charleygirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charleygirl) wrote2012-12-07 05:38 pm
charleygirl) wrote2012-12-07 05:38 pm
Entry tags:
Fic | Phantom of the Opera | The Garish Light of Day 25/?
Title: The Garish Light of Day 25/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3603
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Meg Giry, Madame Giry, Monsieur Reyer
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: A night out.
A NIGHT TO REMEMBER
The door closed behind the managers, leaving them alone.
“Well!” Christine said. “It looks as though you’re going to be offered a job!”
Erik looked unconvinced. “I’m not entirely sure that I want one.” He cocked his head to one side, the visible side of his face creased in confusion. “Did all of that really just happen or am I dreaming again?”
“They are obviously pleased with your work.” She took the bottle of champagne from his unresisting hands and set it on the dressing table, looking around for something in which to serve it. “Would you like a drink? I don’t have any glasses...”
“Marigny is right, you do deserve better than this,” he said as he watched her rummage in a drawer and produce a pair of slightly chipped cups. “Though why he is advocating a new dressing room when you are not to be the star - ”
“Erik.” Christine laid a finger against his misshapen lips, silencing him. “I don’t mind that someone else will be taking the limelight, really I don’t.” He mumbled something, and she shook her head. “I have my reputation to make, or rather repair, and it will be far easier to do so without the glare of attention directed at me. I do not have to worry about whether I am the darling of the journals and the toast of society; I can leave that to the new Prima Donna and concentrate on my voice. You have, after all, continually stressed its importance.”
He sighed, reaching up to remove her hand, though not without kissing her fingers first. “I always meant you to be the star.”
“I will be. In time. I am quite content to wait, you know.”
Erik’s mouth twitched. “You have more patience than I, my dear.”
“I am well aware of that,” she told him, laughing. A feeling of euphoria was beginning to spread through her, a mixture of happiness and relief. She was treading the boards once again, the performance had been a success and she could almost have been walking on air. Taking up a ballet stance, she executed a slightly clumsy pirouette. “Why don’t you open that champagne while I get dressed? It would be a shame to waste it.”
As she nipped back behind the screen she noticed that Erik hadn’t moved. “I should leave you to change,” he said, glancing towards the door.
“Whatever for? I’m quite hidden.”
“So you are, but it cannot be proper for me to be in the room while you are in a state of undress. Only a certain type of actress entertains gentlemen in such a manner.” His disapproving tone left Christine in no doubt of his thoughts on the matter. “I will wait outside.”
“You aren’t going to disappear on me, are you?” she asked, poking her head around the screen so that she could see him.
He picked up his hat. “I had been wondering whether you would like to spend the night downstairs. It is rather an inclement evening, and I - ”
“Actually,” Christine said, sweeping her gaze to the floor and admiring the mirror-like shine on his shoes, “I was hoping we might go out somewhere. Together. Just the two of us.”
There was a pause. When he spoke, Erik’s normally commanding voice was small, hesitant. “Do you... do you mean dîner à deux?”
“We could go somewhere quiet. It’s late, no one would even notice your mask.” She looked up, and added as his fingers stole towards his mouth, “Please? It would mean so much to me. You don’t have to eat; we’ll just order some wine and cheese.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “The cheese will be for me.”
His gaze strayed again towards the door. “But what will people think if we are seen leaving together?”
“I imagine they will think you are courting me. Is that not what you are doing, Monsieur?” she asked, mischievously. “I sincerely hope it is, or I will have to fear for my reputation after all.”
For a long moment he just looked at her, and then she was rewarded with the sound of his musical chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I suppose I am. I had never really thought of it that way.”
Christine’s smile grew. “Go and find us a cab. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“As my lady commands.” Something very like a grin touched his face and he set the fedora on his head at a rakish angle, reaching for the doorknob. No sooner had he got it open, however, than he collided with a bundle of striped satin and blonde curls that Christine belatedly realised was Meg, who had apparently launched herself at him with all the velocity of a rocket, nearly knocking him over. Erik staggered, grabbing hold of a chair so as not to lose his balance, and looked down in consternation at the ballerina attached to his waist. His hand hovered over her hair, as though unsure whether she required comfort, and he turned his mismatched eyes towards Christine, mutely pleading for assistance.
Christine tightened the belt on her robe and stepped around the screen once more. “Meg, whatever is the matter?”
