![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 21/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2217
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Meg Giry, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Telling Tales
HOT GOSSIP
April was turning into May, and the weather becoming milder.
Grateful for a break in the final run of rehearsals before the dress, Meg stepped out of the stage door and breathed in a lungful of air, its sensation almost fresh after the stuffiness of the theatre. She tried to ignore the usual city smells that assailed her nostrils, the odours of manure and sewage and coal which were impossible to escape no matter where you were; an equally unpleasant scent, that of tobacco smoke, she did not dismiss so lightly, knowing that some of the ballerinas ignored Madame Giry’s strict warnings upon the subject and obtained cigarettes from their many and varied amours. Glancing down the street she could see Dorothée and Hortense giggling with a couple of the younger stagehands. Meg had no idea how they imagined they could disguise their transgressions; her mother would smell smoke and the cheap wine which the men were attempting to persuade them to drink on their breath the moment they returned to the stage. She shook her head, closing her eyes and enjoying the feeling of the spring sun on her face.
With one or two exceptions, everyone had buckled down and worked hard over the previous few weeks. After the disasters of the last year they were all anxious to succeed, and above all to hold onto their jobs. The initial burst of curiosity over Erik’s arrival seemed to have died down and the majority of the cast had accepted him once they discovered that he knew exactly what he was talking about and did not expect anything of them that was not achievable. He was stern, and at times a hard taskmaster, but he wanted the production to be a triumph and refused to carry anyone who was not willing to give their all. There were still rumours circulating, particularly connected to his relationship with Christine; Meg tried to scotch these as best she could though she was sure some of the other girls believed that it was a case of ‘the lady doth protest too much’. Erik was scrupulous in his dealings with Christine on stage, and took care not to praise her above anyone else though Meg knew that he did so in private. No matter who else walked into the room, he would only ever have eyes for his Angel of Music.
It was strange, watching him dealing with other people. He was stiff, formal and reluctant to let his guard down, but there were occasions when his passion shone through the unbending exterior. A musical phrase, or a particularly sweet passage of song would transfix him and he would speak upon the subject with such enthusiasm that his eyes lit up and the visible side of his face transformed, the smile that touched his lips making him appear much more human. Unfortunately, once he realised this he would retreat back into his shell, his barriers rising once more, and once again he would become the strict teacher he pretended to be. Because of this many members of the company found him difficult and stand-offish but there were a handful who began to see the man hiding behind the facade and Meg was glad of it.
The sound of voices disturbed her reverie. Tucked away as she was beside the steps which led up to the Rue Scribe entrance to the theatre she was almost invisible to anyone approaching and it was quite obvious that the two men walking in her direction had no idea that she was there. One was Marius DuPre, and she realised with a jolt of surprise that she recognised his companion. The loud checked suit and rather battered felt hat could only belong to one person: Francois Béringer.
Meg scooted round the stairs, taking care to remain out of sight. They were talking in low voices, Béringer scribbling in a notebook while DuPre enjoyed a cigar; the fact that he was a closet smoker was no shock, for it explained the poor quality of his voice of late. Meg wondered whether the cigars had been a gift from the journalist, as she could not recall ever having seen Marius indulging in one before now. She strained her ears, trying to hear what they were saying.
“Does it sound like the same man?” DuPre asked.
Béringer nodded. “From your description, I’d say it’s definitely him. You say he wears a mask?”
“Over the right side of his face. There’s something wrong with his mouth, too.” Marius waved a hand towards his own features. “Looks like it’s twisted, though I only got a glimpse. I take it you didn’t see any of this?”
“Our... altercation was an awkward one, and there were too many shadows. Can you tell me anything about his dealings with Daae?”
DuPre snorted. “Only that he seems to worship the ground she walks on and she feels the same way about him. Unfortunately for you, they’re so proper around one another that it’s impossible to tell whether anything else is going on.”
Béringer flicked back through his notes, frowning. “I remember you telling me that you’d seen this fellow before, in the theatre.”
“I didn’t see him myself. Augustine Albert reckons he was the one who replaced Piangi as Don Juan back in January, but I was in my dressing room at the time so I can’t comment. When I got back to the stage the place was in chaos, everyone was screaming about the Phantom and Christine Daae had disappeared again.”
