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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 20/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2581
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Walls have ears.
I HEAR TALK
For some people, eavesdropping was an unpardonable sin. For Erik, however, it was a necessity; how else was he to find out exactly what was happening in his theatre? Walking among the cast and crew was awkward, uncomfortable; he could hear the whispers, see the covert glances and curious looks they gave him and he knew well how the network of backstage gossip functioned. A rumour could start as a throwaway remark one morning and be all over the building by lunchtime, declaimed by supper as the gospel truth. Misinformation and misapprehensions spread like wildfire.
It had been so long since he last interacted with other members of the human race on a regular basis that he found he had all but forgotten how. If Christine was not there at rehearsals, her presence soothing and silently encouraging him, he might well have vanished into one of his secret passageways and never come out again. Desperate to avoid any more contact than strictly necessary, he used his labyrinth between the walls to his advantage, appearing on the stage after everyone else had arrived and leaving before anyone could challenge or speak to him. In particular, he took care to avoid the wandering hands of Augustine Albert; when she had had the temerity to lay one on his arm, leaning over him with the excuse that she could not read the Italian libretto to which he was referring, he almost broke her wrist in his haste to remove it, a reaction which incredibly seemed to amuse her. It would appear that while she disdained the rough advances she was forced to endure from Marius DuPre she had no compunction about inflicting her own upon others. The woman made him shudder.
Thankfully, there was no chorus rehearsal today; Antoinette had taken the stage and was working with Reyer and the orchestra on the ballet which would introduce Act I, becoming part of the fete at the Duke’s palace. Erik spent some time watching from the comforting shadows of Box Five, noting that Meg was progressing well. Had he still been the Opera Ghost he would have left a note on the managers’ desk, suggesting her advancement. Justine Sorelli was nearing the end of her career as Prima Ballerina, and it was quite obvious that none of the other girls had Meg’s grace, or her shining enthusiasm for the dance. She deserved far more than being buried in the corps, but he understood the need to tread carefully; with her mother as the ballet mistress it would take little to attract accusations of nepotism, which was one of the reasons for Madame’s reluctance to push Meg forwards.
Eventually, bored with listening to the constant thumping of Antoinette’s cane and her admonishments when a girl stepped out of line or failed to concentrate, he took to wandering the theatre, keeping out of sight with an ease borne of many years of practise. He missed Christine. It irked him that she could not be constantly at his side; she was at home now, doing some apparently much needed housework, when he would far rather she were keeping him company, perhaps just talking or reading or singing a duet that had absolutely nothing to do with Rigoletto. When he mentioned this to Madame Giry she told him bluntly that he knew what he had to do to remedy the situation, but Erik was not ready yet to make such a step. He had already gone further than he was entirely sure he wished into the world above the ground; everything was moving far too fast and on occasion he felt as though he was being dragged along in the wake of a speeding carriage. He was not used to being out of control; it was a feeling he did not like one bit.
“Come on, Meg, tell us!” A high-pitched voice made him jump, and he realised that he was outside the dancers’ dressing room. “You must know Monsieur Claudin better than anyone! Who is he?”
Erik had never been a voyeur. He kept well away from the ballet rats’ quarters and made a point of avoiding the dancers’ lounge. The mirror in Christine’s room had facilitated their lessons and the charade of the Angel of Music; he did not once consider using it to watch her undress and his toes still curled in mortification when he recalled that evening he had caught her in a state of delightful dishabille. It had been quite evident that she did not realise how diaphanous the lamplight made her white robe; the next day he left her a present of a much thicker garment, for no other reason than to protect his own sanity and blood pressure.
Now, however, he paused, listening carefully as Meg gave a frustrated sigh. “What a ridiculous question, Giselle!” she said. “I’ve already told you ten times: he is Maman’s cousin! I don’t see what else you can possibly want to know!”
“A strange man appears claiming to be a relative of yours, whom you’ve never once mentioned, and you don’t expect us to ask questions?” That was Dorothée, the tall redhead with a face full of freckles who had taken the lead in Coppélia two Christmases ago when Sorelli came down with influenza. “I thought you didn’t have any family?”
