rock; Meg ducked instinctively even though there was probably more than enough room above her head. They emerged into a smaller cavern, this one lit by branches of wrought iron, the intricate metalwork holding candles which had burned down low, spent wax guttering all over their delicate stems. Before them was a jetty carved out of the rock, and moored at it, shifting on the swell created by their approach, was a black gondola very much like the one she had once seen in the prop store in the third cellar above. However, while the discarded boat upstairs was shabby and peeling, this one had been given a recent coat of paint and its gilding was pristine. The interior was lined with brilliantly patterned and well-stuffed silk cushions, across which lay a long wooden pole. Meg recalled the pictures in a book her mother owned of the gondoliers in Venice, propelling their craft along the canals with just such an instrument.
“I think we may have found the Phantom’s lair,” she said softly as their little boat bumped against the shore.
Raoul nodded and jumped out, turning back to assist her. By the time he had secured the craft, Meg was prowling up and down the rear wall of the cave, her fingers running over the rocky wall. The vicomte joined her, before he stepped back to observe their surroundings and exclaimed,
“It’s a dead end! Oh, Christine, Christine. We’re further away from her than ever!” He sat down on the floor, shoulders slumped and head bowed in defeat. “How many more tricks does that bastard have up his sleeve?”
Meg stopped briefly to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder before returning her attention to the wall. “Remember what I said, Monsieur. You have to think like the Phantom. If you were living all the way down here, would you leave a signpost to let any intruders know your exact whereabouts?”
Raoul groaned. “Mademoiselle Giry – Meg – must you be so wise and logical?”
“At least one of us should. Do you not think so?”
He just grunted in response, and so Meg continued with her explorations. It took some time but eventually she made out a dark shadow where there should not have been one, a thin strip running several feet up the wall. Motioning Raoul over with the lamp once again, she rested a hand against the rock and found to both her surprise and satisfaction that it gave beneath the pressure. An invisible door swung slowly open on well-oiled hinges revealing an incongruously ordinary hallway, as though someone had buried a house deep beneath the Opera. Cautiously, she stepped inside, ignoring Raoul’s hiss of warning, moving quickly when she felt broken glass crunch beneath her slippers.
As she looked around, it became clear that her impression was not far from the truth: this was indeed a house encased within the rock. Meg wasn’t sure exactly what she had been expecting when she thought of the Phantom’s home, but it had certainly not been this. Far from being a refuge, a hideaway bearing the basic necessities, this was more comfortable and better furnished than many a Parisian apartment. The hall stretched ahead, doors leading from it indicating further rooms, its panelled walls decorated with paintings and tapestries. A stand bearing various hats and coats had been hidden behind the door, and on a wooden table were thrown the usual debris of everyday life, from gloves to letters to keys. All that was missing was a mirror. The glass had come from a pretty table lamp, the broken body of which rolled across the floor when Raoul accidentally touched it with his foot.
“My God,” he said as he extinguished their lantern, superfluous in the gas lighting which illuminated the hallway. Meg had no idea how such a thing could be achieved so far underground. “Your mother was right: he is a genius.”
Meg began to reply, but before she could speak a door opened further down the hall. She heard her mother’s voice call out, and automatically started towards the sound; as she did, Christine all but flew through the doorway. She stood for a moment, staring at them, eyes wide and hair dishevelled; the colourful dress of Aminta that she still wore rusty with dried blood. Several seconds passed as no one dared to speak or move, and then Christine’s face crumpled and she threw herself at Raoul, beating his chest with her tiny fists.
“This is all your fault!” she cried, fighting him as he caught hold of her wrists, trying to halt her sudden assault upon his person. “You did this – you’ve killed him!”
“Me? What did I - ” He stopped, holding her away from him, and looked her anxiously up and down. “You’re not hurt? He’s not harmed you? The blood - ”
“It’s Erik’s,” Christine replied tonelessly. “He’s dying, and it’s all your fault.”
Meg turned her gaze from one to the other, and realisation struck. “Christine, surely you can’t think that Raoul fired that shot?” she asked. “He couldn’t have reached the pit until just before the gun went off.”
“I know what I saw,” her friend insisted, chin lifted stubbornly, her eyes not leaving her fiancé. “I saw you pointing a pistol at him.”
“Christine,” Raoul began, but she pulled away from him. “Christine, please. There was no other way, you know that!”
“Come and see,” she said, turning and walking back towards the open doorway. “Come and see what you’ve done.”
