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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 27/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2367
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry, Monsieur Reyer
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Masquerade! Paper faces on parade...
LIFE IS A MASQUERADE
“Just a few more adjustments,” Meg announced, putting down the hairbrush and taking a step back to appreciate the results of her labour. Her pale blue shepherdess’s skirts rustled as she moved about, critically rearranging this curl and adding another hairpin to that twist, tutting to herself rather like her mother on a ballet corps inspection. Christine felt as though she was a human pin cushion and was almost afraid to turn her head in case Meg’s magnificent creation began to unravel, but eventually her friend smiled and nodded. “You’re done. And you look absolutely beautiful, Christine. Erik won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”
Christine stared at her reflection, wondering how the expensively-dressed young woman with the ivory silk flowers in her elegantly-styled hair could really be her. After several expeditions to the costume hire shops and finding nothing which appealed to her imagination, she had hit upon the idea of borrowing the cream and burgundy House of Worth gown from her wardrobe in Erik’s home and sneaked it away a few days earlier, hoping that he wouldn’t notice. Then in her excitement she couldn’t wait to wear it, but now... now she was looking at someone she didn’t recognise, someone who belonged in an entirely different world to the one she inhabited. This wasn’t Christine Daae, aspiring soprano, before her in the mirror; it could have been Christine de Chagny, wife of one of the wealthiest aristocrats in France. Her hand stole to the necklace which she had found in the box on the dressing table with the long satin gloves and the pearl-studded combs which swept her curls back from her face, and it was all she could do to stop herself tearing it away from her throat. Erik had bought these items for her, wanting her to have nothing but the best, but she could not feel comfortable wearing them, even if it was only for a ball. By dressing this way it felt as though she was trying to turn herself into something she could never be.
Meg frowned. “Are you all right? You haven’t said a word about your hair.” Her eyes met Christine’s in their double reflection, wide with concern. “Don’t you like it?”
“No, no, it’s wonderful, Meg, thank you,” Christine said quickly, forcing herself to smile.
“Well, something’s wrong. You’ve been as quiet as a mouse ever since you put that dress on.” Meg sat down on her bed, making the springs of the mattress creak. It was so small; Christine found herself wondering again how Erik had managed to sleep in it for more than two months without his feet hanging over the edge. “What’s the matter?”
Christine sighed. “Oh, I’m just being silly. Dressing up like this, pretending to be a great lady...”
“It reminds you of what you gave up?”
“No, nothing like that! It’s just... well, I’m a poor girl from Uppsala. My parents would never have been able to afford the lace on this gown, and here I am preparing to parade about in it as though I was born to such things.” With a huff, Christine blew her curls from her forehead and pulled off the necklace. “I’m a fraud.”
To her surprise, Meg laughed. “Christine, that’s the whole point of a masquerade! Do I really look as though I’m about to herd sheep?” She jumped up and pirouetted for her friend’s benefit; her dress of blue and pink tulle spun with her in a graceful circle, the rosebuds which held the overskirt, drawing it back to reveal the embroidered petticoat beneath, catching the light. Her golden ringlets fell down her back, barely confined by the picturesque bonnet she wore tied beneath her pointed chin with a huge satin bow; leaning against the armoire was a shepherd’s crook, extravagantly decorated with yards of ribbon, hopelessly impractical for the task at hand. “Tonight is the night when you can pretend to be someone else.”
Unconvinced, Christine glanced back to the mirror. “I know. But I...Is this the person Erik really wants me to be?”
“Christine, Christine, you worry too much.” Impulsively affectionate, Meg wrapped her arms around Christine’s neck and hugged her. “Erik loves you just as you are, you know that.”
“Yes, but - ”
“Girls, the cab is here! Are you ready to go?” The sharp knock on the door and Madame Giry’s voice stalled any reply Christine might have made on her tongue.
Meg swept up the burgundy velvet cloak from the bed and held it out with a deep curtsy. “If my lady permits...?”
“Thank you.” Christine couldn’t help but smile as she set laid it across her shoulders and Meg fussed about settling the folds. “I’m sorry, Meg, I’m being foolish.”
“We are going to have a wonderful time,” the little ballerina said sternly as she put on her own wrap and collected her crook. “We are not going to let our evening be ruined by anyone, not even scarlet-clad opera-toting ghosts. Is that understood?”
“You really are turning into your mother,” Christine told her, to which Meg gave an indignant squawk and hustled her out of the room.
