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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 24/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3381
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae. Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: It's time to play the music...
PLAY THE MUSIC, LIGHT THE LIGHTS
Erik glanced at the clock. “You should be making your way upstairs; your dresser will be waiting for you.”
“Is it that time already?” Christine had not realised the hour had become so late; spending time in the underground house before a performance always calmed her. They had already gently warmed up her voice, Erik taking the opportunity to offer some personal instruction he had omitted from the rehearsal, preferring to fine-tune her performance away from the rest of the cast lest he be accused of favouritism. He cooked dinner, something light so as not to make her feel sluggish, and they had passed an enjoyable afternoon in each other’s company, Christine amused by his small talk, something which he had been trying out on her recently and at which he was becoming increasingly adept. Teasingly, she threatened to take him with her to a society soiree, an invitation to which arrived in the post that morning, sent by an admirer. Erik’s sour expression told her more eloquently than any words exactly how he viewed the suggestion.
He held out a hand to her. “I will escort you as far as the singers’ corridor.”
“We’re not going to use the mirror?” she asked, disappointed. There was still a frisson of excitement to be felt as they passed through that magic portal from his domain into the world above.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea to enlighten Madame Michon as to its existence, do you?” Erik quirked an eyebrow. “Besides, there are enough rumours flying around about the two of us without the added fuel of me being found in your dressing room before the performance.”
“You’re right, of course.” With a sigh Christine reached for her wrap, settling it around her shoulders. “Will there be time for us to meet before I step on stage? You know that your presence always helps my nerves.”
He pulled a rueful face. “I fear that you will have to forgo it upon this occasion.”
“But why? Monsieur Reyer always comes round to wish everyone good luck!”
“Monsieur Reyer does not have to climb the stairs from the fifth cellar,” Erik said defensively. “I cannot hang around backstage for long; someone might see me.”
Christine couldn’t help laughing at the suggestion. “Erik, you are the chorus master; you are meant to be there! Everyone in the cast will see you during the entire show.”
“Temporary chorus master,” he corrected. “I agreed to assist; I have no contract and the managers have no hold over me that I can tell. Never have I said that I will be there on the opening night.”
“But... but, Erik..!” Her mouth fell open and she stared at him in shock. “Do you mean to tell me that you will miss the performance? You have never missed one of my opening nights, not even when I was still in the corps de ballet! I don’t... I can’t... how can you do this to me after all we’ve - ”
“Christine, Christine.” Erik’s voice was soothing, his tone like honey. Christine bit her lip, determined not to be taken in by it. “I did not say that I would not be there, only that I would not be seen. Box Five has been sold - ” An annoyed expression briefly crossed his face “ – but there are many other vantage points from which I can watch in privacy. I have not forsaken you; how could you think that I would? Your Angel of Music will always be with you.”
“I need you, not the Angel,” she told him, and he blinked in surprise. “The whole cast needs you. In person. No one else has been able to mould us into a company again like you; how do you expect us to bring down the house if you are not there?”
He pulled away from her, letting her hand fall to her side. “Don’t be ridiculous. You will all be perfectly fine without me.”
“I’m not being ridiculous! What if someone dries, loses their voice, has an accident?”
“I would refer you to the prompter for the first and the understudies and a doctor for the latter,” he said dryly. “You will hardly need me to deal with such eventualities.”
“Erik.” Christine stamped her foot, which only served to raise a slight smile, much to her irritation. “Like it or not, you are a part of the Populaire now, a tangible part. Will you abandon us now that all our hard work is about to pay off? If we receive any applause tonight, it will be down to you as much as any of us; you should be there to appreciate it, not hiding in the shadows. They are the home of the Phantom, not Erik Claudin. If Rigoletto is a success it will be your achievement. Think of the reviews! It will put Monsieur Béringer in his place once and for all!”
There was a long silence, during which the ticking of the mantelpiece clock seemed painfully loud. Eventually Erik turned towards the piano, taking up a bound libretto and settling himself on the stool. He opened the lid and trailed his long fingers up and down the keys before saying quietly, “I think it might be best if you made your way up to the surface alone. Take the passage on the left; it leads to the prop room. You will invite less attention that way.”
