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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 29/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2293
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: In defence of an Angel.
CAUSING A COMMOTION
As the music ended Christine looked around the auditorium, but there was no sign of the tall, stately figure in the black cloak and golden mask.
Seeing her consternation, Gianni’s brow furrowed. “Is something the matter, Christine?” he asked gently.
“I... I was looking for Er – Monsieur Claudin,” she said, her gaze quickly scanning the faces nearby without success.
Alphonse, dressed as a Viking with improbably huge horns on his helmet, pointed towards the doors that led to the foyer. “I saw him go outside about ten minutes ago. Can’t say I blame him; it’s a crush in here.”
“Of course it is,” Marie put in from beneath her medieval wimple. “Anything else would be regarded as a disaster!”
“I should go and find him,” Christine said, but before she could make her excuses and slip through the crowd there was the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat from the stage, and her route to the door was suddenly blocked by a press of interested people pushing their way across the dance floor. She had no choice but to move with them, and reluctantly allowed herself to be carried along by the momentum until she was close enough to see the toes of Monsieur Fontaine’s outrageous bucket boots. He was meant to be one of Dumas’s musketeers, she supposed, and had gone the whole hog with the costume, from his curled wig and plumed hat to the rapier at his side.
“Ladies and gentlemen... Mesdames et Messieurs,” he declared with an extravagant bow. “The hour for unmasking is nearly upon us, but before it arrives my partner and I would like to make a small announcement.”
Marigny had approached from the wigs and joined him in the spotlight that one of the stage crew had doubtless been prevailed upon to provide for this moment. Christine was surprised that any of them were sober enough to oblige; though the stage hands had not been invited to the ball, plenty of free food and alcohol had been provided for their entertainment and they were not known for their restraint. “Indeed,” Marigny said. “As you are all no doubt aware, the Opera Populaire is missing two of the jewels in its crown: a Prima Donna and a Primo Uomo to lead the company. It has been our task to find successors to La Carlotta and Signor Piangi worthy of their talent and experience, and our search has been exhaustive.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to find someone worthy of Carlotta’s talent,” Meg muttered to Christine.
“However, ladies and gentlemen, that search is now at an end,” said Fontaine. “It is my great pleasure to introduce to you all the newest members of the Populaire’s company, Mademoiselle Theodora Merriman, and Signor Antonio Rossi!”
There was a burst of polite applause as a small, dainty woman wearing an elegant Henri Deux gown, her auburn hair caught up in a golden net, and a stocky, swarthy gentleman in the guise of a Napoleonic soldier entered from stage left. Christine had heard of American soprano Theodora Merriman; Erik had mentioned the adulation she received in the theatrical press for her recent seasons at the Royal Opera House in London. Apparently, though she looked frail and as though she might blow away in a puff of wind, her voice was quite phenomenal. Signor Rossi was unknown to her, and she turned to ask Erik about him before remembering that he was not at her side.
Fontaine was talking again, his words interspersed with increasingly irritable additions by his colleague, but Christine wasn’t really listening any more. She was trying to work out how she might leave the ballroom without upsetting too many people when, above the managers’ rambling talk, she heard a strange sound that made her blood run cold. It seemed to come from all around; a horrible cry, a howl of pain and anger. Though it could almost have been made by some great beast, Christine knew the voice behind it; she had heard that cry before and had hoped that she never would again. By the time the scream which followed it rang through the hushed room she was already pushing her way towards the doors, apologising absently if she stood on toes or elbowed ribs, desperate to reach the owner of the voice, the one who sounded so anguished, just as he had done a year ago, that terrible morning deep below the theatre. Behind her she heard Meg call her name, and in front the scream had drawn others towards the foyer, people who had no idea what they would find there.
The chimes of midnight were ending as she reached the stairs and hurried down them, skirts held high and feet slipping on the cold marble in her thin shoes. Her heels made an ugly clattering sound; she stumbled to the foot of the staircase just as a hunched form in black robes emerged from the grotto, fleeing as though there were wolves at his heels. Christine barely had time to register the hand that he clutched to his face, or that his hat was missing, before he had passed her, running on unsteady legs into the darkened passageways that led to the heart of the building, desperate to get away.
“Erik!” she shouted after him. “Erik, wait!”
It was too late, he was gone, and she couldn’t follow, once again surrounded by a press of bodies, interested onlookers who had come to gawk. Somehow, Meg was there, having pushed her way to the front; her dress had been crushed and her bonnet was askew.