Meg’s voice was muffled by Erik’s coat. “It was so wonderful! I cried and cried!” She raised her head slightly. “I never cried so much when Monsieur Reyer directed!”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Meg,” Erik said gently, utterly perplexed.
“Oh, you didn’t! You didn’t!” Meg insisted, but there were still tears on her cheeks as she buried her head in his chest once more. “It was beautiful. So, so...” She hiccupped. “So sad!”
“Meg Giry, let Erik go this instant.” The stern voice of Madame cut through the little ballerina’s wails, and she appeared in the doorway, raising her eyes heavenward at the sight of her daughter clinging to an increasingly uncomfortable-looking Phantom. “Good grief... anyone would think you were still six years old!”
Erik was visibly grateful to be extricated from Meg’s embrace, but when she gave him an apologetic smile he returned it and produced a handkerchief from behind her ear which he presented to her with a little bow. She accepted it gratefully, wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said in a wobbly voice. “You must think me dreadfully silly, but I’ve never been so affected by Rigoletto before.”
Madame Giry’s face softened and she patted Meg’s shoulder before turning to Erik and Christine. “I have been charged with the task of asking if you will join the rest of the cast at the Cafe de l’Opera for a little celebration,” she announced, adding, “The invitation is for both of you; Monsieur Reyer was most insistent upon that point.”
“And you know what a tartar he is,” Meg put in. “He won’t take no for an answer.”
Erik was shaking his head, once more retreating towards the mirror. Christine said, casting a meaningful glance in his direction, “We had just made plans to go out together. Somewhere a little more... secluded.”
“I was specifically requested to ask you to come,” the ballet mistress said, noticing his discomfort. “The cast want to thank you, Erik. We haven’t had an audience reaction like that since Christine sang Elissa; at least allow them to show their appreciation.”
Christine and Erik exchanged a helpless glance.
“Just one drink?” he asked warily.
“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Christine conceded. “Can it?”
________________________________________
The light from the cafe windows fell in large rectangles on the wet pavement; from within came the sound of laughter and someone playing the piano. The tune was rough and off-key thanks to the quality of the instrument, and was soon accompanied by such raucous singing that it would be hard to believe those behind it were the cream of the Paris Opera. They sounded like a group of bar room drunks, already under the influence of the wine that would be flowing freely.
Christine took a tighter hold of Erik’s hand as they stood under the awning with Meg and Madame Giry. The visible side of his face was pale and strained, and she could feel him trembling. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him softly. “We can turn around and go home, spend a nice quiet evening together, if you’d prefer.”
He swallowed hard and said, “No. I must face them at some point. I can’t hide underground forever.”
“Well said,” Madame told him. Head held high, the feathers on her hat bobbing, she pushed open the plate glass door, leaving the rest of them to trail along in her wake. The singing briefly stopped as she entered, but it began again, louder than before when Erik and Christine followed, Meg on their heels. It took Christine several moments to recognise a very slurred rendition of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow; Erik stood there, just across the threshold, blinking in surprise as they were suddenly surrounded by people, everyone talking at once and trying to push glasses of champagne into their hands.
“We’ve sent Gianni to the offices of Le Figaro,” Alphonse announced from his vantage point, standing on a chair at the back of the room. “As soon as the first reviews are off the presses, we’ll have them!”
“The poor boy; he’ll be waiting outside all night!” Marie Durant whispered to Christine.
“Knowing Alphonse, he’ll be here till dawn anyway,” said Meg, overhearing. “Unfortunately he won’t be in any condition to read by then!”
“I’ll have you know that I can hold my drink, Mademoiselle Meg,” the baritone retorted. “Unlike some others I could mention.” He jerked a thumb towards a pile of limbs in the corner which Christine realised belonged to Guillaume the bass and Frederick, the Bavarian tenor. Both of them were snoring loudly; Alphonse gave Frederick a kick and the man snorted, rolling onto his side and flopping a limp arm over his colleague’s chest. Guillaume didn’t react.
“They have only been here an hour,” Monsieur Reyer said, making his way through the crush and reaching out to shake Erik’s hand. “I don’t know... whatever must you think of us?”
Erik, recovering from his initial paralysis, ran an amused eye over the gathering. “I see nothing wrong in men enjoying themselves, Monsieur.”
“Of course, of course. I must stress, however, that this is not a common occurrence. We do like to maintain a little decorum,” replied the musical director, glancing towards the gaggle of ballerinas around a table in the window, who called out and beckoned to Meg. It was not long before they were the source of high-pitched discussion and hoots of laughter. Reyer shook his head despairingly, before returning his attention to his guests. “Enough of that. Do come and sit down; you both deserve a drink after all your efforts.”
