![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 19/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2241
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry, Monsieur Reyer
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Introductions.
ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF
“My name is Claudin; I believe you are expecting me.”
Though he tried very hard not to show it, Erik was shaking like a leaf. He had never given his real name to anyone in public before. Until recently only Antoinette had been entrusted with his identity; even Charles Garnier, when adding him to the books during the construction of the Opera House, had been sworn to secrecy. The architect had been suspicious, but eventually agreed, desperate for Erik’s experience and technical expertise. In voicing his name now, hearing it echo through the silent auditorium, he suddenly felt quite naked, horribly vulnerable. He clenched the brim of his hat, the only part of his usual attire that he refused to abandon, between his trembling fingers and fought hard against the instincts which told him to replace it and pull the brim down to disguise his mask.
“Cousin Erik!” a small voice called from the back of the stage, making him jump, and Meg fluttered into view, all golden curls and white tulle, smiling delightedly. “You came!”
There was a long pause, during which time everyone stared at him and he fervently wished he could retreat into the shadows, away from their prying eyes, before the idiot tenor Marius DuPre recovered his voice and demanded, “Who is this fool and why does he dare to interrupt our rehearsals? Are you intending to replace me, Monsieur?”
“Perish the thought,” Reyer muttered, turning away and heading towards Erik with a beaming smile on his face. Erik almost took a step backwards as the normally short-tempered musical director jumped down from the stage, took his hand and shook it warmly, exclaiming, “Monsieur Claudin, thank you so much for agreeing to attend. Mademoiselle Daae was not certain that you would, but here you are and you have my eternal gratitude. I am delighted to meet you at last!”
Rather nonplussed by this effusive greeting, and from Reyer no less, Erik could only manage a faint, “Your servant sir,” in reply, while trying to disentangle his hand from the death grip that the other man seemed to have upon it. The strain of dealing with too many unruly performers was clearly showing upon Reyer’s face; even La Carlotta’s tantrums had not produced so many lines upon his forehead.
There was a rumble of discussion moving from the orchestra pit to the stage as the various members of the company muttered to one another, taking in the new arrival in their midst. Erik tried to ignore the interested glances they shot him, telling himself that this was not like the blatant curiosity and contempt he had experienced during those terrible years trapped in the travelling carnival; even so he could still feel their eyes upon him and it took all of his formidable to control not to turn away and vanish back into the darkness. His face became hot beneath the mask, his palms slick with perspiration.
“Are you not going to introduce us to this gentleman, Monsieur?” enquired Alphonse Renard. Erik looked up to see the baritone lounging against a rough wooden table that made up part of the set; Christine stood beside him, dressed in what appeared to be a partially-altered peasant costume from William Tell, her hair in girlish plaits. She gave him an encouraging smile as she met his gaze, her cheeks flushing prettily.
Reyer made his way back onto the boards, motioning for Erik to follow him up the steps. This was quite a novelty, actually being invited on stage; his only previous experience had been his impromptu appearance during Don Juan Triumphant, and before that his lonely, nocturnal excursions, haunting the theatre when everyone else had gone home. He had grown used to seeing it from the vantage point of Box Five, or the bird’s eye view he obtained high up in the flies. It was quite different here, in the bright limelight, on the same level as everyone else.
The muttering had grown louder, and Reyer clapped his hands, calling for quiet. “Thank you,” he said when the noise died down. “Now, I am sure it has not escaped your notice that there is some... tension in the air. We are suffering from the loss of Monsieur Pevitt, and though the managers are trying to find a replacement as quickly as possible it is quite clear that if we are to be ready in time to open the new season next month we need some assistance. Monsieur Claudin has graciously agreed to make use of his skills in directing the chorus, while I concentrate upon the orchestra. He has been Mademoiselle Daae’s maestro for some time, I believe, and we can all bear witness to his remarkable achievement there. I hope” the musical director shot a glare towards the singers who stood around the table “that you will all welcome him to the company.”
Christine blushed as everyone now turned to look at her. There was a brief smattering of applause that Erik suspected must have come from Meg and one or two of the other ballet rats, and then someone shouted from the wings, “Claudin? I know that name! Don’t you write fluffy practise tunes to help stuck-up middle class girlies learn the piano?”
“Which stuck-up middle class girlies have you been getting your wicked way with, then?” asked someone else, much to the amusement of the crew.