“Christine,” she said quietly, nodding, and Christine followed her gaze to see a female figure walking slowly from the grotto. She looked dazed, her face uncovered and hair awry; it was Augustine Albert, and in her hand was a blank gold mask. Almost before she realised what she was doing, Christine had run across the floor and grabbed the other woman by the shoulders; Augustine barely reacted to the assault, turning vague green eyes towards her.
“What did you do?” Christine demanded, her anxiety making her frantic. She shook the other soprano with strength she hadn’t even realised she possessed, enough to make Augustine’s head wobble. “What did you do to him? Why did you take his mask?”
“I just wanted to see,” Augustine murmured. “Just wanted to see... thought he would be so handsome...” Her eyes widened, and she reached up, desperately grasping Christine’s arm. “Mother of God... he’s a monster. Hideous! That face... How can you bear to touch him?”
The sharp percussive sound of a slap echoed through the marble hall. Christine slowly drew back her hand, flesh smarting from the force of the blow. Augustine fingered her stinging cheek, staring at her colleague in astonishment. The contact seemed to bring her back to reality.
“You... How dare you?” she hissed, eyes flashing daggers at Christine. With disconcerting abruptness she leapt towards her assailant, only to be grabbed from behind by Alphonse, his comically oversized helmet looking ludicrous in the midst of what had become a very serious situation.
“I think that’s enough,” he said quietly, but Augustine wrenched herself from his grip, flinging herself at Christine in an inelegant reprise of the fight between Alphonse and Marius two days before. Startled, Christine raised her hand again, determined to defend herself, but before she could get near the baritone caught hold of Augustine once more with assistance from a white-faced Gianni. Strong fingers grasped Christine’s wrist and she glanced round, her heart lifting for a moment before she realised that the firm grip belonged not to her unhappy Angel but to Madame Giry.
“That is enough,” the ballet mistress said. “Christine, control yourself; you know better than this.”
“But, Madame - ” Christine began, only to be cut off by a cry from Augustine. The other soprano pointed a spindly finger, the nail garishly adorned with brilliant red enamel, at them both.
“She knew! She must have known! That... that thing is her cousin!” she shrieked. “She knew we were harbouring a monster in our midst!”
Alphonse’s face creased in a confused frown. “Augustine, what the devil are you talking about?”
“Ask her!” Augustine nodded fiercely. “Ask her what he hides beneath that mask!”
Madame Giry met the singer’s accusing stare with a cold one of her own. “That is no one’s business but Monsieur Claudin’s. It is you who have done him an injury by invading his privacy,” she said. “I can see that you are yet another who would shun a man because of his appearance.”
Augustine’s head tipped back as she gave a harsh, hysterical laugh. “His appearance? Only a mother could love a face such as that!”
How wrong she was, Christine thought as there were more footsteps on the stairs, heavier this time, and the crowd of onlookers parted to allow the managers through. Under different circumstances she might have laughed herself at the ridiculous figures they cut in their fancy dress, accompanied by a man she guessed was the Populaire’s new patron, a fat figure in a toga and laurel wreath whose fondness for fine living was beginning to show on his face.
“What on earth is going on here?” Marigny demanded. “Madame Giry?”
“It is nothing, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Albert has had a little too much to drink,” the ballet mistress said smoothly. She glanced towards Alphonse. “Will you see that she gets home safely?”
The baritone nodded, and with Gianni’s help turned the dishevelled soprano towards the doors. “Come along, Augustine. I think you need to lie down.”
“Not with you,” she told him, allowing him to lead her away. Before they stepped outside she looked back. “It will do this place no good, having a demon under our roof! He’ll bring us bad luck!”
“As if anything could bring us worse luck than we’ve had lately,” Marius remarked to no one in particular from his vantage point, lounging by the statue of Gluck in the corner with a bottle in his hand.
“Mademoiselle Daae I am surprised at you,” Marigny said, giving her a hard stare, “Brawling with another member of the cast in public! I hope this will not happen again.”
Christine stared at her feet, unable to meet his gaze. “It will not, Monsieur. It was... a misunderstanding.”
“See that it does not. We cannot have our employees – our female employees! – fighting in the halls. Where will it end?”
Fontaine chuckled, and then gave a hiccup. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps we could sell tickets; the set from the Jockey Club would snap them up, eh, Monsieur le Marquis?”