Augustine Albert sashayed past as they followed Reyer towards the rear of the cafe, wearing a gown with a dangerously low neckline in an unflattering shade of pink. She tried to catch Erik’s attention but he was too busy concentrating on keeping his composure in the face of so many people; Christine shot her a warning glare which caused the other soprano’s lips to thin. They sat down with Reyer, who immediately began to talk of his ideas for the coming season; it was not long before he and Erik were deep in discussion about the relative merits of Mozart and Rossini, and whether the comic operettas emerging from England were of any interest. Christine, carefully sipping her champagne, found herself gravitating towards the ballet rats’ table, where Meg moved over to make room for her.
“I think he might actually be enjoying himself,” Meg said, nudging Christine with her elbow and pointing to where Erik sat, talking animatedly and wagging a long finger under Reyer’s nose to emphasise whatever point he was making. The musical director nodded sagely.
“I think you may be right,” Christine agreed, smiling fondly. It was a sight she had never expected to see: Erik out for the evening and interacting with others like a normal man. From this angle, his mask was barely visible.
Alphonse approached the table. “May I join you, ladies?” he enquired, taking a chair before anyone could answer and straddling it, leaning his arms along the back. The ballerinas giggled and preened. He took a deep drink from his glass of claret and said, “Has anyone seen Marius?”
“We thought you had come to talk to us,” said Giselle, sounding disappointed.
“He was outside the stage door when we left, with a strange man,” Hortense told the baritone, ignoring her. “I think they were arguing; the man shouted and jabbed Marius like this.” She dug a finger into Giselle’s shoulder; Giselle squealed and scooted closer to Meg.
Alphonse frowned. “Did you hear what they were saying?”
“Well...” Hortense considered. “I think the man was accusing Marius of backing out of something. I’m sorry; I was admiring my new dress in the window across the street so I wasn’t really listening.” She smoothed down her skirts and looked hopeful, but Alphonse did not take the hint.
“Marius probably owes him money,” Dorothée said, and they all nodded. “Marius owes everyone money.”
“Perhaps it was a tout,” Sorelli suggested, dabbing delicately at her nose with a powder puff as she examined her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Normally she did not socialise with the members of the corps de ballet, but her latest beau had evidently forsaken her this evening. “They are always trying to get free tickets that they can sell at an exorbitant sum.”
Meg and Christine exchanged a glance. They knew exactly who the man was: Francois Béringer.
“Oh, look! There’s Marius now!” Giselle cried, pointing to a figure approaching through the rain. The tenor was stalking down the street, his face set in an expression of irritation, and it was soon obvious why. Béringer was following him.
“I’ve seen that fellow hanging around the theatre,” said Alphonse, rising from his chair. “He offered Gianni money to tell him backstage gossip.”
“He’s a reporter,” Meg told him. “We’ve been approached, too.” She didn’t mention that the journalist seemed to have particularly targeted Christine.
As the two men came closer it was possible to hear what they were saying. Marius stopped and turned to face his pursuer. “Go away, Monsieur; I have nothing more to say to you!”
“I’m going nowhere!” Béringer snarled. “You promised me - ”
“I promised you nothing!”
“Our agreement - ”
“Is at an end. I can do no more for you. Good night!” Marius opened the door of the cafe, shaking the water from his hat. As he did, Béringer pushed past, barring his way.
“If you won’t help me, maybe I should speak to some of your friends. I have learnt a lot, Monsieur, information which could damage you. The Populaire is riding high thanks to tonight’s performance, but it can be brought to its knees once more quite easily. The tales of the Phantom - ”
Marius’s face drained of colour, and Christine glanced towards Reyer’s table, only to find that the musical director was alone. Erik had disappeared. “You are delusional, Monsieur,” Marius said, a slight tremor in his voice. “There is no Phantom.”
Alphonse was approaching, weaving his way between the tables. Several of the other men who remained sober enough, and one or two that didn’t, were also on their feet, drawn by the commotion. The ballerinas were watching eagerly, Hortense having climbed on a chair to see better over peoples’ heads. “My apologies, Monsieur, this is a private gathering,” the baritone said, tapping Béringer on the shoulder. “I am afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”
Béringer looked up at the big man, who stood squarely blocking the entrance, meaty hands on his hips. “Just a few questions,” he said with a weasely smile. “I am a journalist with Le Figaro, and the first interview with the triumphant cast of Rigoletto - ”
“You told us you were with L’Epoque,” Meg announced from behind Alphonse.