Christine felt her hands trembling; she folded them tightly in front of her, watching his back as he began to almost absently play the introduction to Gilda’s aria Caro Nome. The notes soared into the air, but for once she felt no compulsion to sing. Tears spiked in her eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “The last few weeks, despite some hiccups and irritations, have been so rewarding... I have enjoyed having you beside me on that stage every day more than anything. Why do you have to spoil it now?”
“I don’t belong up there.” His words were so soft that at first she misheard him.
“Erik - ”
“The rest of the cast... no matter what you say they don’t accept me, Christine, they tolerate me.” He raised a hand before she could open her mouth, stalling any protest. “I have seen the way they look at me, heard them whispering behind their hands. Meg has been doing her best, but there is suspicion in the air and though I do not blame them for it I have no desire to be its object. I must keep my distance if the truth is to be concealed.”
The silence returned, this time punctuated by the now muted tinkling of the piano keys. Sighing once again, Christine crossed the rug to stand behind him; laying her hands on his shoulders she brushed her lips against the top of his head.
“That very distance may be why they fail to accept you,” she murmured into his hair. “Not everyone is your enemy.”
________________________________________
She left him there, hurrying through the tunnels and up the many stairs to the theatre proper.
“Christine, where have you been?” Meg demanded, appearing from the dancers’ dressing room with a wardrobe assistant behind her, attempting to fasten the hooks on the back of her bodice. “Where’s Erik? Monsieur Reyer is looking for him.”
“He won’t be here,” Christine said, adding before her friend could speak, “Don’t ask me, Meg, it’s too complicated.”
Meg frowned. “He’s hiding again, isn’t he?”
“I think he’s always hiding. Even with me. I’m sorry, I must go and get ready.” Ignoring Meg calling her name she almost ran to her dressing room, where Michelle was waiting to fix her hair and help her into Gilda’s peasant costume. Outside in the corridor the ten minute bell rang and one of the call boys was shouting for the ‘overture and beginners!’ She could hear the orchestra tuning up and the rumble of conversation from the auditorium. Usually Erik would be there to settle the butterflies in her stomach but tonight he had just made them worse. Christine almost wanted to beat her head against the table in frustration; for every step forwards, he took two back. He deserved to be among the crowd tonight, not lurking on the fringes, watching the fruits of his labour along with the rest of the company. And instead he was sitting alone, five storeys below the theatre, all because he refused to believe that things had changed, that he had changed.
There was a knock at the door. “Five minutes, Mademoiselle Daae!”
Gathering up her shawl and checking her make-up one last time in the mirror, Christine stepped out into the passage and headed for the wings. On her way she met Marie Durant; the mezzo had been bulked and aged up to play Gilda’s nurse and was looking worried, wringing her hands nervously.
“Oh, Christine, there you are!” she exclaimed. “Have you seen Monsieur Claudin? I need to speak to him about that scene in Act Two, I’m not sure that I should - ”
“He’s indisposed,” Christine told her, inwardly cursing Erik for forcing her to make excuses for him. “He’s not here; I’m sorry.”
Marie’s face fell. “Oh, dear! I suppose we shall just have to muddle through, but... he’s not terribly ill, I hope?”
“A slight cold; he didn’t want to risk passing it on to anyone.”
“Understandable. Oh, I do wish he was here, though; he’s made me see my character in a completely different light. You are lucky to have such an intelligent man as your maestro, Christine,” Marie said as they stood to the side of the stage, awaiting their cue. “The two of you must have had some illuminating discussions!”
Christine found herself smiling, her colleague’s words bringing back memories of long evenings spent beside the fire in Erik’s library, when he would hold forth upon a bewildering array of subjects and she was content just to listen to his voice. “Oh, yes indeed.”
“I wish my singing teacher had been so knowledgeable. He was well enough, I suppose, but he did not inspire one. Has Monsieur Claudin travelled, do you know? He seems remarkably well-read, and so fluent in Italian!”