“Tempting as it would be, I think that we would be better served by keeping the nature of the entertainment on a slightly higher cultural level,” de Borges said. Christine raised her head, and did not miss the wink the old roué sent in her direction. He made his way down the remainder of the stairs and made her a surprisingly elegant bow given his bulk. “Your servant, Mademoiselle Daae. I have been an admirer of yours ever since I heard you sing Elissa. Your Gilda last night was a tour de force.”
Caught off guard and blushing furiously Christine dropped a clumsy curtsy. “Thank you, Monsieur. You are very kind.”
“I speak only the truth,” he told her. “Now, where is that chorus master? I would like to continue our discussion; the fellow seems to know more about opera than anyone I have ever met, and his views on the great composers in general..! He was your teacher, I believe?”
Erik! She had all but forgotten her intention to follow him in the chaos. “Indeed, Monsieur, but you must excuse me; he is not well and I should go to him,” she said hurriedly. “I fear your conversation will have to wait for another time.”
“Of course, of course,” the marquis said with a wave of his hand. “When you find him, tell him I would be very glad to hear his opinion of this Tchaikovsky fellow.”
Christine nodded, breathlessly thanking him. Gathering her skirts she all but ran from the foyer, Madame Giry following at a more sedate pace. By the time they reached Christine’s dressing room, and the only entrance to the cellars she knew well enough to negotiate without Erik’s assistance, Meg had rejoined them.
“I’ve looked all over,” she reported. “There’s no sign of him anywhere.”
Christine had not even noticed her friend’s absence. Before she could speak, Madame Giry said, “He will have gone to ground. There is only once place in which he feels safe and secure, but I would not like to guess at what kind of state he will be in after this.”
“I think I know.” Christine’s gaze dropped to the floor once more as the shame she had felt after removing Erik’s mask welled up once again. She knew that if she closed her eyes she would see his tortured face, the rage draining away to reveal a terrible mixture of hurt and confusion.
“Christine.” Madame crouched down, touching her arm. “Are you sure you want to do this? He may not be himself... if you wish me to face him instead I will. I do not wish to see you hurt.”
“No. No, he needs me,” Christine said firmly, looking up to meet the ballet mistress’s concerned dark eyes. “I won’t abandon him.”
After a moment, Madame Giry nodded. “Very well.” She stepped back, allowing Christine to approach the mirror and trigger the switch which turned it upon its pivot, opening the entrance to Erik’s hidden realm.
It was time to go down once more and beard the wounded lion in his den.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2293
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: In defence of an Angel.
As the music ended Christine looked around the auditorium, but there was no sign of the tall, stately figure in the black cloak and golden mask.
Seeing her consternation, Gianni’s brow furrowed. “Is something the matter, Christine?” he asked gently.
“I... I was looking for Er – Monsieur Claudin,” she said, her gaze quickly scanning the faces nearby without success.
Alphonse, dressed as a Viking with improbably huge horns on his helmet, pointed towards the doors that led to the foyer. “I saw him go outside about ten minutes ago. Can’t say I blame him; it’s a crush in here.”
“Of course it is,” Marie put in from beneath her medieval wimple. “Anything else would be regarded as a disaster!”
“I should go and find him,” Christine said, but before she could make her excuses and slip through the crowd there was the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat from the stage, and her route to the door was suddenly blocked by a press of interested people pushing their way across the dance floor. She had no choice but to move with them, and reluctantly allowed herself to be carried along by the momentum until she was close enough to see the toes of Monsieur Fontaine’s outrageous bucket boots. He was meant to be one of Dumas’s musketeers, she supposed, and had gone the whole hog with the costume, from his curled wig and plumed hat to the rapier at his side.
“Ladies and gentlemen... Mesdames et Messieurs,” he declared with an extravagant bow. “The hour for unmasking is nearly upon us, but before it arrives my partner and I would like to make a small announcement.”
Marigny had approached from the wigs and joined him in the spotlight that one of the stage crew had doubtless been prevailed upon to provide for this moment. Christine was surprised that any of them were sober enough to oblige; though the stage hands had not been invited to the ball, plenty of free food and alcohol had been provided for their entertainment and they were not known for their restraint. “Indeed,” Marigny said. “As you are all no doubt aware, the Opera Populaire is missing two of the jewels in its crown: a Prima Donna and a Primo Uomo to lead the company. It has been our task to find successors to La Carlotta and Signor Piangi worthy of their talent and experience, and our search has been exhaustive.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to find someone worthy of Carlotta’s talent,” Meg muttered to Christine.
“However, ladies and gentlemen, that search is now at an end,” said Fontaine. “It is my great pleasure to introduce to you all the newest members of the Populaire’s company, Mademoiselle Theodora Merriman, and Signor Antonio Rossi!”