“He told me Le Monde!” called one of the violinists, starting a veritable chorus of newspaper names from around the room.
“You must be very busy, Monsieur, with such an impressive list of employers,” Alphonse remarked. “It sounds to me as if you are no more than a hack, hoping to sell our words to the highest bidder.”
“That’s exactly what he is,” said Christine coldly. The baritone glanced round at her in surprise, and Béringer shot her a look of pure hatred.
“I’m not leaving,” he declared. “This is a public place, and I would like a drink.”
Maurice, the cafe’s head waiter, put down the tray he was carrying on a nearby table. “We are closed for the evening, Monsieur,” he replied, taking up a stance at Alphonse’s side and deliberately folding his arms. “I suggest you try the establishment on the corner.”
Faced with three large, angry men, Béringer had little choice but to retreat. Marius stood aside to allow him to pass, and the journalist’s face creased in an ugly sneer. “I’ll ruin you,” he spat. “When I’m done you won’t even be able to get a part in the cabaret at Le Coque d’Or!”
“I had no idea your influence spread so widely,” Marius told him, some of his usual bravado returning with the support of his colleagues. “Do please give my regards to the management there on your next visit.” The burst of laughter from within the cafe stopped whatever Béringer had been about to say on his tongue, and he turned, slinking away into the gloom as Alphonse shut the door behind him with a flourish.
There was a moment of silence, and then the babble of conversation began once more, louder than before as everyone began to discuss the altercation. Christine would have returned to the table, but there was still no sign of Erik. When she questioned Monsieur Reyer, the musical director informed her that he had stepped outside for some air.
“Is he quite well, Mademoiselle Daae?” Reyer asked, obvious worry in his voice. “One moment we were having a most enlightening chat about the finer points of Wagner, and the next he looked as though he might faint.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine. He isn’t used to such gatherings,” Christine assured him, wishing that she had kept a closer eye on Erik instead of being drawn in by the fracas in the doorway. “I’ll go and find him.”
________________________________________
It was chilly outside, and she was glad of her cloak when she pulled the hood over her head as the rain was heavier now. Trying not to stray from the pools of light cast by the cafe windows, she called softly into the darkness, “Erik? Erik, are you there?”
For a moment she saw nothing, and then she shadows shifted and he was beside her, water dripping from the brim of his fedora and giving him a slightly bedraggled appearance. “You will catch cold,” he said.
“As will you. How long have you been out here?”
He shrugged. “A few minutes. I needed to... escape for a while.”
“You missed all the excitement. Monsieur Reyer thought you were ill,” Christine told him. She tried to reach up to feel his forehead, but it was impossible through the mask and he jerked his head away, embarrassed. “Are you ill? You look a little unsteady.”
“Just overwhelmed,” he said. “It was rather close in there. And crowded. I have not been amongst so many people in a very long time.” His gaze dropped towards the floor and he seemed to find the hem of her dress extremely interesting. “You must forgive my cowardice.”
Remembering how scared he had been the first day he emerged into the outside world and how far he had come since then, Christine’s heart went out to him. “I think you are very brave,” she said. He shook his head, but she insisted, “Yes, you are. I wish you would believe me when I tell you so.” Reaching out a hand she gently grasped his chin, lifting his face to meet hers. “Promise me that you will never call yourself a coward again.”
“If there is anything in the world that makes me brave, it is you,” Erik said, his voice hoarse. “I never had a reason to be brave before we met.”
“That’s not true. You have survived so much - ”
“There is no bravery in merely existing, and for many years I did no more than that.” He tucked a lock of hair beneath her hood, pulling the fabric closer around her chin. “You must go back inside.”
“Will you come with me?” she asked, taking his hand.
“I think not.” He smiled slightly. “I have a sudden longing for the quiet of my cellars, a glass of cognac and the company of just one other person.”
Christine glanced over her shoulder, through the condensation which was fogging the windows to the boisterous gathering within. It appeared that Reyer had been prevailed upon to occupy the pianist’s stool, and a Gilbert and Sullivan song filled the air, a rather red-faced Alphonse taking the lead. Maurice was bringing more wine, one or two couples were dancing and the picture was one of cheerful conviviality. It should have been enticing, but she found that she had no desire to be a part of it. Squeezing Erik’s fingers, she said,
“So have I. Come on; let’s go home.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3603
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Meg Giry, Madame Giry, Monsieur Reyer
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: A night out.