“I don’t, not really. Maman hadn’t seen Cousin Erik since they were children. He came to Paris to try and sell his music; he’s a teacher, but he lost a lot of his clients after his accident,” Meg declared. “He thought that Maman might have some contacts that could help him.”
There was a pause, and then Giselle asked hesitantly, “His... accident?”
“Of course. Don’t tell me that you haven’t noticed his mask.”
Erik held his breath. Typically, Meg had gone straight for the jugular, something he had never found the courage to do himself. There was murmuring from her little audience for a few moments; Dorothée was first to speak up, “Well... yes. We didn’t like to mention it.”
“What happened, Meg?” asked Hortense, she of the beguiling dark eyes whom Erik had occasionally seen paired with Christine in the ballet.
“I don’t know exactly,” Meg said, prompting disappointed groans from the others. “Cousin Erik is a very private man. All Maman would say was that he was injured, and that’s why he wears the mask.”
“Have you seen underneath it?” Giselle enquired breathlessly. “Is it... horrible?”
“Giselle!” squeaked Hortense in protest at the direct question.
“No, I haven’t!” It was a lie, but Meg apparently carried it through without so much as a blink. She was a consummate little actress, Erik thought approvingly. The consternation in her voice could have been genuine. “I wouldn’t ask to. And neither should any of you,” she added quickly. “It’s just like someone with one arm or a limp, so don’t stare at it or you’ll make him uncomfortable.”
“It’s a bit hard not to,” said Dorothée. “Mind you, it can’t be as bad as that poor man who used to sit begging near Notre Dame. Do you remember him? He had no hair, and his skin was covered in the most dreadful scars, as if he’d come through a fire and it had just... melted.”
Giselle gave a dramatic little shriek. “Oh, yes! That poor, poor, man. I couldn’t look at him. Maybe he should have worn a mask.”
“It would have taken away his only means of earning money,” Meg told her sharply. There was another silence, and Erik could imagine them all looking at her in confusion. “Think about it,” she said. “Do you imagine anyone would have employed that poor soul? How else was he to feed himself?”
“Perhaps he could have joined one of those travelling fairs,” suggested Hortense, amid exclamations of approval from her compatriots and a gasp of horror from Meg. “You know, those carnivals that promise all kinds of human oddities. Have you read about the latest sensation in England? They are calling him the Elephant Man, and he - ”
Erik decided it was high time he took his leave, unable to stand much more of the ballet rats’ chatter. He’d always known that they were a crowd of feather-brained ninnies, interested in nothing more than the flowers and compliments lavished upon them by the young men who hung around the stage door and the ballerinas’ quarters. Appearances were everything to them, so it came as no surprise that they should be curious about the masked stranger in their midst. He silently thanked Meg for deflecting their interrogation so well; he was still surprised at how fiercely protective she had become of him over the past few months. It was incredible that she should accept him so quickly for who he was; he had dreamed of such a thing for so long and now this girl, with no particular attachment to him and in many ways wise beyond her years, was doing just that. He found that he was becoming increasingly fond of her.
Hortense’s unwitting raising of the spectre of the gypsy carnival put him off-kilter, and it wasn’t until he was able to smell expensive cigar smoke that he found he had reached the passage beside the managers’ office. Flipping aside the cover to the peep hole behind one of the paintings that hung on the wall, he was able to see Marigny and Fontaine in attitudes that were not a surprise after his brief meeting with them a few days before: Fontaine lounged back in his chair, cigar in hand and a glass of cognac at his elbow, while his more industrious colleague sat surrounded by paperwork. It had been a most peculiar situation, and one that felt surreal, when Reyer introduced Erik to them in his new capacity as chorus master. After they departed he felt quite light-headed, and almost asked Christine to pinch him in order to make sure that he had not just dreamed the perfectly civil encounter that just occurred.
“A telegram from Mademoiselle Adler’s representative,” Marigny said, flourishing a yellow form. “Her contract in Bohemia has been extended for an unspecified period.”
Fontaine pulled a face. “Damn. I’ve heard so much about that woman! I would give my eye teeth to actually see her on the stage.”
“Travel to Prague,” his partner replied dryly, “Though if the rumours are true, she is giving more private performances than public of late.”