________________________________________
The Opera House was a blaze of light as they arrived and Christine found herself gazing up at it in wonder. The occasions when the workers, those cogs who kept the great machine running smoothly, were allowed to see the building from the point of view of the patrons were rare; her only previous experience had been the last bal masque, when she climbed the steps on Raoul’s arm, trying to hold her head high and pretend that she wasn’t quaking inside, secretly both hoping for and dreading the appearance of her fallen angel.
Music, the light sound of a string quartet hired for the evening to give Monsieur Reyer and the orchestra a well-earned break, drifted from within, an elegant background to the chatter of the guests as they arrived in their fantastical outfits. Christine felt quite plain in comparison as they were passed by exotic sheiks and sultans, Indian moguls and figures from antiquity. The Parisian elite had all come out to play, hiding behind their masks and flaunting their extravagant creations. A footman helped one lady who was tottering under the weight of her Marie Antoinette wig, piled ridiculously high and crowned with a ship in full sail; she wobbled and almost toppled back down the stairs, threatening to flatten the overweight Charlemagne who was standing a little too close behind her.
As she entered the grand foyer, flanked by Meg and Madame Giry, Christine’s gaze roamed the room, searching for Erik. He had promised that he would meet them there, claiming he had some business to attend to, but he gave no clue as to the nature of his costume and she had no idea who he could be. There were several very tall men milling about, their physique hidden by satin dominoes and padded doublets; was Erik the saturnine Henri II who stood by the staircase, his masked face obscured by a beard, pointedly ignoring the attentions of a tipsy Lucrezia Borgia, or could he possibly be that lurking hooded figure with the scythe, a dark version of the Red Death with which he had disrupted the ball at New Year?
“Look at that statue,” Meg said, claiming Christine’s attention. “It must be new; I’ve never noticed it before.”
Christine’s eyes followed her friend’s pointing finger, and sure enough, to the right of the grand escallier was a sculpture very much out of keeping with the opulent decoration of the room. While the other statues were gilded, idealised forms, this one was black from head to toe, from the top of its tricorne hat to the cloak which almost seemed to brush the floor with its folds. A hood fell from the hat, shrouding the shape of the head and settling about the figure’s shoulders; its arms were folded, and the wide cuffs of its robe fell aside to reveal a flash of gold lining to match the colour of the mask which served as its face. The mask held no expression; blankly it observed the room from the dark holes where its eyes should have been, and Christine could not suppress a shudder.
“Why would the managers buy something like that?” she wondered.
“It makes me shiver.” Meg paused, and added, “Let’s have a closer look.” Before Christine could object she was off, slipping through the crowd. Christine exchanged a glance with Madame Giry; the ballet mistress raised an eyebrow before moving off after her daughter, leaving the soprano no choice but to follow.
Other people were giving the statue curious glances, but no one seemed interested enough to approach. By the time they caught Meg she was looking up into the golden mask, grinning at her reflection in the polished surface. “It’s not a statue at all!” she told them, taking a handful of the inky cloak and letting the fabric fall through her fingers. “It’s a dummy someone’s dressed up in a costume!”
Christine frowned. “But why? It makes no sense.”
“I want to see what’s under here,” Meg announced, standing on tiptoes and reaching for the mask. Before she got close she squealed in shock and Christine had to stifle a cry as the ‘statue’ suddenly moved, its arm sweeping up to grab Meg’s wrist, pulling her hand away from its face.
“I would rather you didn’t, Little Meg,” a familiar voice said. “I don’t think that this company is ready for such a sight.”
Madame Giry smiled slightly as Meg stared for a moment before slapping the figure’s arm with her free hand. “Good evening, Erik,” she said. “I see you have surpassed yourself this time.”
“Bon Soir, Antoinette.” Erik lifted a hand in what was apparently a gold satin glove towards the mask; with the barest of touches it seemed to split in half and there was the normal side of his face, mouth turned upwards in a smirk. He looked the ballet mistress deliberately up and down and asked, “Precisely what have you come as? I’m sure I can’t work it out for life of me.”
Meg giggled and Christine hid her own smile behind her hand. Madame had come dressed exactly as she had been for the previous masquerade, in her habitual black, the only concession made towards the occasion her jet beaded tippet and the round sequined hat adorned with feathers which was pinned at an angle on her severely braided hair. In her hand she carried a mask on a stick, through which she observed the Phantom, her lips pursed. “Someone has to maintain some semblance of authority. I have to keep an eye on my girls, and they would hardly take any notice of me had I arrived dressed as Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Meg muttered to Christine, who had to bite hard on her lip to keep from laughing, “Erik could have come as the wolf.”
“This is meant to be a party, Annie,” Erik told her, but she shook her head.
“They become silly with no one to watch them, and a ballerina who is with child is no use to anyone.”