The door closed behind the managers, leaving them alone.
“Well!” Christine said. “It looks as though you’re going to be offered a job!”
Erik looked unconvinced. “I’m not entirely sure that I want one.” He cocked his head to one side, the visible side of his face creased in confusion. “Did all of that really just happen or am I dreaming again?”
“They are obviously pleased with your work.” She took the bottle of champagne from his unresisting hands and set it on the dressing table, looking around for something in which to serve it. “Would you like a drink? I don’t have any glasses...”
“Marigny is right, you do deserve better than this,” he said as he watched her rummage in a drawer and produce a pair of slightly chipped cups. “Though why he is advocating a new dressing room when you are not to be the star - ”
“Erik.” Christine laid a finger against his misshapen lips, silencing him. “I don’t mind that someone else will be taking the limelight, really I don’t.” He mumbled something, and she shook her head. “I have my reputation to make, or rather repair, and it will be far easier to do so without the glare of attention directed at me. I do not have to worry about whether I am the darling of the journals and the toast of society; I can leave that to the new Prima Donna and concentrate on my voice. You have, after all, continually stressed its importance.”
He sighed, reaching up to remove her hand, though not without kissing her fingers first. “I always meant you to be the star.”
“I will be. In time. I am quite content to wait, you know.”
Erik’s mouth twitched. “You have more patience than I, my dear.”
“I am well aware of that,” she told him, laughing. A feeling of euphoria was beginning to spread through her, a mixture of happiness and relief. She was treading the boards once again, the performance had been a success and she could almost have been walking on air. Taking up a ballet stance, she executed a slightly clumsy pirouette. “Why don’t you open that champagne while I get dressed? It would be a shame to waste it.”
As she nipped back behind the screen she noticed that Erik hadn’t moved. “I should leave you to change,” he said, glancing towards the door.
“Whatever for? I’m quite hidden.”
“So you are, but it cannot be proper for me to be in the room while you are in a state of undress. Only a certain type of actress entertains gentlemen in such a manner.” His disapproving tone left Christine in no doubt of his thoughts on the matter. “I will wait outside.”
“You aren’t going to disappear on me, are you?” she asked, poking her head around the screen so that she could see him.
He picked up his hat. “I had been wondering whether you would like to spend the night downstairs. It is rather an inclement evening, and I - ”
“Actually,” Christine said, sweeping her gaze to the floor and admiring the mirror-like shine on his shoes, “I was hoping we might go out somewhere. Together. Just the two of us.”
There was a pause. When he spoke, Erik’s normally commanding voice was small, hesitant. “Do you... do you mean dîner à deux?”
“We could go somewhere quiet. It’s late, no one would even notice your mask.” She looked up, and added as his fingers stole towards his mouth, “Please? It would mean so much to me. You don’t have to eat; we’ll just order some wine and cheese.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “The cheese will be for me.”
His gaze strayed again towards the door. “But what will people think if we are seen leaving together?”
“I imagine they will think you are courting me. Is that not what you are doing, Monsieur?” she asked, mischievously. “I sincerely hope it is, or I will have to fear for my reputation after all.”
For a long moment he just looked at her, and then she was rewarded with the sound of his musical chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I suppose I am. I had never really thought of it that way.”
Christine’s smile grew. “Go and find us a cab. I’ll be ready in five minutes.”
“As my lady commands.” Something very like a grin touched his face and he set the fedora on his head at a rakish angle, reaching for the doorknob. No sooner had he got it open, however, than he collided with a bundle of striped satin and blonde curls that Christine belatedly realised was Meg, who had apparently launched herself at him with all the velocity of a rocket, nearly knocking him over. Erik staggered, grabbing hold of a chair so as not to lose his balance, and looked down in consternation at the ballerina attached to his waist. His hand hovered over her hair, as though unsure whether she required comfort, and he turned his mismatched eyes towards Christine, mutely pleading for assistance.
Christine tightened the belt on her robe and stepped around the screen once more. “Meg, whatever is the matter?”
Meg’s voice was muffled by Erik’s coat. “It was so wonderful! I cried and cried!” She raised her head slightly. “I never cried so much when Monsieur Reyer directed!”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Meg,” Erik said gently, utterly perplexed.