“Vanishing is something she seems to make a habit of,” the journalist remarked. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and said, “It seems that me that no one had ever encountered this fellow Claudin before he came to the Populaire’s rescue.”
A dark look crossed Marius’s ruddy face, and he threw the end of his cigar into the gutter with rather more force than was necessary. “We did not need rescuing, Monsieur. Rehearsals were going perfectly well before that... upstart arrived.”
“If you say so,” Béringer agreed smoothly. “It seems strange to me that such a person should just appear apparently from nowhere, professing so close a connection to Christine Daae. The Phantom was reputedly obsessed with her. Could this Claudin be the Phantom, do you think?”
DuPre looked at the man for a long moment. Meg held her breath. After a pause, during which Béringer began to look uncomfortable, Marius let loose a loud guffaw, the sound of which was enough to make the ballet rats and their beaux on the corner glance round. “The Phantom?” Marius exclaimed, lowering his voice only after the journalist made frantic shushing motions with his hand. “Claudin? Never! The man is too much of a cold fish; I can’t imagine him doing anything so dramatic. Mind you, if he was the Phantom, I’d like to shake his hand for dropping a set piece from Le Roi de Lahore on that dreadful Giudicelli woman’s head. Never did anyone deserve it more!”
Béringer closed his notebook with a snap and stuffed it into his pocket. “I take it that you’ll keep me informed? The managers must be close to revealing the identities of the new leading players.”
“By that remark I assume you mean that you’re fishing for an invitation to the Bal Masque,” said Marius, pulling out a hip flask and taking a swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hang around the stage door after the performance. I’ll see what I can do.”
There was a nasty smile on the journalist’s face. “Oh, I’ll be there. After what happened at the last Opera ball, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
________________________________________
Returning to the theatre, head down as she contemplated all she had just heard, Meg nearly ran into Christine, who was hurrying in the opposite direction, a crumpled newspaper in her hands.
“He’s done it again,” she told Meg when they had both recovered and apologised. “I’ve been looking all over for Erik, so that I can explain. Goodness knows what he thinks..!”
“Thinks of what? Who has done it again?” Meg asked, perplexed. Christine showed her the copy of Le Figaro, pointing to the narrow column in the Arts section that was evidently bothering her. As she read, it became quite obvious who was to blame for the soprano’s current consternation. “Of course. Béringer.”
“He must have seen me with Raoul! Meg, it was perfectly innocent; we bumped into each other in the street. I had no idea that he was back in Paris! Whatever must Erik think?”
Have reports of the end of the fairytale romance between the beautiful Christine Daae and her aristocratic suitor been somewhat premature? The two former lovebirds were recently spotted cooing together as though their separation had never occurred. Can La Daae’s mysterious new admirer compete with a chateau in the Loire and a hundred thousand a year? Only time will tell...
“The rat,” said Meg, crushing the newspaper into a ball. “Oh, that man is rotten to the core!”
Christine blinked, shocked. “Meg! You can’t possibly mean that Erik might - ”
“Not Erik – Béringer! I’ve just seen him outside with Marius. Our so-called colleague has been feeding that gutter-snipe information! If anything, Erik needs to be warned that they’re on his trail.” Meg glanced around the dim corridor. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know; he vanished after announcing a break and I haven’t seen him since. I daren’t go downstairs to look for him; someone might see,” Christine said. “What has Marius told that despicable man?”
Meg filled her in as they all but ran through the narrow hallways. The backstage areas of the Opera House were like a rabbit warren; Erik knew every hiding place in the building, and if he did not want to be found he would remain invisible. He had developed a habit of disappearing before anyone could approach, a strategy which Meg suspected was born more from a desire to avoid Augustine Albert than anything else. It kept everyone on their toes and perplexed both Monsieur Reyer and the stage manager, but to Meg it was becoming infuriating.
“How could he do that?” Christine asked, shaking her head in astonishment. Meg sighed inwardly; her friend could be so naive sometimes.
“He does it because Erik humiliated him in front of everyone,” she said. “Marius got above himself and Erik slapped him down, so consequently he now hates Erik for thwarting him. Béringer is obviously exploiting that hatred for his own ends. It’s quite simple really.”