“I think he may have been to Italy in his youth,” Christine said hesitantly. “I am afraid I don’t know that much about his past.”
Marie sighed, and then smiled. “A man of mystery, eh? Well, I do hope he decides to stay on. Marius will come round eventually; he’s not such a fool as to ignore someone who can help him with his career for long. And as Monsieur Claudin did save his life - ”
“You’re exaggerating, Marie!”
“All right, saved him from a nasty accident. Whichever it was, Marius can hardly continue to regard your maestro as a threat after that,” the mezzo announced firmly.
Christine hoped that she was right.
________________________________________
“Oh! Stay my child! Oh! My Gilda!
Leave me not here alone!
Well! In heav’n above
There shall my prayers be raised for - ”
Christine, cradled in Alphonse Renard’s arms, gave a heavy sigh, eyelids fluttering. She felt his fingers ghost across her hair and down her arm; they passed dangerously close to her breast and she surreptitiously smacked his ankle. He winced but amazingly did not break character, his voice anguished as she listed to one side, her body going limp as the theatrical blood from the pack concealed beneath her shirt spread across its pristine white front. She did not envy Madame Michon and her assistants, who would have to wash the gooey substance from the fabric. Gilda, desperately taking the place of her love the Duke, had been murdered in his place by the assassin in her father’s pay. Her death brought the opera to a close as Alphonse drew out the last few lines.
“Do not die!
Leave me not here alone!
Do not die!”
He laid her gently down upon the boards, and beneath her lids she saw him rise slowly to his feet, turning towards the audience. As he did, much to her surprise she thought she caught a flash of white amongst the faces of those watching from the wings. Meg was there, ever the romantic, tears making her stage paint run in thick dark rivulets down her cheeks. Christine tried to raise her head slightly, but Augustine hissed from behind for her to keep still as Alphonse’s heartbreaking final appeal rang through the auditorium:
“Gilda!
My Gilda!
All’s dark now!
Ah! Yes, his curse is on... me!”
Amid tumultuous applause the curtain fell, shutting out the image of the audience upon its feet. Christine scrambled up, glad that her male costume made such things infinitely easier than they would be in skirts and hoops, craning her neck to try and see beyond the members of the company who were now filing onto the stage to take their bows. Madame Giry was ushering the ballerinas into line at the front, checking their costumes were straight and wiping away the worst of Meg’s spoilt make-up as though her daughter were a small child with jam on her face. Before Christine could even ask if the ballet mistress had seen Erik she was pulled aside by Alphonse and all but dragged to the back of the line to take her place between him and an unusually subdued Marius, who had toned down his portrayal of the Duke quite considerably after the incident with the backcloth.
They made three curtain calls before the drapes were closed for the final time and she could return to her dressing room. Several people tried to speak to her on the way, but she barely acknowledged them, ducking through the chaotic throng of cast and crew, all hurrying in different directions in extremely narrow corridors. Three hopeful young men with bouquets were already waiting for her, and having to fend off their advances slowed her down, but eventually she managed to escape, entering her sanctuary and locking the door behind her. She leaned on it for several moments, just getting her breath back and wondering if she had really seen Erik in the wings at all. There had been no sign of him amongst the backstage tumult. When she did raise her head, however, she knew immediately that she was not alone.
“Brava, Christine,” he said, his voice caressing her left ear. She turned to see him leaning against the mirror, immaculate in white tie and tails with his beautiful beaded cloak, the Phantom in all his glory. “It was a triumph, just as I knew it would be.”
“Where were you watching from?” Christine asked. “I thought I saw you in the wings, at the end.”
Erik inclined his head. “I watched from various positions, but yes, I was in the wings. You died very prettily, though I cannot say that I wish to witness it again. The blood looked far too real.”
“I would not have thought that such things mattered to you.” She remembered the little Madame Giry had told her about his past.
“They do when it is the woman one cares about more than anything else in the world apparently expiring before your eyes. I think I may have to insist that you take on only comic roles in the future.” He averted his eyes from her gore-splattered shirt and she quickly moved behind her dressing screen, wriggling out of the shirt and breeches and into a thick robe which covered her curves so completely that he could not possibly think it inflammatory.