“What are you, Erik?” Meg asked after a long silence when no one really knew what to say.
“A magician,” he said seriously, and reached behind her head, withdrawing his hand to show that he was holding a pale pink rosebud which he presented to her with a courtly bow. He turned to Christine, and seemed to see her properly for the first time. His mismatched eyes moved over her figure, obviously recognising the dress; surprise flared within their depths for a moment before he recovered himself. With a flick of his wrist there was quite suddenly a deep red rose between his fingers which he offered to her; she took it, her hand resting in his, and he bent his head, brushing his lips over the back of her glove. “Christine, you look stunning. I never dared hope that I might see you in that gown; you have surpassed all of my expectations.”
She blushed. “Do you really think so?”
Those eyes seemed to glow within the shadows of the mask, but they were soft, and full of affection. “You will be the belle of the ball, my dear, no question.”
“No rose for me, Monsieur?” Madame Giry enquired, breaking the spell.
“How could I forget?” Erik snapped his fingers and a yellow rose was there; he held it out but pulled back before she could take it. “Perhaps I should keep hold of it for now; the expression on your face might cause the poor thing to wither.”
Meg had to practically stuff her fist into her mouth to muffle her giggles. Her mother frowned, lips twitching. “As you are determined to be provoking, shall we join everyone else in the auditorium?”
“I think that is an excellent idea. Ladies?” Gallantly he offered one arm to Christine and the other to Meg. There was a moment of consternation when he realised he would be unable to escort Madame as well, but someone cleared their throat from behind; turning they found Monsieur Reyer standing there in the scarlet braided coat, white breeches and polished top hat of a circus ringmaster. He gave a jerky little bow.
“I would be delighted, Madame, if you would...” A little shyly he held out a crooked elbow to her, beaming when she accepted.
“Well, who knew? Reyer is a dark horse!” said Meg as they swept through the throng, following the musical director and ballet mistress up the grand escallier. Heads turned as they passed, the great and the good doubtless wondering who they were and what right they had to make such an entrance.
They were met at the top of the staircase by the managers, Marigny carefully controlled, Fontaine exuberantly welcoming, and despite her earlier misgivings Christine quite suddenly felt sure that the evening would be a success. After all, Erik was here with her, there was no jealous lover to spoil the proceedings, so what could possibly go wrong?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2367
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry, Monsieur Reyer
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Masquerade! Paper faces on parade...
“Just a few more adjustments,” Meg announced, putting down the hairbrush and taking a step back to appreciate the results of her labour. Her pale blue shepherdess’s skirts rustled as she moved about, critically rearranging this curl and adding another hairpin to that twist, tutting to herself rather like her mother on a ballet corps inspection. Christine felt as though she was a human pin cushion and was almost afraid to turn her head in case Meg’s magnificent creation began to unravel, but eventually her friend smiled and nodded. “You’re done. And you look absolutely beautiful, Christine. Erik won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”
Christine stared at her reflection, wondering how the expensively-dressed young woman with the ivory silk flowers in her elegantly-styled hair could really be her. After several expeditions to the costume hire shops and finding nothing which appealed to her imagination, she had hit upon the idea of borrowing the cream and burgundy House of Worth gown from her wardrobe in Erik’s home and sneaked it away a few days earlier, hoping that he wouldn’t notice. Then in her excitement she couldn’t wait to wear it, but now... now she was looking at someone she didn’t recognise, someone who belonged in an entirely different world to the one she inhabited. This wasn’t Christine Daae, aspiring soprano, before her in the mirror; it could have been Christine de Chagny, wife of one of the wealthiest aristocrats in France. Her hand stole to the necklace which she had found in the box on the dressing table with the long satin gloves and the pearl-studded combs which swept her curls back from her face, and it was all she could do to stop herself tearing it away from her throat. Erik had bought these items for her, wanting her to have nothing but the best, but she could not feel comfortable wearing them, even if it was only for a ball. By dressing this way it felt as though she was trying to turn herself into something she could never be.
Meg frowned. “Are you all right? You haven’t said a word about your hair.” Her eyes met Christine’s in their double reflection, wide with concern. “Don’t you like it?”
“No, no, it’s wonderful, Meg, thank you,” Christine said quickly, forcing herself to smile.
“Well, something’s wrong. You’ve been as quiet as a mouse ever since you put that dress on.” Meg sat down on her bed, making the springs of the mattress creak. It was so small; Christine found herself wondering again how Erik had managed to sleep in it for more than two months without his feet hanging over the edge. “What’s the matter?”