“Oh, you didn’t! You didn’t!” Meg insisted, but there were still tears on her cheeks as she buried her head in his chest once more. “It was beautiful. So, so...” She hiccupped. “So sad!”
“Meg Giry, let Erik go this instant.” The stern voice of Madame cut through the little ballerina’s wails, and she appeared in the doorway, raising her eyes heavenward at the sight of her daughter clinging to an increasingly uncomfortable-looking Phantom. “Good grief... anyone would think you were still six years old!”
Erik was visibly grateful to be extricated from Meg’s embrace, but when she gave him an apologetic smile he returned it and produced a handkerchief from behind her ear which he presented to her with a little bow. She accepted it gratefully, wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said in a wobbly voice. “You must think me dreadfully silly, but I’ve never been so affected by Rigoletto before.”
Madame Giry’s face softened and she patted Meg’s shoulder before turning to Erik and Christine. “I have been charged with the task of asking if you will join the rest of the cast at the Cafe de l’Opera for a little celebration,” she announced, adding, “The invitation is for both of you; Monsieur Reyer was most insistent upon that point.”
“And you know what a tartar he is,” Meg put in. “He won’t take no for an answer.”
Erik was shaking his head, once more retreating towards the mirror. Christine said, casting a meaningful glance in his direction, “We had just made plans to go out together. Somewhere a little more... secluded.”
“I was specifically requested to ask you to come,” the ballet mistress said, noticing his discomfort. “The cast want to thank you, Erik. We haven’t had an audience reaction like that since Christine sang Elissa; at least allow them to show their appreciation.”
Christine and Erik exchanged a helpless glance.
“Just one drink?” he asked warily.
“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Christine conceded. “Can it?”
________________________________________
The light from the cafe windows fell in large rectangles on the wet pavement; from within came the sound of laughter and someone playing the piano. The tune was rough and off-key thanks to the quality of the instrument, and was soon accompanied by such raucous singing that it would be hard to believe those behind it were the cream of the Paris Opera. They sounded like a group of bar room drunks, already under the influence of the wine that would be flowing freely.
Christine took a tighter hold of Erik’s hand as they stood under the awning with Meg and Madame Giry. The visible side of his face was pale and strained, and she could feel him trembling. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked him softly. “We can turn around and go home, spend a nice quiet evening together, if you’d prefer.”
He swallowed hard and said, “No. I must face them at some point. I can’t hide underground forever.”
“Well said,” Madame told him. Head held high, the feathers on her hat bobbing, she pushed open the plate glass door, leaving the rest of them to trail along in her wake. The singing briefly stopped as she entered, but it began again, louder than before when Erik and Christine followed, Meg on their heels. It took Christine several moments to recognise a very slurred rendition of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow; Erik stood there, just across the threshold, blinking in surprise as they were suddenly surrounded by people, everyone talking at once and trying to push glasses of champagne into their hands.
“We’ve sent Gianni to the offices of Le Figaro,” Alphonse announced from his vantage point, standing on a chair at the back of the room. “As soon as the first reviews are off the presses, we’ll have them!”
“The poor boy; he’ll be waiting outside all night!” Marie Durant whispered to Christine.
“Knowing Alphonse, he’ll be here till dawn anyway,” said Meg, overhearing. “Unfortunately he won’t be in any condition to read by then!”
“I’ll have you know that I can hold my drink, Mademoiselle Meg,” the baritone retorted. “Unlike some others I could mention.” He jerked a thumb towards a pile of limbs in the corner which Christine realised belonged to Guillaume the bass and Frederick, the Bavarian tenor. Both of them were snoring loudly; Alphonse gave Frederick a kick and the man snorted, rolling onto his side and flopping a limp arm over his colleague’s chest. Guillaume didn’t react.
“They have only been here an hour,” Monsieur Reyer said, making his way through the crush and reaching out to shake Erik’s hand. “I don’t know... whatever must you think of us?”
Erik, recovering from his initial paralysis, ran an amused eye over the gathering. “I see nothing wrong in men enjoying themselves, Monsieur.”
“Of course, of course. I must stress, however, that this is not a common occurrence. We do like to maintain a little decorum,” replied the musical director, glancing towards the gaggle of ballerinas around a table in the window, who called out and beckoned to Meg. It was not long before they were the source of high-pitched discussion and hoots of laughter. Reyer shook his head despairingly, before returning his attention to his guests. “Enough of that. Do come and sit down; you both deserve a drink after all your efforts.”