“What made you change your mind?” she enquired, sitting down to brush her hair. She could see Erik pulling a face in the mirror. “Was it Madame?”
He folded his arms, and Christine swore he was pouting. “That woman knows everything,” he complained. “She lets herself into my house at will now. I am certain I did not give her a key!”
“She has obviously learned too much from you.” Christine turned on her stool to look at him. “I’m glad you decided to come.”
A smile touched the unmasked side of his face, and he took the hand she held out, squeezing it gently. “As am I. You all deserved your standing ovation.”
“Even Marius DuPre?”
“His performance has improved,” Erik grudgingly allowed.
“Of course, you had nothing to do with that, did you?” Christine asked.
He shrugged. “I am his director.”
“And the Phan - ” Before she could finish there were voices in the passage, voices she recognised as belonging to the new managers.
“Where the devil is that man?” Marigny was demanding. “Anyone would think he could vanish into thin air!”
“Perhaps he’s a will ‘o the wisp,” Fontaine suggested, his speech slightly slurred. “Don’t worry yourself, my dear fellow; Claudin will turn up eventually. He was probably cornered by that dreadful mistress of the Duc de Guéret; she wants to be a singer, but personally I think she’d be more at home in a back-street bordello than on the stage of the Paris Opera!”
“I hope you didn’t tell him that,” his colleague said sharply. “He brings large parties two or three times a month; we need his custom!”
“Sometimes, Claude, I think you don’t trust me.” Fontaine’s tone was one of wounded dignity. “Why would I do a thing like – ah! Here we are!” There was a loud knock on the door, and before Christine could even find her voice it opened to reveal the managers themselves, dressed to the nines and looking – particularly in Fontaine’s case – a little flushed.
“Mademoiselle Daae,” said Marigny with a despairing glance at his partner, who had bowed so low that his nose practically touched his knees, “Our sincere apologies for this intrusion.”
“We just had to come and congratulate you in person,” Fontaine announced, holding out the bottle of champagne that had been sliding dangerously from his grip. “A triumph, Mademoiselle, a triumph! The Opera Populaire is back with a bang!” He let go of the bottle and only Erik’s quick reflexes prevented the bang in question being that of broken glass all over the carpet.
Marigny rolled his eyes. “We must get you a new a dressing room,” he said, running his gaze over Christine’s little chamber, over the battered table and sofa, the peeling paint and the threadbare rugs. “This one is rather shabby, and too far away from the stage. We can do much better than this.”
“Oh, but Monsieur, I like this one,” Christine cried quickly. “It is so very... cosy.”
“Nonsense!” Fontaine said. “A rising star needs much better accommodation. We’ll take care of it in the morning.”
“But, Monsieur, I don’t think - ”
“Perhaps a coat of paint and some new furniture would be a suitable compromise?” Erik suggested, his voice startling the managers, who had apparently not even realised he was in the room.
“Mon Dieu, Claudin!” exclaimed Fontaine. “There you are, you sly dog! You must have run to make it here before us. Marigny was just looking for you; weren’t you, old man?”
Marigny grabbed his arm as the other man began to lurch to one side. “The Marquis de Borges was most anxious to make your acquaintance,” he told Erik, whose spine stiffened and he instinctively back up towards the mirror. “However, I believe he will probably be ensconced in the Cafe Garnier by now and it would not do to disturb him.”
Erik looked relieved, at least until Fontaine said brightly, “It doesn’t matter. You can meet him at the masquerade tomorrow evening! I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about. Did I hear that you were from Normandy? He has a chateau in the forest near Rouen. Perhaps you are neighbours!”
“Take no notice of him; he becomes a little... enthusiastic on opening night. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. We need to discuss the matter of a contract, but I believe Monday morning in the office may be a more appropriate time for that,” Marigny added, steering his inebriated colleague from the room. “Goodnight to you both.”
The door closed behind them, leaving Christine and Erik staring at each other.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3381
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae. Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: It's time to play the music...
