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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 44/44
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1877
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Meg Giry, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Author's Note: Erik's surname is taken from the 1943 Claude Rains film.
Summary: Where do we go from here?
EPILOGUE:
SO WHAT HAPPENS NOW?
It was nearly two weeks before Erik felt strong enough to leave his bed for more than half an hour at a time.
Determined that his convalescence should be as swift and comfortable as possible, Madame Giry insisted that he follow the doctor’s instructions and leave the unhealthy atmosphere of the cellars to stay with her and Meg for as long as it took for him to recuperate. Erik had protested, loudly and at great length, and Christine did not miss the fear and anxiety which flared in his eyes at the prospect of leaving his sanctuary for the harsh light of the outside world, but eventually he was worn down by the ballet mistress’s arguments and gave in, albeit reluctantly and with bad grace. She had taken his declaration that he saw them as his family to heart and in her no-nonsense manner had practically adopted him; once he left his underground home he would cease to be the Opera Ghost, becoming instead Madame Giry’s cousin and Christine’s music teacher, Erik Claudin, a struggling composer from Normandy. Meg was already busy concocting a story to explain away the mask.
The Opera remained closed, the company resting on full pay. So many scandals had hit the Populaire since the advent of the new management that no one seemed inclined to take on a theatre with such a catalogue of disasters to its name. Within days of the Don Juan fiasco, the newspapers were declaring that the Phantom had been a creation of Andre and Firmin, a way of drawing in the crowds and making more money for them to embezzle. There never had been a maniac stalking the corridors, declared one; the unfortunate death of Buquet and the failure of the chain anchoring the chandelier occurring on the same night put an opportunity in their way that they could not resist. What better way to ensure publicity for the reopening of the theatre than to blame the accidents upon a legend, a man who may or may not be a supernatural being? They had managed to make all of Paris agog with tales of the Phantom, and somehow persuaded the Vicomte de Chagny, brother of the theatre’s principal patron, to assist them in their schemes. Comte Philippe had been swift to sever all ties with the Populaire, and there were rumours that it had been his words in the ear of the Minister of Arts which secured Andre’s arrest for fraud in Firmin’s absence. He was currently being questioned, but no one really expected a charge to be made as there was little evidence due to the mysterious disappearance of all the relevant paperwork. It was a situation which completely flummoxed poor Remy, whose responsibility it was to ensure all books and accounts were up to date. The assumption was made that Firmin had taken with him all the documentation which might point towards his having his hand in the till.
Christine was in some way relieved that the journalists blamed the managers entirely, claiming that Raoul was entangled in their plots through his own naivety; it was better he be thought of as too trusting than the orchestrator of the plans, and he had not corrected the reporters, though he did write a spirited letter to La Monde, defending her reputation and artistic integrity, categorically denying that she had used her feminine wiles to obtain his involvement in the hoax. She sent him a note, thanking him for his words, and received a reply which brought tears to her eyes: he needed a distraction to help him bear the loss of her love, he said, and with his brother’s blessing had decided to join the navy. Echoing the aria which had first brought them together after so many years, he hoped that she might think of him sometimes, for there would never be a day when his thoughts would not turn to her. Erik, awkward but learning fast, did not enquire as to the contents of the letter, merely held her and stroked her hair until she cried herself out.
It appeared that stories were circulating, some too accurate for comfort, others with barely a grain of truth, like Chinese whispers. Even those who had been present at both disastrous performances could not agree on a version of events; some claimed that they had both seen and heard a man far above before the chandelier fell, others that it had all been a ruse to create drama and that La Carlotta was also part of it for why else would she have left so suddenly? Many were unsure whether the presence of the firemen and armed guards had been part of the plot of Don Juan Triumphant; one man who remained in his seat throughout even declared that it was the most exciting show he had ever seen, and was only let down by a weak and confused ending. He still wanted to know whether the Don finally bedded the lovely Aminta. Christine was not sure whether to laugh or cry when she heard this. She tactfully avoided showing any of the articles to Erik for fear that his temper might cause a relapse.