Christine sighed. “Oh, I’m just being silly. Dressing up like this, pretending to be a great lady...”
“It reminds you of what you gave up?”
“No, nothing like that! It’s just... well, I’m a poor girl from Uppsala. My parents would never have been able to afford the lace on this gown, and here I am preparing to parade about in it as though I was born to such things.” With a huff, Christine blew her curls from her forehead and pulled off the necklace. “I’m a fraud.”
To her surprise, Meg laughed. “Christine, that’s the whole point of a masquerade! Do I really look as though I’m about to herd sheep?” She jumped up and pirouetted for her friend’s benefit; her dress of blue and pink tulle spun with her in a graceful circle, the rosebuds which held the overskirt, drawing it back to reveal the embroidered petticoat beneath, catching the light. Her golden ringlets fell down her back, barely confined by the picturesque bonnet she wore tied beneath her pointed chin with a huge satin bow; leaning against the armoire was a shepherd’s crook, extravagantly decorated with yards of ribbon, hopelessly impractical for the task at hand. “Tonight is the night when you can pretend to be someone else.”
Unconvinced, Christine glanced back to the mirror. “I know. But I...Is this the person Erik really wants me to be?”
“Christine, Christine, you worry too much.” Impulsively affectionate, Meg wrapped her arms around Christine’s neck and hugged her. “Erik loves you just as you are, you know that.”
“Yes, but - ”
“Girls, the cab is here! Are you ready to go?” The sharp knock on the door and Madame Giry’s voice stalled any reply Christine might have made on her tongue.
Meg swept up the burgundy velvet cloak from the bed and held it out with a deep curtsy. “If my lady permits...?”
“Thank you.” Christine couldn’t help but smile as she set laid it across her shoulders and Meg fussed about settling the folds. “I’m sorry, Meg, I’m being foolish.”
“We are going to have a wonderful time,” the little ballerina said sternly as she put on her own wrap and collected her crook. “We are not going to let our evening be ruined by anyone, not even scarlet-clad opera-toting ghosts. Is that understood?”
“You really are turning into your mother,” Christine told her, to which Meg gave an indignant squawk and hustled her out of the room.
________________________________________
The Opera House was a blaze of light as they arrived and Christine found herself gazing up at it in wonder. The occasions when the workers, those cogs who kept the great machine running smoothly, were allowed to see the building from the point of view of the patrons were rare; her only previous experience had been the last bal masque, when she climbed the steps on Raoul’s arm, trying to hold her head high and pretend that she wasn’t quaking inside, secretly both hoping for and dreading the appearance of her fallen angel.
Music, the light sound of a string quartet hired for the evening to give Monsieur Reyer and the orchestra a well-earned break, drifted from within, an elegant background to the chatter of the guests as they arrived in their fantastical outfits. Christine felt quite plain in comparison as they were passed by exotic sheiks and sultans, Indian moguls and figures from antiquity. The Parisian elite had all come out to play, hiding behind their masks and flaunting their extravagant creations. A footman helped one lady who was tottering under the weight of her Marie Antoinette wig, piled ridiculously high and crowned with a ship in full sail; she wobbled and almost toppled back down the stairs, threatening to flatten the overweight Charlemagne who was standing a little too close behind her.
As she entered the grand foyer, flanked by Meg and Madame Giry, Christine’s gaze roamed the room, searching for Erik. He had promised that he would meet them there, claiming he had some business to attend to, but he gave no clue as to the nature of his costume and she had no idea who he could be. There were several very tall men milling about, their physique hidden by satin dominoes and padded doublets; was Erik the saturnine Henri II who stood by the staircase, his masked face obscured by a beard, pointedly ignoring the attentions of a tipsy Lucrezia Borgia, or could he possibly be that lurking hooded figure with the scythe, a dark version of the Red Death with which he had disrupted the ball at New Year?
“Look at that statue,” Meg said, claiming Christine’s attention. “It must be new; I’ve never noticed it before.”
Christine’s eyes followed her friend’s pointing finger, and sure enough, to the right of the grand escallier was a sculpture very much out of keeping with the opulent decoration of the room. While the other statues were gilded, idealised forms, this one was black from head to toe, from the top of its tricorne hat to the cloak which almost seemed to brush the floor with its folds. A hood fell from the hat, shrouding the shape of the head and settling about the figure’s shoulders; its arms were folded, and the wide cuffs of its robe fell aside to reveal a flash of gold lining to match the colour of the mask which served as its face. The mask held no expression; blankly it observed the room from the dark holes where its eyes should have been, and Christine could not suppress a shudder.
“Why would the managers buy something like that?” she wondered.