Erik glanced at the clock. “You should be making your way upstairs; your dresser will be waiting for you.”
“Is it that time already?” Christine had not realised the hour had become so late; spending time in the underground house before a performance always calmed her. They had already gently warmed up her voice, Erik taking the opportunity to offer some personal instruction he had omitted from the rehearsal, preferring to fine-tune her performance away from the rest of the cast lest he be accused of favouritism. He cooked dinner, something light so as not to make her feel sluggish, and they had passed an enjoyable afternoon in each other’s company, Christine amused by his small talk, something which he had been trying out on her recently and at which he was becoming increasingly adept. Teasingly, she threatened to take him with her to a society soiree, an invitation to which arrived in the post that morning, sent by an admirer. Erik’s sour expression told her more eloquently than any words exactly how he viewed the suggestion.
He held out a hand to her. “I will escort you as far as the singers’ corridor.”
“We’re not going to use the mirror?” she asked, disappointed. There was still a frisson of excitement to be felt as they passed through that magic portal from his domain into the world above.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea to enlighten Madame Michon as to its existence, do you?” Erik quirked an eyebrow. “Besides, there are enough rumours flying around about the two of us without the added fuel of me being found in your dressing room before the performance.”
“You’re right, of course.” With a sigh Christine reached for her wrap, settling it around her shoulders. “Will there be time for us to meet before I step on stage? You know that your presence always helps my nerves.”
He pulled a rueful face. “I fear that you will have to forgo it upon this occasion.”
“But why? Monsieur Reyer always comes round to wish everyone good luck!”
“Monsieur Reyer does not have to climb the stairs from the fifth cellar,” Erik said defensively. “I cannot hang around backstage for long; someone might see me.”
Christine couldn’t help laughing at the suggestion. “Erik, you are the chorus master; you are meant to be there! Everyone in the cast will see you during the entire show.”
“Temporary chorus master,” he corrected. “I agreed to assist; I have no contract and the managers have no hold over me that I can tell. Never have I said that I will be there on the opening night.”
“But... but, Erik..!” Her mouth fell open and she stared at him in shock. “Do you mean to tell me that you will miss the performance? You have never missed one of my opening nights, not even when I was still in the corps de ballet! I don’t... I can’t... how can you do this to me after all we’ve - ”
“Christine, Christine.” Erik’s voice was soothing, his tone like honey. Christine bit her lip, determined not to be taken in by it. “I did not say that I would not be there, only that I would not be seen. Box Five has been sold - ” An annoyed expression briefly crossed his face “ – but there are many other vantage points from which I can watch in privacy. I have not forsaken you; how could you think that I would? Your Angel of Music will always be with you.”
“I need you, not the Angel,” she told him, and he blinked in surprise. “The whole cast needs you. In person. No one else has been able to mould us into a company again like you; how do you expect us to bring down the house if you are not there?”
He pulled away from her, letting her hand fall to her side. “Don’t be ridiculous. You will all be perfectly fine without me.”
“I’m not being ridiculous! What if someone dries, loses their voice, has an accident?”
“I would refer you to the prompter for the first and the understudies and a doctor for the latter,” he said dryly. “You will hardly need me to deal with such eventualities.”
“Erik.” Christine stamped her foot, which only served to raise a slight smile, much to her irritation. “Like it or not, you are a part of the Populaire now, a tangible part. Will you abandon us now that all our hard work is about to pay off? If we receive any applause tonight, it will be down to you as much as any of us; you should be there to appreciate it, not hiding in the shadows. They are the home of the Phantom, not Erik Claudin. If Rigoletto is a success it will be your achievement. Think of the reviews! It will put Monsieur Béringer in his place once and for all!”
There was a long silence, during which the ticking of the mantelpiece clock seemed painfully loud. Eventually Erik turned towards the piano, taking up a bound libretto and settling himself on the stool. He opened the lid and trailed his long fingers up and down the keys before saying quietly, “I think it might be best if you made your way up to the surface alone. Take the passage on the left; it leads to the prop room. You will invite less attention that way.”