Now they made their slow way to the upper levels of the theatre, Meg and Christine taking it in turns to punt the gondola across the lake, Erik sitting in the stern with his travelling bag and grumbling that the boat had not been designed for three and would probably capsize before they made the opposite shore. Madame Giry met them at the mirror, and soon they stood upon the battered stage, looking out across the darkened auditorium, respectfully silent as the former Phantom prepared to leave the only home he had known for more than a decade. Christine was beside him, her arm through his, allowing him to lean on her without seeming to for he had his pride and did not wish to seem weak, even to her. He insisted upon dressing properly in his usual immaculate suit and polished shoes, the sling hidden by his heavy cloak and his fedora tilted across his face. They were the clothes of the Opera Ghost, but though the man wearing them still had the grace and poise of the Phantom the madness and danger which dogged his steps was gone, for the moment at least.
“Where do we go from here?” Christine wondered sadly, “No manager, no patronage... Who will take up the baton if no one is willing to invest?”
“The Opera Nationale?” suggested Meg, only half serious.
Madame Giry gave an unladylike snort. “Not with their ballet in such a shambles.”
“And they have a soprano who should have retired seasons ago,” added Erik. “She is more tenacious than La Carlotta.”
“Someone told me she has a voice like a goose farti - ” Meg began, but stopped at a glare from her mother. She grinned when Erik, uncharacteristically, laughed out loud.
“Your informant was quite correct,” he said. “No doubt they heard her Queen of the Night. A foghorn could have sung it better.”
“Erik,” Christine chided gently, though she could not help smiling. His laugh sounded wonderful, rich and deep and so different from the maniacal cackle that had scared her on the night of Il Muto. She tugged lightly on his sleeve. “I mean it. What will become of the Populaire?”
His gaze ran around the grand tier, over the gilded swags and figures illuminated by the weak sunlight that filtered through the atrium, halting at last on Box Five, shrouded in its customary shadow. “No doubt someone will be brave enough to take it on.”
“Are you sad to be leaving?” she asked.
There was a pause, and then he sighed. “This building has seen some of the best and worst moments of my life. There are those which should make me wish to turn my back upon it forever, but others, such as that day I first saw you and heard you sing... I would stay for that moment alone. I can still see your face, streaked with tears for your father, and the grey dress you wore. The lace was fraying at the cuff.”
“I was barely out of mourning,” Christine recalled. “I only had two good dresses. You were watching, even then?”
“Even then. I have probably never told you this, but you awoke something in me; your voice restarted a heart that I had long since believed was dead and cold. Because of that, though I may be leaving for a short time, I will return.”
Christine glanced down at the carpet bag which sat at their feet, a bag far too small to hold his worldly possessions. She thought of the house by the lake, a place she had come to love but which he had called both a dungeon and a prison. “Is this not the perfect chance to escape, to - ”
“Christine,” he said, slipping his arm from hers and taking her hand, raising it to his lips. “I will return because of you.”
“But - ”
“Do you not want to step out onto this stage again, as Prima Donna in your own right?” Leading her towards the footlights, his stride unsteady but growing stronger all the time, he released her fingers for a moment to sweep out his arm, a grand gesture which encompassed the entire auditorium. “I can see you now, as Violetta... Desdemona... Marguerite - ”
“Carmen!” Meg put in, ruining the moment.
Christine had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing. “Carmen is a mezzo,” she said. “You might as well ask me to sing Amneris in Aida!”
“I think you could pull it off.” Meg looked at Erik for support. “Don’t you?”
Erik raised an eyebrow. “I think I would prefer her not to ruin her voice after all the work we put in to it,” he said. “What do you say, Christine? Do you want to reach for those dizzying heights?”
She stood there with him, her gaze moving across the empty seats as she saw again in her mind’s eye the bright lights and the many faces which confronted her that first night in Hannibal. It all seemed so long ago; it had been both terrifying and exhilarating and she could still feel the way her heart had been beating so hard that she thought it might burst out of her heavily-jewelled bodice. If she listened hard she could hear the shouts and the applause as the audience rose to its feet almost as one to give her a standing ovation. And afterwards, the ghostly voice of her teacher praising her... Whatever had happened, however many deceptions and misunderstandings there had been on the way, without Erik she would still be in the back row of the ballet chorus, waiting for an opportunity that might never have come.
Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons so do we...
“More than anything,” she said, and he smiled.
“The Populaire will rise again,” he told her, and she believed him. “And you will sing, my Angel of Music, I promise you that. After all, who knows the Opera better than its Phantom?”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1877
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Meg Giry, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Author's Note: Erik's surname is taken from the 1943 Claude Rains film.