“Have you any other suggestions?”
Marigny consulted a list. “Louise Lavoisier is in town. I believe her attachment to La Scala has come to an end now that La Carlotta has returned to make trouble.”
“Another soprano, eh?” Fontaine exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “I confess to a hankering after a contralto, myself.”
“That would limit the selection of works we are able to perform, and I do not intend this company to be continually repeating the same old repertoire. We can leave that kind of thing to lesser theatres.”
Erik silently gave Marigny a round of applause. Finally, a man after his own heart! He had spent years hoping for someone in charge who actually possessed some artistic integrity rather than an all-consuming desire to sell seats.
“We might be able to tempt Mercedes Delgado from Madrid, with the right inducement,” Fontaine mused. “An authentic Carmen would draw in the public; it would be a wonderful advertising tool.”
Marigny harrumphed. “It would also cost us a fortune; we’d have to pay all her travelling expenses, not to mention her accommodation while she was in Paris. I am reluctant to spend ridiculous amounts of money for so little gain, especially as we have the task of rebuilding the reputation of the Populaire.”
Silence reigned for some time as Fontaine thoughtfully sipped his drink and his colleague’s pen scratched its way across several sheets of paper. Erik was about to leave them to it when Marigny said suddenly without looking up,
“This Claudin fellow; what do you think of him?”
Fontaine drained the last of his cognac. “I think he’s the right man for the job. Knows his opera inside out, and Reyer tells me that he’s Mademoiselle Daae’s tutor; his success there is obvious.”
“Indeed, but what impression did you gain from our encounter the other day?”
“That he is the silent type, I suppose. Disinclined towards conversation, but according to you that is no bad thing; reticence occasionally pays,” Fontaine said with a sly glance towards his colleague. “Madame Giry speaks of him in glowing terms, or rather what in her case passes for glowing terms.”
Marigny frowned. “Do you not find it a little odd that he has no one but the ballet mistress and a – no disrespect to Mademoiselle Daae – chorus girl to vouch for him? I made some discreet enquiries, you know: apart from the few works he has had published by Langé and St Just there appears to be no record of him anywhere!”
“So he is a provincial; did Madame not say that he came from Normandy? Back room scribblers make little impact on city life.”
“That man was better dressed than any provincial music teacher I have ever met,” said Marigny, returning to his work.
His colleague burst out laughing. “And precisely how many have you met, my dear Claude?” he enquired. “I have never noticed a queue of out-at-elbows composers standing at your door. I am sure the lovely Josephine would have something to say about it if she knew!”
“You may jest,” Marigny told him. “I just think that we should keep an eye on him, that is all.”
“That suspicious mind of yours is an irritant at times,” Fontaine grumbled. “One would imagine that you saw plots in every corner!”
“I dislike being cheated. A man with no past has something to hide.”
Fontaine snorted derisively, but Erik agreed with Marigny. In the manager’s position he would have been equally cautious, and he had known from the moment he agreed to emerge from the shadows that his lack of personal history would be a problem. Over the past few weeks he had been carefully laying tracks, inserting information where there had been none before, and quietly resurrecting a life that had been hidden for over three decades. If Marigny enquired again, he would find that Erik Claudin existed once more, thanks to Antoinette. Erik knew that he would never be able to thank her enough for all the help she had given him over the years.
“I wouldn’t worry about the chorus master,” Fontaine said, jolting him back to the present. “We have more important things to consider.”
Marigny rubbed his face wearily and put down his pen. “I suppose you mean your blasted masquerade ball.”
“We must do something to announce to society that the Opera Populaire is in business once more. And what better way to introduce our new principal artistes? It makes perfect sense,” his partner told him firmly.
“Except, of course, that there is a slight problem in that we have no principal artistes at present.”
“All the more reason to find some, don’t you think? When can we make arrangements to see Mademoiselle Lavoisier?”
“I already have: Tuesday at three o’clock at her hotel,” said Marigny. Fontaine looked pleased. “Now all we have to do is engage a new tenor, possibly two. Marius DuPre made a complaint about Claudin last week.”
“DuPre is an ass,” Fontaine declared.