Christine felt her hands trembling; she folded them tightly in front of her, watching his back as he began to almost absently play the introduction to Gilda’s aria Caro Nome. The notes soared into the air, but for once she felt no compulsion to sing. Tears spiked in her eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “The last few weeks, despite some hiccups and irritations, have been so rewarding... I have enjoyed having you beside me on that stage every day more than anything. Why do you have to spoil it now?”
“I don’t belong up there.” His words were so soft that at first she misheard him.
“Erik - ”
“The rest of the cast... no matter what you say they don’t accept me, Christine, they tolerate me.” He raised a hand before she could open her mouth, stalling any protest. “I have seen the way they look at me, heard them whispering behind their hands. Meg has been doing her best, but there is suspicion in the air and though I do not blame them for it I have no desire to be its object. I must keep my distance if the truth is to be concealed.”
The silence returned, this time punctuated by the now muted tinkling of the piano keys. Sighing once again, Christine crossed the rug to stand behind him; laying her hands on his shoulders she brushed her lips against the top of his head.
“That very distance may be why they fail to accept you,” she murmured into his hair. “Not everyone is your enemy.”
________________________________________
She left him there, hurrying through the tunnels and up the many stairs to the theatre proper.
“Christine, where have you been?” Meg demanded, appearing from the dancers’ dressing room with a wardrobe assistant behind her, attempting to fasten the hooks on the back of her bodice. “Where’s Erik? Monsieur Reyer is looking for him.”
“He won’t be here,” Christine said, adding before her friend could speak, “Don’t ask me, Meg, it’s too complicated.”
Meg frowned. “He’s hiding again, isn’t he?”
“I think he’s always hiding. Even with me. I’m sorry, I must go and get ready.” Ignoring Meg calling her name she almost ran to her dressing room, where Michelle was waiting to fix her hair and help her into Gilda’s peasant costume. Outside in the corridor the ten minute bell rang and one of the call boys was shouting for the ‘overture and beginners!’ She could hear the orchestra tuning up and the rumble of conversation from the auditorium. Usually Erik would be there to settle the butterflies in her stomach but tonight he had just made them worse. Christine almost wanted to beat her head against the table in frustration; for every step forwards, he took two back. He deserved to be among the crowd tonight, not lurking on the fringes, watching the fruits of his labour along with the rest of the company. And instead he was sitting alone, five storeys below the theatre, all because he refused to believe that things had changed, that he had changed.
There was a knock at the door. “Five minutes, Mademoiselle Daae!”
Gathering up her shawl and checking her make-up one last time in the mirror, Christine stepped out into the passage and headed for the wings. On her way she met Marie Durant; the mezzo had been bulked and aged up to play Gilda’s nurse and was looking worried, wringing her hands nervously.
“Oh, Christine, there you are!” she exclaimed. “Have you seen Monsieur Claudin? I need to speak to him about that scene in Act Two, I’m not sure that I should - ”
“He’s indisposed,” Christine told her, inwardly cursing Erik for forcing her to make excuses for him. “He’s not here; I’m sorry.”
Marie’s face fell. “Oh, dear! I suppose we shall just have to muddle through, but... he’s not terribly ill, I hope?”
“A slight cold; he didn’t want to risk passing it on to anyone.”
“Understandable. Oh, I do wish he was here, though; he’s made me see my character in a completely different light. You are lucky to have such an intelligent man as your maestro, Christine,” Marie said as they stood to the side of the stage, awaiting their cue. “The two of you must have had some illuminating discussions!”
Christine found herself smiling, her colleague’s words bringing back memories of long evenings spent beside the fire in Erik’s library, when he would hold forth upon a bewildering array of subjects and she was content just to listen to his voice. “Oh, yes indeed.”
“I wish my singing teacher had been so knowledgeable. He was well enough, I suppose, but he did not inspire one. Has Monsieur Claudin travelled, do you know? He seems remarkably well-read, and so fluent in Italian!”
“I think he may have been to Italy in his youth,” Christine said hesitantly. “I am afraid I don’t know that much about his past.”