“It’s not simple to me,” said Christine sadly. “Why do people have to be so beastly to one another?”
“Human nature my dear,” a familiar voice replied, before Meg could open her mouth. A shadow detached itself from the wall, resolving into the tall, lean figure of the former Opera Ghost himself. He frowned, the undamaged side of his face in harmony with his mask. “What has happened?”
Meg and Christine both began to speak at once, each becoming louder and shriller in their attempts to outdo one another. Erik covered his ears, his expression pained.
“One at a time, please!” he begged. Leading the way into a side room which Meg recognised as Monsieur Pevitt’s old office, he shut the door behind them and perched on the edge of the desk, folding his arms. “Now: explain, and do it quietly.”
They did, Christine thankfully letting Meg do most of the talking. By the time she had finished, the look on Erik’s face was thunderous and Christine was nervously twirling a curl of hair around her finger. Straightening, Erik stalked up and down the room for some moments before whirling around and slamming a hand into the wall, making the pictures shake and both the girls jump.
“I should have killed that infernal reporter when I had the chance.” He stood with his back to them, fists clenched, his whole posture radiating fury. Christine and Meg exchanged a worried glance. Gradually, however, some of the anger drained away and Erik’s shoulders relaxed a little. “When did you see the vicomte?” he asked without turning.
“The day we had dinner,” Christine told him. “Erik, it was completely innocent. We just met in the street, nothing happened!”
He held out a hand to her, which she took, relief flooding her features, and allowed him to draw her close. “How could it have done? You came back to me, after all.” Christine flung her arms around his neck and he dropped a kiss onto the top of her head.
“There is a silver lining,” said Meg, feeling rather like a gooseberry. Both of her companions stared at her. “Marius is such an idiot that he can throw Béringer off the scent of the Phantom if we feed him the right information.”
Christine looked hopelessly confused. “How do we do that?”
Erik smiled. “Marguerite Giry, you have the mind of a criminal genius.”
“Thank you.” Now it was Meg’s turn to be puzzled. “I think.”
“What are you going to do, Erik?” Christine asked as his smile became a wolfish grin.
“Oh, nothing really,” he said. “I was just thinking that it might be instructive for Monsieur DuPre to discover that OG hasn’t entirely left the building...”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2217
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Meg Giry, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Telling Tales
April was turning into May, and the weather becoming milder.
Grateful for a break in the final run of rehearsals before the dress, Meg stepped out of the stage door and breathed in a lungful of air, its sensation almost fresh after the stuffiness of the theatre. She tried to ignore the usual city smells that assailed her nostrils, the odours of manure and sewage and coal which were impossible to escape no matter where you were; an equally unpleasant scent, that of tobacco smoke, she did not dismiss so lightly, knowing that some of the ballerinas ignored Madame Giry’s strict warnings upon the subject and obtained cigarettes from their many and varied amours. Glancing down the street she could see Dorothée and Hortense giggling with a couple of the younger stagehands. Meg had no idea how they imagined they could disguise their transgressions; her mother would smell smoke and the cheap wine which the men were attempting to persuade them to drink on their breath the moment they returned to the stage. She shook her head, closing her eyes and enjoying the feeling of the spring sun on her face.
With one or two exceptions, everyone had buckled down and worked hard over the previous few weeks. After the disasters of the last year they were all anxious to succeed, and above all to hold onto their jobs. The initial burst of curiosity over Erik’s arrival seemed to have died down and the majority of the cast had accepted him once they discovered that he knew exactly what he was talking about and did not expect anything of them that was not achievable. He was stern, and at times a hard taskmaster, but he wanted the production to be a triumph and refused to carry anyone who was not willing to give their all. There were still rumours circulating, particularly connected to his relationship with Christine; Meg tried to scotch these as best she could though she was sure some of the other girls believed that it was a case of ‘the lady doth protest too much’. Erik was scrupulous in his dealings with Christine on stage, and took care not to praise her above anyone else though Meg knew that he did so in private. No matter who else walked into the room, he would only ever have eyes for his Angel of Music.