Summary: Where do we go from here?
EPILOGUE:
SO WHAT HAPPENS NOW?
It was nearly two weeks before Erik felt strong enough to leave his bed for more than half an hour at a time.
Determined that his convalescence should be as swift and comfortable as possible, Madame Giry insisted that he follow the doctor’s instructions and leave the unhealthy atmosphere of the cellars to stay with her and Meg for as long as it took for him to recuperate. Erik had protested, loudly and at great length, and Christine did not miss the fear and anxiety which flared in his eyes at the prospect of leaving his sanctuary for the harsh light of the outside world, but eventually he was worn down by the ballet mistress’s arguments and gave in, albeit reluctantly and with bad grace. She had taken his declaration that he saw them as his family to heart and in her no-nonsense manner had practically adopted him; once he left his underground home he would cease to be the Opera Ghost, becoming instead Madame Giry’s cousin and Christine’s music teacher, Erik Claudin, a struggling composer from Normandy. Meg was already busy concocting a story to explain away the mask.
The Opera remained closed, the company resting on full pay. So many scandals had hit the Populaire since the advent of the new management that no one seemed inclined to take on a theatre with such a catalogue of disasters to its name. Within days of the Don Juan fiasco, the newspapers were declaring that the Phantom had been a creation of Andre and Firmin, a way of drawing in the crowds and making more money for them to embezzle. There never had been a maniac stalking the corridors, declared one; the unfortunate death of Buquet and the failure of the chain anchoring the chandelier occurring on the same night put an opportunity in their way that they could not resist. What better way to ensure publicity for the reopening of the theatre than to blame the accidents upon a legend, a man who may or may not be a supernatural being? They had managed to make all of Paris agog with tales of the Phantom, and somehow persuaded the Vicomte de Chagny, brother of the theatre’s principal patron, to assist them in their schemes. Comte Philippe had been swift to sever all ties with the Populaire, and there were rumours that it had been his words in the ear of the Minister of Arts which secured Andre’s arrest for fraud in Firmin’s absence. He was currently being questioned, but no one really expected a charge to be made as there was little evidence due to the mysterious disappearance of all the relevant paperwork. It was a situation which completely flummoxed poor Remy, whose responsibility it was to ensure all books and accounts were up to date. The assumption was made that Firmin had taken with him all the documentation which might point towards his having his hand in the till.
Christine was in some way relieved that the journalists blamed the managers entirely, claiming that Raoul was entangled in their plots through his own naivety; it was better he be thought of as too trusting than the orchestrator of the plans, and he had not corrected the reporters, though he did write a spirited letter to La Monde, defending her reputation and artistic integrity, categorically denying that she had used her feminine wiles to obtain his involvement in the hoax. She sent him a note, thanking him for his words, and received a reply which brought tears to her eyes: he needed a distraction to help him bear the loss of her love, he said, and with his brother’s blessing had decided to join the navy. Echoing the aria which had first brought them together after so many years, he hoped that she might think of him sometimes, for there would never be a day when his thoughts would not turn to her. Erik, awkward but learning fast, did not enquire as to the contents of the letter, merely held her and stroked her hair until she cried herself out.
It appeared that stories were circulating, some too accurate for comfort, others with barely a grain of truth, like Chinese whispers. Even those who had been present at both disastrous performances could not agree on a version of events; some claimed that they had both seen and heard a man far above before the chandelier fell, others that it had all been a ruse to create drama and that La Carlotta was also part of it for why else would she have left so suddenly? Many were unsure whether the presence of the firemen and armed guards had been part of the plot of Don Juan Triumphant; one man who remained in his seat throughout even declared that it was the most exciting show he had ever seen, and was only let down by a weak and confused ending. He still wanted to know whether the Don finally bedded the lovely Aminta. Christine was not sure whether to laugh or cry when she heard this. She tactfully avoided showing any of the articles to Erik for fear that his temper might cause a relapse.
