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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 31/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2140
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, 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: Think of it...
GOOD NEWS...AND BAD
“Christine! Where in the world have you been hiding?”
Meg flew across the stage as soon as Christine, self-conscious of the ring on her finger, climbed the steps. At the sound of her shriek several people turned to look, Madame Giry among them; thankfully Augustine Albert was conspicuous by her absence, but there were still mutterings and Christine could feel eyes on her from all angles as she approached her friend. She did her best to hold her head high, trying to ignore the burning sensation of multiple gazes on her back.
“It was Sunday, Meg,” she said, pleased with herself when her voice emerged calmly with barely a wobble. “Where do you think I was?”
“Don’t try and tell me you were at home, because I checked,” the little ballerina told her; Christine made shushing movements with her hands, glancing around at the members of the company who were watching them with undisguised interest, and all but dragged Meg towards the wings. “Remember I was there; I saw it all. What happened?”
“If I tell you, will you promise not to scream?”
Meg’s eyes were almost round. “You don’t mean - ”
Wordlessly, Christine held out her left hand. The diamond caught the light and Meg had to clap both hands over her mouth to stifle her instinctive squeal. When she trusted herself to remove them she grabbed Christine’s fingers, turning them this way and that to better examine the ring, and said breathlessly,
“He actually asked you? After everything on Saturday night? After all that he - ”
Christine nodded. “It wasn’t exactly a conventional proposal.”
“Right.” Looking back and forth to check if there was any chance they would be overheard, Meg folded her arms and adopted her best listening expression. “Go on: tell me everything.”
________________________________________
He hadn’t heard her.
As the silence seemed to stretch on interminably, Erik’s face crumpled in disappointment. He hung his head, staring at the intricately-patterned rug upon which he knelt.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I’m so sorry. Forgive me; I should never have asked. Why should you wish to tie yourself to something like me, to live in the darkness? I understand completely.” His long fingers folded over the ring box. “We will never speak of it again.”
Seeing that if she did not do something quickly the ring would vanish, Christine leapt forwards, catching hold of Erik’s arm. “Wait!” she cried desperately, and he frowned at her in confusion. “I said yes, Erik. I said yes.”
He blinked slowly, unable to take in the enormity of her words. “Yes?” he repeated, as though she addressed him in a foreign tongue.
Smiling, she nodded. “Yes.”
“My God. You said yes?” he asked, eyes wide and incredulous. He looked so much like a child that she could not help but laugh.
“Yes, Erik,” she told him, “I said yes.”
“I never dared to hope...” Frozen, he gazed at her in amazement. Eventually Christine pointed to the little velvet box.
“Is that for me?” she asked lightly.
Erik started as though awoken from a trance. She held out her left hand to him and he withdrew the ring from its satin bed, slipping it onto her finger with infinite care. For a moment they both admired the way in which the stones, a diamond and two rubies, sparkled in the lamplight like tiny stars before Christine suddenly found herself in Erik’s arms, being pulled to her feet. She was about to speak, but before she could open her mouth he threw back his head, shouting to the ceiling, and from there to the world above,
“She said yes! Do you hear that? She has accepted me!” There was triumph in his tone and when he looked down at her his ravaged face was lit with the first smile of genuine happiness that she had ever seen there. His mismatched eyes were soft, brimming with tears that this time did not fall. “Oh, Christine,” he said, “You have made Erik the happiest man alive.”
“Then I must be the happiest woman,” she returned, winding her arms about his neck and standing on tiptoe to kiss him.
He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, gazing into her eyes. “I don’t know how you do it,” he told her, his wonderful voice thick with emotion, “but you have accomplished something that no one else has ever done. You... you make me feel human. I had despaired of ever knowing what it would be like, to feel as other men do. To be loved...”
She tried to form an answer, but the right words would not come. Settling instead on actions that would speak louder than any pretty sentiments she might imagine, she just held him tightly, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he stroked her hair. Freed from its elaborate pinning, it tumbled down her back in a wild mass; Erik wound a curl around his finger and whispered,
“When we are wed, never wear your hair up as other matrons do. You are too young... I want to see you always like this; wild and beautiful.”
“Do you want to see me in a ruined dress as well?” she asked, surprising herself with her flirtatiousness.
He laughed. “Who would not when you wear it so... decorously?” he asked with a flick of his one perfect eyebrow. “What a pair we must make, you and I. Like something from a Perrault tale.”
“Those tales have happy endings. I am thankful we bear no resemblance to anything written by the Brothers Grimm.” Christine rested her head against his chest. “I do sometimes feel like Cinderella.”
“Hardly an apt comparison, my dear. After all, I am the one sleeping in a cellar,” Erik said, amused. “I was thinking more of Beau - ”
She stiffened, looking up at him. “Don’t you dare say it. Don’t you dare say that you were thinking of Beauty and the Beast. This is nothing like that story.”