Marie sighed, and then smiled. “A man of mystery, eh? Well, I do hope he decides to stay on. Marius will come round eventually; he’s not such a fool as to ignore someone who can help him with his career for long. And as Monsieur Claudin did save his life - ”
“You’re exaggerating, Marie!”
“All right, saved him from a nasty accident. Whichever it was, Marius can hardly continue to regard your maestro as a threat after that,” the mezzo announced firmly.
Christine hoped that she was right.
________________________________________
Leave me not here alone!
Well! In heav’n above
There shall my prayers be raised for - ”
Christine, cradled in Alphonse Renard’s arms, gave a heavy sigh, eyelids fluttering. She felt his fingers ghost across her hair and down her arm; they passed dangerously close to her breast and she surreptitiously smacked his ankle. He winced but amazingly did not break character, his voice anguished as she listed to one side, her body going limp as the theatrical blood from the pack concealed beneath her shirt spread across its pristine white front. She did not envy Madame Michon and her assistants, who would have to wash the gooey substance from the fabric. Gilda, desperately taking the place of her love the Duke, had been murdered in his place by the assassin in her father’s pay. Her death brought the opera to a close as Alphonse drew out the last few lines.
Leave me not here alone!
Do not die!”
He laid her gently down upon the boards, and beneath her lids she saw him rise slowly to his feet, turning towards the audience. As he did, much to her surprise she thought she caught a flash of white amongst the faces of those watching from the wings. Meg was there, ever the romantic, tears making her stage paint run in thick dark rivulets down her cheeks. Christine tried to raise her head slightly, but Augustine hissed from behind for her to keep still as Alphonse’s heartbreaking final appeal rang through the auditorium:
My Gilda!
All’s dark now!
Ah! Yes, his curse is on... me!”
Amid tumultuous applause the curtain fell, shutting out the image of the audience upon its feet. Christine scrambled up, glad that her male costume made such things infinitely easier than they would be in skirts and hoops, craning her neck to try and see beyond the members of the company who were now filing onto the stage to take their bows. Madame Giry was ushering the ballerinas into line at the front, checking their costumes were straight and wiping away the worst of Meg’s spoilt make-up as though her daughter were a small child with jam on her face. Before Christine could even ask if the ballet mistress had seen Erik she was pulled aside by Alphonse and all but dragged to the back of the line to take her place between him and an unusually subdued Marius, who had toned down his portrayal of the Duke quite considerably after the incident with the backcloth.
They made three curtain calls before the drapes were closed for the final time and she could return to her dressing room. Several people tried to speak to her on the way, but she barely acknowledged them, ducking through the chaotic throng of cast and crew, all hurrying in different directions in extremely narrow corridors. Three hopeful young men with bouquets were already waiting for her, and having to fend off their advances slowed her down, but eventually she managed to escape, entering her sanctuary and locking the door behind her. She leaned on it for several moments, just getting her breath back and wondering if she had really seen Erik in the wings at all. There had been no sign of him amongst the backstage tumult. When she did raise her head, however, she knew immediately that she was not alone.
“Brava, Christine,” he said, his voice caressing her left ear. She turned to see him leaning against the mirror, immaculate in white tie and tails with his beautiful beaded cloak, the Phantom in all his glory. “It was a triumph, just as I knew it would be.”
“Where were you watching from?” Christine asked. “I thought I saw you in the wings, at the end.”
Erik inclined his head. “I watched from various positions, but yes, I was in the wings. You died very prettily, though I cannot say that I wish to witness it again. The blood looked far too real.”
“I would not have thought that such things mattered to you.” She remembered the little Madame Giry had told her about his past.
“They do when it is the woman one cares about more than anything else in the world apparently expiring before your eyes. I think I may have to insist that you take on only comic roles in the future.” He averted his eyes from her gore-splattered shirt and she quickly moved behind her dressing screen, wriggling out of the shirt and breeches and into a thick robe which covered her curves so completely that he could not possibly think it inflammatory.
“What made you change your mind?” she enquired, sitting down to brush her hair. She could see Erik pulling a face in the mirror. “Was it Madame?”