Erik couldn’t agree more.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2581
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Walls have ears.
For some people, eavesdropping was an unpardonable sin. For Erik, however, it was a necessity; how else was he to find out exactly what was happening in his theatre? Walking among the cast and crew was awkward, uncomfortable; he could hear the whispers, see the covert glances and curious looks they gave him and he knew well how the network of backstage gossip functioned. A rumour could start as a throwaway remark one morning and be all over the building by lunchtime, declaimed by supper as the gospel truth. Misinformation and misapprehensions spread like wildfire.
It had been so long since he last interacted with other members of the human race on a regular basis that he found he had all but forgotten how. If Christine was not there at rehearsals, her presence soothing and silently encouraging him, he might well have vanished into one of his secret passageways and never come out again. Desperate to avoid any more contact than strictly necessary, he used his labyrinth between the walls to his advantage, appearing on the stage after everyone else had arrived and leaving before anyone could challenge or speak to him. In particular, he took care to avoid the wandering hands of Augustine Albert; when she had had the temerity to lay one on his arm, leaning over him with the excuse that she could not read the Italian libretto to which he was referring, he almost broke her wrist in his haste to remove it, a reaction which incredibly seemed to amuse her. It would appear that while she disdained the rough advances she was forced to endure from Marius DuPre she had no compunction about inflicting her own upon others. The woman made him shudder.
Thankfully, there was no chorus rehearsal today; Antoinette had taken the stage and was working with Reyer and the orchestra on the ballet which would introduce Act I, becoming part of the fete at the Duke’s palace. Erik spent some time watching from the comforting shadows of Box Five, noting that Meg was progressing well. Had he still been the Opera Ghost he would have left a note on the managers’ desk, suggesting her advancement. Justine Sorelli was nearing the end of her career as Prima Ballerina, and it was quite obvious that none of the other girls had Meg’s grace, or her shining enthusiasm for the dance. She deserved far more than being buried in the corps, but he understood the need to tread carefully; with her mother as the ballet mistress it would take little to attract accusations of nepotism, which was one of the reasons for Madame’s reluctance to push Meg forwards.
Eventually, bored with listening to the constant thumping of Antoinette’s cane and her admonishments when a girl stepped out of line or failed to concentrate, he took to wandering the theatre, keeping out of sight with an ease borne of many years of practise. He missed Christine. It irked him that she could not be constantly at his side; she was at home now, doing some apparently much needed housework, when he would far rather she were keeping him company, perhaps just talking or reading or singing a duet that had absolutely nothing to do with Rigoletto. When he mentioned this to Madame Giry she told him bluntly that he knew what he had to do to remedy the situation, but Erik was not ready yet to make such a step. He had already gone further than he was entirely sure he wished into the world above the ground; everything was moving far too fast and on occasion he felt as though he was being dragged along in the wake of a speeding carriage. He was not used to being out of control; it was a feeling he did not like one bit.
“Come on, Meg, tell us!” A high-pitched voice made him jump, and he realised that he was outside the dancers’ dressing room. “You must know Monsieur Claudin better than anyone! Who is he?”
Erik had never been a voyeur. He kept well away from the ballet rats’ quarters and made a point of avoiding the dancers’ lounge. The mirror in Christine’s room had facilitated their lessons and the charade of the Angel of Music; he did not once consider using it to watch her undress and his toes still curled in mortification when he recalled that evening he had caught her in a state of delightful dishabille. It had been quite evident that she did not realise how diaphanous the lamplight made her white robe; the next day he left her a present of a much thicker garment, for no other reason than to protect his own sanity and blood pressure.
Now, however, he paused, listening carefully as Meg gave a frustrated sigh. “What a ridiculous question, Giselle!” she said. “I’ve already told you ten times: he is Maman’s cousin! I don’t see what else you can possibly want to know!”
“A strange man appears claiming to be a relative of yours, whom you’ve never once mentioned, and you don’t expect us to ask questions?” That was Dorothée, the tall redhead with a face full of freckles who had taken the lead in Coppélia two Christmases ago when Sorelli came down with influenza. “I thought you didn’t have any family?”