It was strange, watching him dealing with other people. He was stiff, formal and reluctant to let his guard down, but there were occasions when his passion shone through the unbending exterior. A musical phrase, or a particularly sweet passage of song would transfix him and he would speak upon the subject with such enthusiasm that his eyes lit up and the visible side of his face transformed, the smile that touched his lips making him appear much more human. Unfortunately, once he realised this he would retreat back into his shell, his barriers rising once more, and once again he would become the strict teacher he pretended to be. Because of this many members of the company found him difficult and stand-offish but there were a handful who began to see the man hiding behind the facade and Meg was glad of it.
The sound of voices disturbed her reverie. Tucked away as she was beside the steps which led up to the Rue Scribe entrance to the theatre she was almost invisible to anyone approaching and it was quite obvious that the two men walking in her direction had no idea that she was there. One was Marius DuPre, and she realised with a jolt of surprise that she recognised his companion. The loud checked suit and rather battered felt hat could only belong to one person: Francois Béringer.
Meg scooted round the stairs, taking care to remain out of sight. They were talking in low voices, Béringer scribbling in a notebook while DuPre enjoyed a cigar; the fact that he was a closet smoker was no shock, for it explained the poor quality of his voice of late. Meg wondered whether the cigars had been a gift from the journalist, as she could not recall ever having seen Marius indulging in one before now. She strained her ears, trying to hear what they were saying.
“Does it sound like the same man?” DuPre asked.
Béringer nodded. “From your description, I’d say it’s definitely him. You say he wears a mask?”
“Over the right side of his face. There’s something wrong with his mouth, too.” Marius waved a hand towards his own features. “Looks like it’s twisted, though I only got a glimpse. I take it you didn’t see any of this?”
“Our... altercation was an awkward one, and there were too many shadows. Can you tell me anything about his dealings with Daae?”
DuPre snorted. “Only that he seems to worship the ground she walks on and she feels the same way about him. Unfortunately for you, they’re so proper around one another that it’s impossible to tell whether anything else is going on.”
Béringer flicked back through his notes, frowning. “I remember you telling me that you’d seen this fellow before, in the theatre.”
“I didn’t see him myself. Augustine Albert reckons he was the one who replaced Piangi as Don Juan back in January, but I was in my dressing room at the time so I can’t comment. When I got back to the stage the place was in chaos, everyone was screaming about the Phantom and Christine Daae had disappeared again.”
“Vanishing is something she seems to make a habit of,” the journalist remarked. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and said, “It seems that me that no one had ever encountered this fellow Claudin before he came to the Populaire’s rescue.”
A dark look crossed Marius’s ruddy face, and he threw the end of his cigar into the gutter with rather more force than was necessary. “We did not need rescuing, Monsieur. Rehearsals were going perfectly well before that... upstart arrived.”
“If you say so,” Béringer agreed smoothly. “It seems strange to me that such a person should just appear apparently from nowhere, professing so close a connection to Christine Daae. The Phantom was reputedly obsessed with her. Could this Claudin be the Phantom, do you think?”
DuPre looked at the man for a long moment. Meg held her breath. After a pause, during which Béringer began to look uncomfortable, Marius let loose a loud guffaw, the sound of which was enough to make the ballet rats and their beaux on the corner glance round. “The Phantom?” Marius exclaimed, lowering his voice only after the journalist made frantic shushing motions with his hand. “Claudin? Never! The man is too much of a cold fish; I can’t imagine him doing anything so dramatic. Mind you, if he was the Phantom, I’d like to shake his hand for dropping a set piece from Le Roi de Lahore on that dreadful Giudicelli woman’s head. Never did anyone deserve it more!”
Béringer closed his notebook with a snap and stuffed it into his pocket. “I take it that you’ll keep me informed? The managers must be close to revealing the identities of the new leading players.”
“By that remark I assume you mean that you’re fishing for an invitation to the Bal Masque,” said Marius, pulling out a hip flask and taking a swig. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hang around the stage door after the performance. I’ll see what I can do.”
There was a nasty smile on the journalist’s face. “Oh, I’ll be there. After what happened at the last Opera ball, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
________________________________________
Returning to the theatre, head down as she contemplated all she had just heard, Meg nearly ran into Christine, who was hurrying in the opposite direction, a crumpled newspaper in her hands.