He folded his arms, and Christine swore he was pouting. “That woman knows everything,” he complained. “She lets herself into my house at will now. I am certain I did not give her a key!”
“She has obviously learned too much from you.” Christine turned on her stool to look at him. “I’m glad you decided to come.”
A smile touched the unmasked side of his face, and he took the hand she held out, squeezing it gently. “As am I. You all deserved your standing ovation.”
“Even Marius DuPre?”
“His performance has improved,” Erik grudgingly allowed.
“Of course, you had nothing to do with that, did you?” Christine asked.
He shrugged. “I am his director.”
“And the Phan - ” Before she could finish there were voices in the passage, voices she recognised as belonging to the new managers.
“Where the devil is that man?” Marigny was demanding. “Anyone would think he could vanish into thin air!”
“Perhaps he’s a will ‘o the wisp,” Fontaine suggested, his speech slightly slurred. “Don’t worry yourself, my dear fellow; Claudin will turn up eventually. He was probably cornered by that dreadful mistress of the Duc de Guéret; she wants to be a singer, but personally I think she’d be more at home in a back-street bordello than on the stage of the Paris Opera!”
“I hope you didn’t tell him that,” his colleague said sharply. “He brings large parties two or three times a month; we need his custom!”
“Sometimes, Claude, I think you don’t trust me.” Fontaine’s tone was one of wounded dignity. “Why would I do a thing like – ah! Here we are!” There was a loud knock on the door, and before Christine could even find her voice it opened to reveal the managers themselves, dressed to the nines and looking – particularly in Fontaine’s case – a little flushed.
“Mademoiselle Daae,” said Marigny with a despairing glance at his partner, who had bowed so low that his nose practically touched his knees, “Our sincere apologies for this intrusion.”
“We just had to come and congratulate you in person,” Fontaine announced, holding out the bottle of champagne that had been sliding dangerously from his grip. “A triumph, Mademoiselle, a triumph! The Opera Populaire is back with a bang!” He let go of the bottle and only Erik’s quick reflexes prevented the bang in question being that of broken glass all over the carpet.
Marigny rolled his eyes. “We must get you a new a dressing room,” he said, running his gaze over Christine’s little chamber, over the battered table and sofa, the peeling paint and the threadbare rugs. “This one is rather shabby, and too far away from the stage. We can do much better than this.”
“Oh, but Monsieur, I like this one,” Christine cried quickly. “It is so very... cosy.”
“Nonsense!” Fontaine said. “A rising star needs much better accommodation. We’ll take care of it in the morning.”
“But, Monsieur, I don’t think - ”
“Perhaps a coat of paint and some new furniture would be a suitable compromise?” Erik suggested, his voice startling the managers, who had apparently not even realised he was in the room.
“Mon Dieu, Claudin!” exclaimed Fontaine. “There you are, you sly dog! You must have run to make it here before us. Marigny was just looking for you; weren’t you, old man?”
Marigny grabbed his arm as the other man began to lurch to one side. “The Marquis de Borges was most anxious to make your acquaintance,” he told Erik, whose spine stiffened and he instinctively back up towards the mirror. “However, I believe he will probably be ensconced in the Cafe Garnier by now and it would not do to disturb him.”
Erik looked relieved, at least until Fontaine said brightly, “It doesn’t matter. You can meet him at the masquerade tomorrow evening! I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about. Did I hear that you were from Normandy? He has a chateau in the forest near Rouen. Perhaps you are neighbours!”
“Take no notice of him; he becomes a little... enthusiastic on opening night. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. We need to discuss the matter of a contract, but I believe Monday morning in the office may be a more appropriate time for that,” Marigny added, steering his inebriated colleague from the room. “Goodnight to you both.”
The door closed behind them, leaving Christine and Erik staring at each other.
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Date: 2012-12-03 08:19 pm (UTC)At first glance I thought Christine said, "What if someone dies?" Looked like she was really bringing the melodrama for a second there. :-D
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Date: 2012-12-04 02:41 pm (UTC)