“I don’t, not really. Maman hadn’t seen Cousin Erik since they were children. He came to Paris to try and sell his music; he’s a teacher, but he lost a lot of his clients after his accident,” Meg declared. “He thought that Maman might have some contacts that could help him.”
There was a pause, and then Giselle asked hesitantly, “His... accident?”
“Of course. Don’t tell me that you haven’t noticed his mask.”
Erik held his breath. Typically, Meg had gone straight for the jugular, something he had never found the courage to do himself. There was murmuring from her little audience for a few moments; Dorothée was first to speak up, “Well... yes. We didn’t like to mention it.”
“What happened, Meg?” asked Hortense, she of the beguiling dark eyes whom Erik had occasionally seen paired with Christine in the ballet.
“I don’t know exactly,” Meg said, prompting disappointed groans from the others. “Cousin Erik is a very private man. All Maman would say was that he was injured, and that’s why he wears the mask.”
“Have you seen underneath it?” Giselle enquired breathlessly. “Is it... horrible?”
“Giselle!” squeaked Hortense in protest at the direct question.
“No, I haven’t!” It was a lie, but Meg apparently carried it through without so much as a blink. She was a consummate little actress, Erik thought approvingly. The consternation in her voice could have been genuine. “I wouldn’t ask to. And neither should any of you,” she added quickly. “It’s just like someone with one arm or a limp, so don’t stare at it or you’ll make him uncomfortable.”
“It’s a bit hard not to,” said Dorothée. “Mind you, it can’t be as bad as that poor man who used to sit begging near Notre Dame. Do you remember him? He had no hair, and his skin was covered in the most dreadful scars, as if he’d come through a fire and it had just... melted.”
Giselle gave a dramatic little shriek. “Oh, yes! That poor, poor, man. I couldn’t look at him. Maybe he should have worn a mask.”
“It would have taken away his only means of earning money,” Meg told her sharply. There was another silence, and Erik could imagine them all looking at her in confusion. “Think about it,” she said. “Do you imagine anyone would have employed that poor soul? How else was he to feed himself?”
“Perhaps he could have joined one of those travelling fairs,” suggested Hortense, amid exclamations of approval from her compatriots and a gasp of horror from Meg. “You know, those carnivals that promise all kinds of human oddities. Have you read about the latest sensation in England? They are calling him the Elephant Man, and he - ”
Erik decided it was high time he took his leave, unable to stand much more of the ballet rats’ chatter. He’d always known that they were a crowd of feather-brained ninnies, interested in nothing more than the flowers and compliments lavished upon them by the young men who hung around the stage door and the ballerinas’ quarters. Appearances were everything to them, so it came as no surprise that they should be curious about the masked stranger in their midst. He silently thanked Meg for deflecting their interrogation so well; he was still surprised at how fiercely protective she had become of him over the past few months. It was incredible that she should accept him so quickly for who he was; he had dreamed of such a thing for so long and now this girl, with no particular attachment to him and in many ways wise beyond her years, was doing just that. He found that he was becoming increasingly fond of her.
Hortense’s unwitting raising of the spectre of the gypsy carnival put him off-kilter, and it wasn’t until he was able to smell expensive cigar smoke that he found he had reached the passage beside the managers’ office. Flipping aside the cover to the peep hole behind one of the paintings that hung on the wall, he was able to see Marigny and Fontaine in attitudes that were not a surprise after his brief meeting with them a few days before: Fontaine lounged back in his chair, cigar in hand and a glass of cognac at his elbow, while his more industrious colleague sat surrounded by paperwork. It had been a most peculiar situation, and one that felt surreal, when Reyer introduced Erik to them in his new capacity as chorus master. After they departed he felt quite light-headed, and almost asked Christine to pinch him in order to make sure that he had not just dreamed the perfectly civil encounter that just occurred.
“A telegram from Mademoiselle Adler’s representative,” Marigny said, flourishing a yellow form. “Her contract in Bohemia has been extended for an unspecified period.”
Fontaine pulled a face. “Damn. I’ve heard so much about that woman! I would give my eye teeth to actually see her on the stage.”
“Travel to Prague,” his partner replied dryly, “Though if the rumours are true, she is giving more private performances than public of late.”