Augustine Albert sashayed past as they followed Reyer towards the rear of the cafe, wearing a gown with a dangerously low neckline in an unflattering shade of pink. She tried to catch Erik’s attention but he was too busy concentrating on keeping his composure in the face of so many people; Christine shot her a warning glare which caused the other soprano’s lips to thin. They sat down with Reyer, who immediately began to talk of his ideas for the coming season; it was not long before he and Erik were deep in discussion about the relative merits of Mozart and Rossini, and whether the comic operettas emerging from England were of any interest. Christine, carefully sipping her champagne, found herself gravitating towards the ballet rats’ table, where Meg moved over to make room for her.
“I think he might actually be enjoying himself,” Meg said, nudging Christine with her elbow and pointing to where Erik sat, talking animatedly and wagging a long finger under Reyer’s nose to emphasise whatever point he was making. The musical director nodded sagely.
“I think you may be right,” Christine agreed, smiling fondly. It was a sight she had never expected to see: Erik out for the evening and interacting with others like a normal man. From this angle, his mask was barely visible.
Alphonse approached the table. “May I join you, ladies?” he enquired, taking a chair before anyone could answer and straddling it, leaning his arms along the back. The ballerinas giggled and preened. He took a deep drink from his glass of claret and said, “Has anyone seen Marius?”
“We thought you had come to talk to us,” said Giselle, sounding disappointed.
“He was outside the stage door when we left, with a strange man,” Hortense told the baritone, ignoring her. “I think they were arguing; the man shouted and jabbed Marius like this.” She dug a finger into Giselle’s shoulder; Giselle squealed and scooted closer to Meg.
Alphonse frowned. “Did you hear what they were saying?”
“Well...” Hortense considered. “I think the man was accusing Marius of backing out of something. I’m sorry; I was admiring my new dress in the window across the street so I wasn’t really listening.” She smoothed down her skirts and looked hopeful, but Alphonse did not take the hint.
“Marius probably owes him money,” Dorothée said, and they all nodded. “Marius owes everyone money.”
“Perhaps it was a tout,” Sorelli suggested, dabbing delicately at her nose with a powder puff as she examined her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Normally she did not socialise with the members of the corps de ballet, but her latest beau had evidently forsaken her this evening. “They are always trying to get free tickets that they can sell at an exorbitant sum.”
Meg and Christine exchanged a glance. They knew exactly who the man was: Francois Béringer.
“Oh, look! There’s Marius now!” Giselle cried, pointing to a figure approaching through the rain. The tenor was stalking down the street, his face set in an expression of irritation, and it was soon obvious why. Béringer was following him.
“I’ve seen that fellow hanging around the theatre,” said Alphonse, rising from his chair. “He offered Gianni money to tell him backstage gossip.”
“He’s a reporter,” Meg told him. “We’ve been approached, too.” She didn’t mention that the journalist seemed to have particularly targeted Christine.
As the two men came closer it was possible to hear what they were saying. Marius stopped and turned to face his pursuer. “Go away, Monsieur; I have nothing more to say to you!”
“I’m going nowhere!” Béringer snarled. “You promised me - ”
“I promised you nothing!”
“Our agreement - ”
“Is at an end. I can do no more for you. Good night!” Marius opened the door of the cafe, shaking the water from his hat. As he did, Béringer pushed past, barring his way.
“If you won’t help me, maybe I should speak to some of your friends. I have learnt a lot, Monsieur, information which could damage you. The Populaire is riding high thanks to tonight’s performance, but it can be brought to its knees once more quite easily. The tales of the Phantom - ”
Marius’s face drained of colour, and Christine glanced towards Reyer’s table, only to find that the musical director was alone. Erik had disappeared. “You are delusional, Monsieur,” Marius said, a slight tremor in his voice. “There is no Phantom.”
Alphonse was approaching, weaving his way between the tables. Several of the other men who remained sober enough, and one or two that didn’t, were also on their feet, drawn by the commotion. The ballerinas were watching eagerly, Hortense having climbed on a chair to see better over peoples’ heads. “My apologies, Monsieur, this is a private gathering,” the baritone said, tapping Béringer on the shoulder. “I am afraid I will have to ask you to leave.”
Béringer looked up at the big man, who stood squarely blocking the entrance, meaty hands on his hips. “Just a few questions,” he said with a weasely smile. “I am a journalist with Le Figaro, and the first interview with the triumphant cast of Rigoletto - ”
“You told us you were with L’Epoque,” Meg announced from behind Alphonse.