“I didn’t know you could read French, let alone music!” added another. “You must have hidden talents!”
Erik felt his face colour and he let go of his hat for a moment, fingers searching vainly for the Punjab lasso at his side. Before he could even open his mouth he heard the sound of Antoinette’s cane striking the boards and she said coldly, “Every man has to make a living, Christophe Fortier. Perhaps you should try it some time.”
There was a snigger from somewhere amongst the ballerinas and Erik had to bite hard on his lip, feeling a smile start to steal across his face as the stage hand in question turned a fetching shade of beetroot red. Fortier was well-known for standing around and swigging from a bottle of cheap claret while everyone else did the work; in some ways he was a natural heir to Joseph Buquet, though he was thankfully more of a nuisance than a genuine danger.
Reyer turned to Erik, evidently interested. “You are also a composer, Monsieur?”
“I... dabble,” Erik replied, trying to retain his composure. Watching the company from above and issuing directions was one thing; it was becoming quite clear that doing the same amongst them, subject to argument and catcalls, was going to be quite different. He was starting to wish that Antoinette had never talked him into it, that he had issued a clear refusal and not allowed her to work on him once Meg and Christine were gone. The loss of the Phantom was making him soft, he decided.
“You must tell me about it,” the musical director said. “And published, too! I have been offering my own humble scratchings for sale over the years but no one has taken them on.” He sighed. “We work in a fickle business.”
“If we are no longer rehearsing,” Marius DuPre said loudly, his tone one of studied boredom, “May we take a break for lunch? The two of you can discuss music to your hearts’ content and it will not waste any more of our time.”
“Have a care, Monsieur,” Erik snapped before Reyer could respond. “A director worth his salt would not tolerate being spoken to in such a way by the Primo Uomo, let alone a shoddy tenor from the chorus who is best suited to the part of the hairdresser in Il Muto.”
There was a gasp from somewhere in the assembly. DuPre’s eyes fairly bulged from their sockets; Erik fancied that he could see steam emerging from the singer’s ears, much like a boiling kettle. “How dare you, sir? I suppose you think that after that attention-seeking display earlier you could sing the part better yourself!”
I know that I could, thought Erik, but he was denied the chance to answer as Reyer said, “I think that we will indeed take a break. Ladies, gentlemen: we will reconvene in an hour.” He fixed Marius with a freezing stare. “Monsieur DuPre, I would like a word in my office, if you please. Now.”
DuPre went, grumbling, deliberately knocking Erik aside with his shoulder as he followed Reyer from the stage. Erik stumbled, but recovered himself quickly, stepping with two long strides into the tenor’s path.
Half a head shorter, Marius glowered up at him. “Get out of my way.”
“You are not the leading man,” Erik told him softly, the calm tone of his voice belying the anger that was beginning to pulse in his veins. He would have liked nothing more than to wrap his fingers around the fool’s neck and squeeze. “And you never will be if you continue to behave in such a deplorable fashion. No one is irreplaceable, and the managers know that.”
“Are you... are you threatening me, Monsieur?” DuPre asked, eyes widening in surprise.
“I am merely giving you a friendly warning. Tantrums endear you to no one, least of all me. You will be working under my direction from now on, and I tell you now that I will not tolerate them. Do you understand me, sir?”
Marius was silent for a moment, peering up into Erik’s face, and then he spat, “I will not accept direction from a masked freak. Why do you not show your face, Monsieur? Do you have something to hide?”
Erik’s fingers twitched convulsively, and he would have grabbed the other man by the throat had not Reyer and Christine both intervened. As her restraining touch came to rest on his arm the musical director bellowed DuPre’s name once more from the back of the auditorium and the tenor scuttled off, shooting Erik at look that left him in no doubt of DuPre’s feelings towards him. He had seen enough hate-filled stares in his time.
“He’s not worth it,” Christine said quietly, handing him the hat he had dropped during the altercation.
“Well done, Monsieur,” Alphonse Renard declared, approaching from behind and clapping Erik on the back, causing him to stagger slightly. “He has needed taking down a peg or two ever since we began this godforsaken opera. Being the senior tenor in the company since Piangi deserted us he seems to think that the lead role should be his by right. I have been trying, in my own inimitable way, to show him that he is quite mistaken, but alas...”