There was a burst of polite applause as a small, dainty woman wearing an elegant Henri Deux gown, her auburn hair caught up in a golden net, and a stocky, swarthy gentleman in the guise of a Napoleonic soldier entered from stage left. Christine had heard of American soprano Theodora Merriman; Erik had mentioned the adulation she received in the theatrical press for her recent seasons at the Royal Opera House in London. Apparently, though she looked frail and as though she might blow away in a puff of wind, her voice was quite phenomenal. Signor Rossi was unknown to her, and she turned to ask Erik about him before remembering that he was not at her side.
Fontaine was talking again, his words interspersed with increasingly irritable additions by his colleague, but Christine wasn’t really listening any more. She was trying to work out how she might leave the ballroom without upsetting too many people when, above the managers’ rambling talk, she heard a strange sound that made her blood run cold. It seemed to come from all around; a horrible cry, a howl of pain and anger. Though it could almost have been made by some great beast, Christine knew the voice behind it; she had heard that cry before and had hoped that she never would again. By the time the scream which followed it rang through the hushed room she was already pushing her way towards the doors, apologising absently if she stood on toes or elbowed ribs, desperate to reach the owner of the voice, the one who sounded so anguished, just as he had done a year ago, that terrible morning deep below the theatre. Behind her she heard Meg call her name, and in front the scream had drawn others towards the foyer, people who had no idea what they would find there.
The chimes of midnight were ending as she reached the stairs and hurried down them, skirts held high and feet slipping on the cold marble in her thin shoes. Her heels made an ugly clattering sound; she stumbled to the foot of the staircase just as a hunched form in black robes emerged from the grotto, fleeing as though there were wolves at his heels. Christine barely had time to register the hand that he clutched to his face, or that his hat was missing, before he had passed her, running on unsteady legs into the darkened passageways that led to the heart of the building, desperate to get away.
“Erik!” she shouted after him. “Erik, wait!”
It was too late, he was gone, and she couldn’t follow, once again surrounded by a press of bodies, interested onlookers who had come to gawk. Somehow, Meg was there, having pushed her way to the front; her dress had been crushed and her bonnet was askew.
“Christine,” she said quietly, nodding, and Christine followed her gaze to see a female figure walking slowly from the grotto. She looked dazed, her face uncovered and hair awry; it was Augustine Albert, and in her hand was a blank gold mask. Almost before she realised what she was doing, Christine had run across the floor and grabbed the other woman by the shoulders; Augustine barely reacted to the assault, turning vague green eyes towards her.
“What did you do?” Christine demanded, her anxiety making her frantic. She shook the other soprano with strength she hadn’t even realised she possessed, enough to make Augustine’s head wobble. “What did you do to him? Why did you take his mask?”
“I just wanted to see,” Augustine murmured. “Just wanted to see... thought he would be so handsome...” Her eyes widened, and she reached up, desperately grasping Christine’s arm. “Mother of God... he’s a monster. Hideous! That face... How can you bear to touch him?”
The sharp percussive sound of a slap echoed through the marble hall. Christine slowly drew back her hand, flesh smarting from the force of the blow. Augustine fingered her stinging cheek, staring at her colleague in astonishment. The contact seemed to bring her back to reality.
“You... How dare you?” she hissed, eyes flashing daggers at Christine. With disconcerting abruptness she leapt towards her assailant, only to be grabbed from behind by Alphonse, his comically oversized helmet looking ludicrous in the midst of what had become a very serious situation.
“I think that’s enough,” he said quietly, but Augustine wrenched herself from his grip, flinging herself at Christine in an inelegant reprise of the fight between Alphonse and Marius two days before. Startled, Christine raised her hand again, determined to defend herself, but before she could get near the baritone caught hold of Augustine once more with assistance from a white-faced Gianni. Strong fingers grasped Christine’s wrist and she glanced round, her heart lifting for a moment before she realised that the firm grip belonged not to her unhappy Angel but to Madame Giry.
“That is enough,” the ballet mistress said. “Christine, control yourself; you know better than this.”
“But, Madame - ” Christine began, only to be cut off by a cry from Augustine. The other soprano pointed a spindly finger, the nail garishly adorned with brilliant red enamel, at them both.
“She knew! She must have known! That... that thing is her cousin!” she shrieked. “She knew we were harbouring a monster in our midst!”
Alphonse’s face creased in a confused frown. “Augustine, what the devil are you talking about?”