“It makes me shiver.” Meg paused, and added, “Let’s have a closer look.” Before Christine could object she was off, slipping through the crowd. Christine exchanged a glance with Madame Giry; the ballet mistress raised an eyebrow before moving off after her daughter, leaving the soprano no choice but to follow.
Other people were giving the statue curious glances, but no one seemed interested enough to approach. By the time they caught Meg she was looking up into the golden mask, grinning at her reflection in the polished surface. “It’s not a statue at all!” she told them, taking a handful of the inky cloak and letting the fabric fall through her fingers. “It’s a dummy someone’s dressed up in a costume!”
Christine frowned. “But why? It makes no sense.”
“I want to see what’s under here,” Meg announced, standing on tiptoes and reaching for the mask. Before she got close she squealed in shock and Christine had to stifle a cry as the ‘statue’ suddenly moved, its arm sweeping up to grab Meg’s wrist, pulling her hand away from its face.
“I would rather you didn’t, Little Meg,” a familiar voice said. “I don’t think that this company is ready for such a sight.”
Madame Giry smiled slightly as Meg stared for a moment before slapping the figure’s arm with her free hand. “Good evening, Erik,” she said. “I see you have surpassed yourself this time.”
“Bon Soir, Antoinette.” Erik lifted a hand in what was apparently a gold satin glove towards the mask; with the barest of touches it seemed to split in half and there was the normal side of his face, mouth turned upwards in a smirk. He looked the ballet mistress deliberately up and down and asked, “Precisely what have you come as? I’m sure I can’t work it out for life of me.”
Meg giggled and Christine hid her own smile behind her hand. Madame had come dressed exactly as she had been for the previous masquerade, in her habitual black, the only concession made towards the occasion her jet beaded tippet and the round sequined hat adorned with feathers which was pinned at an angle on her severely braided hair. In her hand she carried a mask on a stick, through which she observed the Phantom, her lips pursed. “Someone has to maintain some semblance of authority. I have to keep an eye on my girls, and they would hardly take any notice of me had I arrived dressed as Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Meg muttered to Christine, who had to bite hard on her lip to keep from laughing, “Erik could have come as the wolf.”
“This is meant to be a party, Annie,” Erik told her, but she shook her head.
“They become silly with no one to watch them, and a ballerina who is with child is no use to anyone.”
“What are you, Erik?” Meg asked after a long silence when no one really knew what to say.
“A magician,” he said seriously, and reached behind her head, withdrawing his hand to show that he was holding a pale pink rosebud which he presented to her with a courtly bow. He turned to Christine, and seemed to see her properly for the first time. His mismatched eyes moved over her figure, obviously recognising the dress; surprise flared within their depths for a moment before he recovered himself. With a flick of his wrist there was quite suddenly a deep red rose between his fingers which he offered to her; she took it, her hand resting in his, and he bent his head, brushing his lips over the back of her glove. “Christine, you look stunning. I never dared hope that I might see you in that gown; you have surpassed all of my expectations.”
She blushed. “Do you really think so?”
Those eyes seemed to glow within the shadows of the mask, but they were soft, and full of affection. “You will be the belle of the ball, my dear, no question.”
“No rose for me, Monsieur?” Madame Giry enquired, breaking the spell.
“How could I forget?” Erik snapped his fingers and a yellow rose was there; he held it out but pulled back before she could take it. “Perhaps I should keep hold of it for now; the expression on your face might cause the poor thing to wither.”
Meg had to practically stuff her fist into her mouth to muffle her giggles. Her mother frowned, lips twitching. “As you are determined to be provoking, shall we join everyone else in the auditorium?”
“I think that is an excellent idea. Ladies?” Gallantly he offered one arm to Christine and the other to Meg. There was a moment of consternation when he realised he would be unable to escort Madame as well, but someone cleared their throat from behind; turning they found Monsieur Reyer standing there in the scarlet braided coat, white breeches and polished top hat of a circus ringmaster. He gave a jerky little bow.
“I would be delighted, Madame, if you would...” A little shyly he held out a crooked elbow to her, beaming when she accepted.
“Well, who knew? Reyer is a dark horse!” said Meg as they swept through the throng, following the musical director and ballet mistress up the grand escallier. Heads turned as they passed, the great and the good doubtless wondering who they were and what right they had to make such an entrance.
They were met at the top of the staircase by the managers, Marigny carefully controlled, Fontaine exuberantly welcoming, and despite her earlier misgivings Christine quite suddenly felt sure that the evening would be a success. After all, Erik was here with her, there was no jealous lover to spoil the proceedings, so what could possibly go wrong?