“Only because you want the lead for yourself,” said Augustine Albert, a woman of whom Erik had never been fond. As a singer she was shrill, and she had always aped Carlotta far too much for his liking. Usually sullen, she smiled at him, showing poor teeth which perhaps explained why she hardly ever did so. “I remember you now,” she told him, “You stepped in as Don Juan; the managers and the vicomte thought you were the Phantom.”
“Monsieur Claudin is my teacher, Augustine,” Christine said quickly, and the other soprano gave her a sly glance.
“Yes, I could see that. Such a close working relationship between pupil and teacher was obvious to all.” Augustine laughed, a sound that was alarming and quite filthy. She fluttered her eyelashes at Erik. “If you wish to take over the role of the Duke from Marius I for one would welcome it. I have no objection to being groped by an attractive man.”
Erik felt his face grow hot again. He reached up to tug at the high collar of his shirt, which suddenly seemed to be choking him. Glancing down at Christine he saw that she was glaring at Augustine, brown eyes flashing.
“Leave him alone, you hussy,” Renard said, evidently noticing the look of fury on Christine’s face. He took Mademoiselle Albert by the arm, steering her away. “I think that one is taken. There are plenty of others around here for you to sink your talons into.”
Augustine’s thin lips settled into a pout, but she allowed him to escort her from the stage. Erik did not miss the provocative wiggle of her hips as she walked away, and wondered if he might sit down for a moment. A woman (albeit a rather unattractive one) was actually flirting with him! This was a situation entirely outside his experience; his head was spinning.
“You had a lucky escape there, Erik,” Meg announced, and he realised that Little Giry and her mother had joined them. Always a bundle of barely suppressed energy, Meg was bouncing on the balls of her feet, and Antoinette looked pleased, the slightest of approving smiles on her stern face.
“Well done,” she said. “They have been taking far too much advantage of Reyer’s distraction. Now that you are here they will come to heel.”
“Oh, definitely,” Meg agreed. “I would have liked to see you wallop Marius, though. He won’t be able to strut around as though he’s cock of the walk any more!”
Though he said nothing, Erik wasn’t so sure. He had the distinct feeling that he had just jumped from the relative safety of the frying pan right into the middle of the fire.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2241
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry, Monsieur Reyer
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Introductions.
“My name is Claudin; I believe you are expecting me.”
Though he tried very hard not to show it, Erik was shaking like a leaf. He had never given his real name to anyone in public before. Until recently only Antoinette had been entrusted with his identity; even Charles Garnier, when adding him to the books during the construction of the Opera House, had been sworn to secrecy. The architect had been suspicious, but eventually agreed, desperate for Erik’s experience and technical expertise. In voicing his name now, hearing it echo through the silent auditorium, he suddenly felt quite naked, horribly vulnerable. He clenched the brim of his hat, the only part of his usual attire that he refused to abandon, between his trembling fingers and fought hard against the instincts which told him to replace it and pull the brim down to disguise his mask.
“Cousin Erik!” a small voice called from the back of the stage, making him jump, and Meg fluttered into view, all golden curls and white tulle, smiling delightedly. “You came!”
There was a long pause, during which time everyone stared at him and he fervently wished he could retreat into the shadows, away from their prying eyes, before the idiot tenor Marius DuPre recovered his voice and demanded, “Who is this fool and why does he dare to interrupt our rehearsals? Are you intending to replace me, Monsieur?”
“Perish the thought,” Reyer muttered, turning away and heading towards Erik with a beaming smile on his face. Erik almost took a step backwards as the normally short-tempered musical director jumped down from the stage, took his hand and shook it warmly, exclaiming, “Monsieur Claudin, thank you so much for agreeing to attend. Mademoiselle Daae was not certain that you would, but here you are and you have my eternal gratitude. I am delighted to meet you at last!”
Rather nonplussed by this effusive greeting, and from Reyer no less, Erik could only manage a faint, “Your servant sir,” in reply, while trying to disentangle his hand from the death grip that the other man seemed to have upon it. The strain of dealing with too many unruly performers was clearly showing upon Reyer’s face; even La Carlotta’s tantrums had not produced so many lines upon his forehead.