“He’s done it again,” she told Meg when they had both recovered and apologised. “I’ve been looking all over for Erik, so that I can explain. Goodness knows what he thinks..!”
“Thinks of what? Who has done it again?” Meg asked, perplexed. Christine showed her the copy of Le Figaro, pointing to the narrow column in the Arts section that was evidently bothering her. As she read, it became quite obvious who was to blame for the soprano’s current consternation. “Of course. Béringer.”
“He must have seen me with Raoul! Meg, it was perfectly innocent; we bumped into each other in the street. I had no idea that he was back in Paris! Whatever must Erik think?”
“The rat,” said Meg, crushing the newspaper into a ball. “Oh, that man is rotten to the core!”
Christine blinked, shocked. “Meg! You can’t possibly mean that Erik might - ”
“Not Erik – Béringer! I’ve just seen him outside with Marius. Our so-called colleague has been feeding that gutter-snipe information! If anything, Erik needs to be warned that they’re on his trail.” Meg glanced around the dim corridor. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know; he vanished after announcing a break and I haven’t seen him since. I daren’t go downstairs to look for him; someone might see,” Christine said. “What has Marius told that despicable man?”
Meg filled her in as they all but ran through the narrow hallways. The backstage areas of the Opera House were like a rabbit warren; Erik knew every hiding place in the building, and if he did not want to be found he would remain invisible. He had developed a habit of disappearing before anyone could approach, a strategy which Meg suspected was born more from a desire to avoid Augustine Albert than anything else. It kept everyone on their toes and perplexed both Monsieur Reyer and the stage manager, but to Meg it was becoming infuriating.
“How could he do that?” Christine asked, shaking her head in astonishment. Meg sighed inwardly; her friend could be so naive sometimes.
“He does it because Erik humiliated him in front of everyone,” she said. “Marius got above himself and Erik slapped him down, so consequently he now hates Erik for thwarting him. Béringer is obviously exploiting that hatred for his own ends. It’s quite simple really.”
“It’s not simple to me,” said Christine sadly. “Why do people have to be so beastly to one another?”
“Human nature my dear,” a familiar voice replied, before Meg could open her mouth. A shadow detached itself from the wall, resolving into the tall, lean figure of the former Opera Ghost himself. He frowned, the undamaged side of his face in harmony with his mask. “What has happened?”
Meg and Christine both began to speak at once, each becoming louder and shriller in their attempts to outdo one another. Erik covered his ears, his expression pained.
“One at a time, please!” he begged. Leading the way into a side room which Meg recognised as Monsieur Pevitt’s old office, he shut the door behind them and perched on the edge of the desk, folding his arms. “Now: explain, and do it quietly.”
They did, Christine thankfully letting Meg do most of the talking. By the time she had finished, the look on Erik’s face was thunderous and Christine was nervously twirling a curl of hair around her finger. Straightening, Erik stalked up and down the room for some moments before whirling around and slamming a hand into the wall, making the pictures shake and both the girls jump.
“I should have killed that infernal reporter when I had the chance.” He stood with his back to them, fists clenched, his whole posture radiating fury. Christine and Meg exchanged a worried glance. Gradually, however, some of the anger drained away and Erik’s shoulders relaxed a little. “When did you see the vicomte?” he asked without turning.
“The day we had dinner,” Christine told him. “Erik, it was completely innocent. We just met in the street, nothing happened!”
He held out a hand to her, which she took, relief flooding her features, and allowed him to draw her close. “How could it have done? You came back to me, after all.” Christine flung her arms around his neck and he dropped a kiss onto the top of her head.
“There is a silver lining,” said Meg, feeling rather like a gooseberry. Both of her companions stared at her. “Marius is such an idiot that he can throw Béringer off the scent of the Phantom if we feed him the right information.”
Christine looked hopelessly confused. “How do we do that?”
Erik smiled. “Marguerite Giry, you have the mind of a criminal genius.”
“Thank you.” Now it was Meg’s turn to be puzzled. “I think.”
“What are you going to do, Erik?” Christine asked as his smile became a wolfish grin.
“Oh, nothing really,” he said. “I was just thinking that it might be instructive for Monsieur DuPre to discover that OG hasn’t entirely left the building...”