Now they made their slow way to the upper levels of the theatre, Meg and Christine taking it in turns to punt the gondola across the lake, Erik sitting in the stern with his travelling bag and grumbling that the boat had not been designed for three and would probably capsize before they made the opposite shore. Madame Giry met them at the mirror, and soon they stood upon the battered stage, looking out across the darkened auditorium, respectfully silent as the former Phantom prepared to leave the only home he had known for more than a decade. Christine was beside him, her arm through his, allowing him to lean on her without seeming to for he had his pride and did not wish to seem weak, even to her. He insisted upon dressing properly in his usual immaculate suit and polished shoes, the sling hidden by his heavy cloak and his fedora tilted across his face. They were the clothes of the Opera Ghost, but though the man wearing them still had the grace and poise of the Phantom the madness and danger which dogged his steps was gone, for the moment at least.
“Where do we go from here?” Christine wondered sadly, “No manager, no patronage... Who will take up the baton if no one is willing to invest?”
“The Opera Nationale?” suggested Meg, only half serious.
Madame Giry gave an unladylike snort. “Not with their ballet in such a shambles.”
“And they have a soprano who should have retired seasons ago,” added Erik. “She is more tenacious than La Carlotta.”
“Someone told me she has a voice like a goose farti - ” Meg began, but stopped at a glare from her mother. She grinned when Erik, uncharacteristically, laughed out loud.
“Your informant was quite correct,” he said. “No doubt they heard her Queen of the Night. A foghorn could have sung it better.”
“Erik,” Christine chided gently, though she could not help smiling. His laugh sounded wonderful, rich and deep and so different from the maniacal cackle that had scared her on the night of Il Muto. She tugged lightly on his sleeve. “I mean it. What will become of the Populaire?”
His gaze ran around the grand tier, over the gilded swags and figures illuminated by the weak sunlight that filtered through the atrium, halting at last on Box Five, shrouded in its customary shadow. “No doubt someone will be brave enough to take it on.”
“Are you sad to be leaving?” she asked.
There was a pause, and then he sighed. “This building has seen some of the best and worst moments of my life. There are those which should make me wish to turn my back upon it forever, but others, such as that day I first saw you and heard you sing... I would stay for that moment alone. I can still see your face, streaked with tears for your father, and the grey dress you wore. The lace was fraying at the cuff.”
“I was barely out of mourning,” Christine recalled. “I only had two good dresses. You were watching, even then?”
“Even then. I have probably never told you this, but you awoke something in me; your voice restarted a heart that I had long since believed was dead and cold. Because of that, though I may be leaving for a short time, I will return.”
Christine glanced down at the carpet bag which sat at their feet, a bag far too small to hold his worldly possessions. She thought of the house by the lake, a place she had come to love but which he had called both a dungeon and a prison. “Is this not the perfect chance to escape, to - ”
“Christine,” he said, slipping his arm from hers and taking her hand, raising it to his lips. “I will return because of you.”
“But - ”
“Do you not want to step out onto this stage again, as Prima Donna in your own right?” Leading her towards the footlights, his stride unsteady but growing stronger all the time, he released her fingers for a moment to sweep out his arm, a grand gesture which encompassed the entire auditorium. “I can see you now, as Violetta... Desdemona... Marguerite - ”
“Carmen!” Meg put in, ruining the moment.
Christine had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing. “Carmen is a mezzo,” she said. “You might as well ask me to sing Amneris in Aida!”
“I think you could pull it off.” Meg looked at Erik for support. “Don’t you?”
Erik raised an eyebrow. “I think I would prefer her not to ruin her voice after all the work we put in to it,” he said. “What do you say, Christine? Do you want to reach for those dizzying heights?”
She stood there with him, her gaze moving across the empty seats as she saw again in her mind’s eye the bright lights and the many faces which confronted her that first night in Hannibal. It all seemed so long ago; it had been both terrifying and exhilarating and she could still feel the way her heart had been beating so hard that she thought it might burst out of her heavily-jewelled bodice. If she listened hard she could hear the shouts and the applause as the audience rose to its feet almost as one to give her a standing ovation. And afterwards, the ghostly voice of her teacher praising her... Whatever had happened, however many deceptions and misunderstandings there had been on the way, without Erik she would still be in the back row of the ballet chorus, waiting for an opportunity that might never have come.
Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons so do we...
“More than anything,” she said, and he smiled.
“The Populaire will rise again,” he told her, and she believed him. “And you will sing, my Angel of Music, I promise you that. After all, who knows the Opera better than its Phantom?”