“Ask her!” Augustine nodded fiercely. “Ask her what he hides beneath that mask!”
Madame Giry met the singer’s accusing stare with a cold one of her own. “That is no one’s business but Monsieur Claudin’s. It is you who have done him an injury by invading his privacy,” she said. “I can see that you are yet another who would shun a man because of his appearance.”
Augustine’s head tipped back as she gave a harsh, hysterical laugh. “His appearance? Only a mother could love a face such as that!”
How wrong she was, Christine thought as there were more footsteps on the stairs, heavier this time, and the crowd of onlookers parted to allow the managers through. Under different circumstances she might have laughed herself at the ridiculous figures they cut in their fancy dress, accompanied by a man she guessed was the Populaire’s new patron, a fat figure in a toga and laurel wreath whose fondness for fine living was beginning to show on his face.
“What on earth is going on here?” Marigny demanded. “Madame Giry?”
“It is nothing, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Albert has had a little too much to drink,” the ballet mistress said smoothly. She glanced towards Alphonse. “Will you see that she gets home safely?”
The baritone nodded, and with Gianni’s help turned the dishevelled soprano towards the doors. “Come along, Augustine. I think you need to lie down.”
“Not with you,” she told him, allowing him to lead her away. Before they stepped outside she looked back. “It will do this place no good, having a demon under our roof! He’ll bring us bad luck!”
“As if anything could bring us worse luck than we’ve had lately,” Marius remarked to no one in particular from his vantage point, lounging by the statue of Gluck in the corner with a bottle in his hand.
“Mademoiselle Daae I am surprised at you,” Marigny said, giving her a hard stare, “Brawling with another member of the cast in public! I hope this will not happen again.”
Christine stared at her feet, unable to meet his gaze. “It will not, Monsieur. It was... a misunderstanding.”
“See that it does not. We cannot have our employees – our female employees! – fighting in the halls. Where will it end?”
Fontaine chuckled, and then gave a hiccup. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps we could sell tickets; the set from the Jockey Club would snap them up, eh, Monsieur le Marquis?”
“Tempting as it would be, I think that we would be better served by keeping the nature of the entertainment on a slightly higher cultural level,” de Borges said. Christine raised her head, and did not miss the wink the old roué sent in her direction. He made his way down the remainder of the stairs and made her a surprisingly elegant bow given his bulk. “Your servant, Mademoiselle Daae. I have been an admirer of yours ever since I heard you sing Elissa. Your Gilda last night was a tour de force.”
Caught off guard and blushing furiously Christine dropped a clumsy curtsy. “Thank you, Monsieur. You are very kind.”
“I speak only the truth,” he told her. “Now, where is that chorus master? I would like to continue our discussion; the fellow seems to know more about opera than anyone I have ever met, and his views on the great composers in general..! He was your teacher, I believe?”
Erik! She had all but forgotten her intention to follow him in the chaos. “Indeed, Monsieur, but you must excuse me; he is not well and I should go to him,” she said hurriedly. “I fear your conversation will have to wait for another time.”
“Of course, of course,” the marquis said with a wave of his hand. “When you find him, tell him I would be very glad to hear his opinion of this Tchaikovsky fellow.”
Christine nodded, breathlessly thanking him. Gathering her skirts she all but ran from the foyer, Madame Giry following at a more sedate pace. By the time they reached Christine’s dressing room, and the only entrance to the cellars she knew well enough to negotiate without Erik’s assistance, Meg had rejoined them.
“I’ve looked all over,” she reported. “There’s no sign of him anywhere.”
Christine had not even noticed her friend’s absence. Before she could speak, Madame Giry said, “He will have gone to ground. There is only once place in which he feels safe and secure, but I would not like to guess at what kind of state he will be in after this.”
“I think I know.” Christine’s gaze dropped to the floor once more as the shame she had felt after removing Erik’s mask welled up once again. She knew that if she closed her eyes she would see his tortured face, the rage draining away to reveal a terrible mixture of hurt and confusion.
“Christine.” Madame crouched down, touching her arm. “Are you sure you want to do this? He may not be himself... if you wish me to face him instead I will. I do not wish to see you hurt.”
“No. No, he needs me,” Christine said firmly, looking up to meet the ballet mistress’s concerned dark eyes. “I won’t abandon him.”
After a moment, Madame Giry nodded. “Very well.” She stepped back, allowing Christine to approach the mirror and trigger the switch which turned it upon its pivot, opening the entrance to Erik’s hidden realm.
It was time to go down once more and beard the wounded lion in his den.