There was a rumble of discussion moving from the orchestra pit to the stage as the various members of the company muttered to one another, taking in the new arrival in their midst. Erik tried to ignore the interested glances they shot him, telling himself that this was not like the blatant curiosity and contempt he had experienced during those terrible years trapped in the travelling carnival; even so he could still feel their eyes upon him and it took all of his formidable to control not to turn away and vanish back into the darkness. His face became hot beneath the mask, his palms slick with perspiration.
“Are you not going to introduce us to this gentleman, Monsieur?” enquired Alphonse Renard. Erik looked up to see the baritone lounging against a rough wooden table that made up part of the set; Christine stood beside him, dressed in what appeared to be a partially-altered peasant costume from William Tell, her hair in girlish plaits. She gave him an encouraging smile as she met his gaze, her cheeks flushing prettily.
Reyer made his way back onto the boards, motioning for Erik to follow him up the steps. This was quite a novelty, actually being invited on stage; his only previous experience had been his impromptu appearance during Don Juan Triumphant, and before that his lonely, nocturnal excursions, haunting the theatre when everyone else had gone home. He had grown used to seeing it from the vantage point of Box Five, or the bird’s eye view he obtained high up in the flies. It was quite different here, in the bright limelight, on the same level as everyone else.
The muttering had grown louder, and Reyer clapped his hands, calling for quiet. “Thank you,” he said when the noise died down. “Now, I am sure it has not escaped your notice that there is some... tension in the air. We are suffering from the loss of Monsieur Pevitt, and though the managers are trying to find a replacement as quickly as possible it is quite clear that if we are to be ready in time to open the new season next month we need some assistance. Monsieur Claudin has graciously agreed to make use of his skills in directing the chorus, while I concentrate upon the orchestra. He has been Mademoiselle Daae’s maestro for some time, I believe, and we can all bear witness to his remarkable achievement there. I hope” the musical director shot a glare towards the singers who stood around the table “that you will all welcome him to the company.”
Christine blushed as everyone now turned to look at her. There was a brief smattering of applause that Erik suspected must have come from Meg and one or two of the other ballet rats, and then someone shouted from the wings, “Claudin? I know that name! Don’t you write fluffy practise tunes to help stuck-up middle class girlies learn the piano?”
“Which stuck-up middle class girlies have you been getting your wicked way with, then?” asked someone else, much to the amusement of the crew.
“I didn’t know you could read French, let alone music!” added another. “You must have hidden talents!”
Erik felt his face colour and he let go of his hat for a moment, fingers searching vainly for the Punjab lasso at his side. Before he could even open his mouth he heard the sound of Antoinette’s cane striking the boards and she said coldly, “Every man has to make a living, Christophe Fortier. Perhaps you should try it some time.”
There was a snigger from somewhere amongst the ballerinas and Erik had to bite hard on his lip, feeling a smile start to steal across his face as the stage hand in question turned a fetching shade of beetroot red. Fortier was well-known for standing around and swigging from a bottle of cheap claret while everyone else did the work; in some ways he was a natural heir to Joseph Buquet, though he was thankfully more of a nuisance than a genuine danger.
Reyer turned to Erik, evidently interested. “You are also a composer, Monsieur?”
“I... dabble,” Erik replied, trying to retain his composure. Watching the company from above and issuing directions was one thing; it was becoming quite clear that doing the same amongst them, subject to argument and catcalls, was going to be quite different. He was starting to wish that Antoinette had never talked him into it, that he had issued a clear refusal and not allowed her to work on him once Meg and Christine were gone. The loss of the Phantom was making him soft, he decided.
“You must tell me about it,” the musical director said. “And published, too! I have been offering my own humble scratchings for sale over the years but no one has taken them on.” He sighed. “We work in a fickle business.”
“If we are no longer rehearsing,” Marius DuPre said loudly, his tone one of studied boredom, “May we take a break for lunch? The two of you can discuss music to your hearts’ content and it will not waste any more of our time.”
“Have a care, Monsieur,” Erik snapped before Reyer could respond. “A director worth his salt would not tolerate being spoken to in such a way by the Primo Uomo, let alone a shoddy tenor from the chorus who is best suited to the part of the hairdresser in Il Muto.”
There was a gasp from somewhere in the assembly. DuPre’s eyes fairly bulged from their sockets; Erik fancied that he could see steam emerging from the singer’s ears, much like a boiling kettle. “How dare you, sir? I suppose you think that after that attention-seeking display earlier you could sing the part better yourself!”