“He told me Le Monde!” called one of the violinists, starting a veritable chorus of newspaper names from around the room.
“You must be very busy, Monsieur, with such an impressive list of employers,” Alphonse remarked. “It sounds to me as if you are no more than a hack, hoping to sell our words to the highest bidder.”
“That’s exactly what he is,” said Christine coldly. The baritone glanced round at her in surprise, and Béringer shot her a look of pure hatred.
“I’m not leaving,” he declared. “This is a public place, and I would like a drink.”
Maurice, the cafe’s head waiter, put down the tray he was carrying on a nearby table. “We are closed for the evening, Monsieur,” he replied, taking up a stance at Alphonse’s side and deliberately folding his arms. “I suggest you try the establishment on the corner.”
Faced with three large, angry men, Béringer had little choice but to retreat. Marius stood aside to allow him to pass, and the journalist’s face creased in an ugly sneer. “I’ll ruin you,” he spat. “When I’m done you won’t even be able to get a part in the cabaret at Le Coque d’Or!”
“I had no idea your influence spread so widely,” Marius told him, some of his usual bravado returning with the support of his colleagues. “Do please give my regards to the management there on your next visit.” The burst of laughter from within the cafe stopped whatever Béringer had been about to say on his tongue, and he turned, slinking away into the gloom as Alphonse shut the door behind him with a flourish.
There was a moment of silence, and then the babble of conversation began once more, louder than before as everyone began to discuss the altercation. Christine would have returned to the table, but there was still no sign of Erik. When she questioned Monsieur Reyer, the musical director informed her that he had stepped outside for some air.
“Is he quite well, Mademoiselle Daae?” Reyer asked, obvious worry in his voice. “One moment we were having a most enlightening chat about the finer points of Wagner, and the next he looked as though he might faint.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine. He isn’t used to such gatherings,” Christine assured him, wishing that she had kept a closer eye on Erik instead of being drawn in by the fracas in the doorway. “I’ll go and find him.”
________________________________________
It was chilly outside, and she was glad of her cloak when she pulled the hood over her head as the rain was heavier now. Trying not to stray from the pools of light cast by the cafe windows, she called softly into the darkness, “Erik? Erik, are you there?”
For a moment she saw nothing, and then she shadows shifted and he was beside her, water dripping from the brim of his fedora and giving him a slightly bedraggled appearance. “You will catch cold,” he said.
“As will you. How long have you been out here?”
He shrugged. “A few minutes. I needed to... escape for a while.”
“You missed all the excitement. Monsieur Reyer thought you were ill,” Christine told him. She tried to reach up to feel his forehead, but it was impossible through the mask and he jerked his head away, embarrassed. “Are you ill? You look a little unsteady.”
“Just overwhelmed,” he said. “It was rather close in there. And crowded. I have not been amongst so many people in a very long time.” His gaze dropped towards the floor and he seemed to find the hem of her dress extremely interesting. “You must forgive my cowardice.”
Remembering how scared he had been the first day he emerged into the outside world and how far he had come since then, Christine’s heart went out to him. “I think you are very brave,” she said. He shook his head, but she insisted, “Yes, you are. I wish you would believe me when I tell you so.” Reaching out a hand she gently grasped his chin, lifting his face to meet hers. “Promise me that you will never call yourself a coward again.”
“If there is anything in the world that makes me brave, it is you,” Erik said, his voice hoarse. “I never had a reason to be brave before we met.”
“That’s not true. You have survived so much - ”
“There is no bravery in merely existing, and for many years I did no more than that.” He tucked a lock of hair beneath her hood, pulling the fabric closer around her chin. “You must go back inside.”
“Will you come with me?” she asked, taking his hand.
“I think not.” He smiled slightly. “I have a sudden longing for the quiet of my cellars, a glass of cognac and the company of just one other person.”
Christine glanced over her shoulder, through the condensation which was fogging the windows to the boisterous gathering within. It appeared that Reyer had been prevailed upon to occupy the pianist’s stool, and a Gilbert and Sullivan song filled the air, a rather red-faced Alphonse taking the lead. Maurice was bringing more wine, one or two couples were dancing and the picture was one of cheerful conviviality. It should have been enticing, but she found that she had no desire to be a part of it. Squeezing Erik’s fingers, she said,
“So have I. Come on; let’s go home.”