“Have you any other suggestions?”
Marigny consulted a list. “Louise Lavoisier is in town. I believe her attachment to La Scala has come to an end now that La Carlotta has returned to make trouble.”
“Another soprano, eh?” Fontaine exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “I confess to a hankering after a contralto, myself.”
“That would limit the selection of works we are able to perform, and I do not intend this company to be continually repeating the same old repertoire. We can leave that kind of thing to lesser theatres.”
Erik silently gave Marigny a round of applause. Finally, a man after his own heart! He had spent years hoping for someone in charge who actually possessed some artistic integrity rather than an all-consuming desire to sell seats.
“We might be able to tempt Mercedes Delgado from Madrid, with the right inducement,” Fontaine mused. “An authentic Carmen would draw in the public; it would be a wonderful advertising tool.”
Marigny harrumphed. “It would also cost us a fortune; we’d have to pay all her travelling expenses, not to mention her accommodation while she was in Paris. I am reluctant to spend ridiculous amounts of money for so little gain, especially as we have the task of rebuilding the reputation of the Populaire.”
Silence reigned for some time as Fontaine thoughtfully sipped his drink and his colleague’s pen scratched its way across several sheets of paper. Erik was about to leave them to it when Marigny said suddenly without looking up,
“This Claudin fellow; what do you think of him?”
Fontaine drained the last of his cognac. “I think he’s the right man for the job. Knows his opera inside out, and Reyer tells me that he’s Mademoiselle Daae’s tutor; his success there is obvious.”
“Indeed, but what impression did you gain from our encounter the other day?”
“That he is the silent type, I suppose. Disinclined towards conversation, but according to you that is no bad thing; reticence occasionally pays,” Fontaine said with a sly glance towards his colleague. “Madame Giry speaks of him in glowing terms, or rather what in her case passes for glowing terms.”
Marigny frowned. “Do you not find it a little odd that he has no one but the ballet mistress and a – no disrespect to Mademoiselle Daae – chorus girl to vouch for him? I made some discreet enquiries, you know: apart from the few works he has had published by Langé and St Just there appears to be no record of him anywhere!”
“So he is a provincial; did Madame not say that he came from Normandy? Back room scribblers make little impact on city life.”
“That man was better dressed than any provincial music teacher I have ever met,” said Marigny, returning to his work.
His colleague burst out laughing. “And precisely how many have you met, my dear Claude?” he enquired. “I have never noticed a queue of out-at-elbows composers standing at your door. I am sure the lovely Josephine would have something to say about it if she knew!”
“You may jest,” Marigny told him. “I just think that we should keep an eye on him, that is all.”
“That suspicious mind of yours is an irritant at times,” Fontaine grumbled. “One would imagine that you saw plots in every corner!”
“I dislike being cheated. A man with no past has something to hide.”
Fontaine snorted derisively, but Erik agreed with Marigny. In the manager’s position he would have been equally cautious, and he had known from the moment he agreed to emerge from the shadows that his lack of personal history would be a problem. Over the past few weeks he had been carefully laying tracks, inserting information where there had been none before, and quietly resurrecting a life that had been hidden for over three decades. If Marigny enquired again, he would find that Erik Claudin existed once more, thanks to Antoinette. Erik knew that he would never be able to thank her enough for all the help she had given him over the years.
“I wouldn’t worry about the chorus master,” Fontaine said, jolting him back to the present. “We have more important things to consider.”
Marigny rubbed his face wearily and put down his pen. “I suppose you mean your blasted masquerade ball.”
“We must do something to announce to society that the Opera Populaire is in business once more. And what better way to introduce our new principal artistes? It makes perfect sense,” his partner told him firmly.
“Except, of course, that there is a slight problem in that we have no principal artistes at present.”
“All the more reason to find some, don’t you think? When can we make arrangements to see Mademoiselle Lavoisier?”
“I already have: Tuesday at three o’clock at her hotel,” said Marigny. Fontaine looked pleased. “Now all we have to do is engage a new tenor, possibly two. Marius DuPre made a complaint about Claudin last week.”
“DuPre is an ass,” Fontaine declared.
Erik couldn’t agree more.