I know that I could, thought Erik, but he was denied the chance to answer as Reyer said, “I think that we will indeed take a break. Ladies, gentlemen: we will reconvene in an hour.” He fixed Marius with a freezing stare. “Monsieur DuPre, I would like a word in my office, if you please. Now.”
DuPre went, grumbling, deliberately knocking Erik aside with his shoulder as he followed Reyer from the stage. Erik stumbled, but recovered himself quickly, stepping with two long strides into the tenor’s path.
Half a head shorter, Marius glowered up at him. “Get out of my way.”
“You are not the leading man,” Erik told him softly, the calm tone of his voice belying the anger that was beginning to pulse in his veins. He would have liked nothing more than to wrap his fingers around the fool’s neck and squeeze. “And you never will be if you continue to behave in such a deplorable fashion. No one is irreplaceable, and the managers know that.”
“Are you... are you threatening me, Monsieur?” DuPre asked, eyes widening in surprise.
“I am merely giving you a friendly warning. Tantrums endear you to no one, least of all me. You will be working under my direction from now on, and I tell you now that I will not tolerate them. Do you understand me, sir?”
Marius was silent for a moment, peering up into Erik’s face, and then he spat, “I will not accept direction from a masked freak. Why do you not show your face, Monsieur? Do you have something to hide?”
Erik’s fingers twitched convulsively, and he would have grabbed the other man by the throat had not Reyer and Christine both intervened. As her restraining touch came to rest on his arm the musical director bellowed DuPre’s name once more from the back of the auditorium and the tenor scuttled off, shooting Erik at look that left him in no doubt of DuPre’s feelings towards him. He had seen enough hate-filled stares in his time.
“He’s not worth it,” Christine said quietly, handing him the hat he had dropped during the altercation.
“Well done, Monsieur,” Alphonse Renard declared, approaching from behind and clapping Erik on the back, causing him to stagger slightly. “He has needed taking down a peg or two ever since we began this godforsaken opera. Being the senior tenor in the company since Piangi deserted us he seems to think that the lead role should be his by right. I have been trying, in my own inimitable way, to show him that he is quite mistaken, but alas...”
“Only because you want the lead for yourself,” said Augustine Albert, a woman of whom Erik had never been fond. As a singer she was shrill, and she had always aped Carlotta far too much for his liking. Usually sullen, she smiled at him, showing poor teeth which perhaps explained why she hardly ever did so. “I remember you now,” she told him, “You stepped in as Don Juan; the managers and the vicomte thought you were the Phantom.”
“Monsieur Claudin is my teacher, Augustine,” Christine said quickly, and the other soprano gave her a sly glance.
“Yes, I could see that. Such a close working relationship between pupil and teacher was obvious to all.” Augustine laughed, a sound that was alarming and quite filthy. She fluttered her eyelashes at Erik. “If you wish to take over the role of the Duke from Marius I for one would welcome it. I have no objection to being groped by an attractive man.”
Erik felt his face grow hot again. He reached up to tug at the high collar of his shirt, which suddenly seemed to be choking him. Glancing down at Christine he saw that she was glaring at Augustine, brown eyes flashing.
“Leave him alone, you hussy,” Renard said, evidently noticing the look of fury on Christine’s face. He took Mademoiselle Albert by the arm, steering her away. “I think that one is taken. There are plenty of others around here for you to sink your talons into.”
Augustine’s thin lips settled into a pout, but she allowed him to escort her from the stage. Erik did not miss the provocative wiggle of her hips as she walked away, and wondered if he might sit down for a moment. A woman (albeit a rather unattractive one) was actually flirting with him! This was a situation entirely outside his experience; his head was spinning.
“You had a lucky escape there, Erik,” Meg announced, and he realised that Little Giry and her mother had joined them. Always a bundle of barely suppressed energy, Meg was bouncing on the balls of her feet, and Antoinette looked pleased, the slightest of approving smiles on her stern face.
“Well done,” she said. “They have been taking far too much advantage of Reyer’s distraction. Now that you are here they will come to heel.”
“Oh, definitely,” Meg agreed. “I would have liked to see you wallop Marius, though. He won’t be able to strut around as though he’s cock of the walk any more!”
Though he said nothing, Erik wasn’t so sure. He had the distinct feeling that he had just jumped from the relative safety of the frying pan right into the middle of the fire.