“That is true.” His lip curled slightly. “Kissing me will not bring forth a handsome prince.”
“I never wanted it to,” Christine told him seriously. “I could have had my prince, but I turned him down. Does that not tell you something?”
He sighed, turning his gaze to the floor. “Forgive me. I have had a low opinion of myself for so long... it is hard to change such thoughts when they have been close companions for most of my life.”
“Your life is going to change now. You must banish such thoughts.”
“I will try.” He raised his head slowly to offer her a slightly shaky smile. “With you to help me, I promise I will try.”
________________________________________
“May I have this dance, Mademoiselle?” He bowed deeply, holding out his bandaged hand. A battered, dishevelled suitor now, he was still elegance personified.
Christine regarded him, baffled. “A dance, Monsieur? But there is no music!”
“I shall be the music,” he declared, thumping his chest theatrically. “I was denied my second waltz with you at the ball; I claim it now, from my fiancée.” As the last word left his lips, he smiled, mouthing it again in positive glee.
Her own mouth quirked in an answering smile and she put her hand into his, careful of his wounds. “In that case, sir, I accept,” she said. “I will dance every dance with you if you wish it.”
“Ah, but we must not be too particular, must we?” Erik took the lead, moving to a tune only he could hear; somehow the path they took through the wrecked room managed to avoid any dangerous obstacles. He was sure-footed, confident; he could have been a dancer, Christine thought. She had never seen anyone move the way he did, with such natural grace; he almost seemed to glide, his steps making no sound upon the floor.
“Did Madame tell you that?” she asked, imagining the conversation that must have ensued when Erik told the ballet mistress of his intentions.
He was humming, but broke off to answer her. “She believed I needed educating with regards to social niceties.”
“Well,” said Christine, “I believe that once one is an engaged person it is quite acceptable to dance all evening with one’s intended.”
Erik raised his eyebrow. “Is that what convention dictates?”
She shrugged. “Do we need convention here? This is our world, and we can make the rules.”
“’Our world’?”
“When I accepted you I accepted all of this as well,” she told him. “Your world is my world now.”
He said nothing in response, but the humming became singing; there were no words, his voice carried the tune as it rose and fell with the timing of the dance, a single instrument taking the part of an orchestra and triumphantly succeeding. They whirled around the room; Christine expected to trip over the ripped hem of her dress, but following Erik’s assured lead her steps were as light as his. If he had taken her dancing under his tutelage as well as her voice, she reflected, she might have been a prima ballerina; his touch was like magic, alchemy, transforming base material into gold.
She turned her face to his and couldn’t contain the laughter that bubbled up within her at the sight of that silly, lopsided smile on his contradictory features. He gave her a quizzical look and she shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I’ve just never seen you happy before.”
“I’ve never truly had a reason to be happy before.”
“I don’t recognise that piece,” she remarked as they took another turn past the fireplace. “Did you compose it?”
“I am composing it as we speak,” he replied, “and I will send it to my publisher as soon as it is finished. Perhaps that is all I will write from now on, works celebrating the glory and wonder of love.”
Christine rested her head against his chest as they slowed to a gentle sway. “I like the sound of that.”
________________________________________
“Oh, Christine. I’m so happy for you,” Meg said, reaching out and pulling her friend into an enthusiastic hug.
“Indeed. Congratulations, my dear.” Madame Giry’s voice from behind made both girls jump. Lips twitching, the ballet mistress added, “You showed great strength and maturity in dealing with him yesterday; your presence calms him as nothing else could. I am proud of you.”
Christine blinked in surprise. “Thank you, Madame.”
“Where is Erik?” Meg glanced around, at the little groups of cast and crew who stood chatting. There was no sign of the former Phantom. “I thought that Mademoiselle Merriman and Signor Rossi were joining us today, and I’m sure he wouldn’t miss that.”
“He said he’d meet me here,” Christine said, frowning. It had taken a lot for Erik to summon the courage to leave the underground house in the face of the rumour and gossip that would doubtless by flying about the building but she could not believe that he had holed himself up in his lair, refusing to rejoin the world, after all that they had gone through the previous day. “That was half an hour ago.”
Madame Giry cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I believe he has been summoned to the managers’ office.” When the two gave her blank looks she withdrew a folded newspaper from behind her back, handing it to Christine. “I take it that you have not seen the front page of Le Figaro.”
Alphonse was suddenly there, Gianni with him, Marie hovering at Madame’s elbow. They had approached with barely a sound, and all looked unhappy. “We’re sorry, Christine,” Alphonse said, and the others nodded. “It was that bastard Béringer; we tried to tell him it was all nonsense but he chose to listen to Augustine.”
“Lying little harpy,” Marie snapped, dark little eyes flashing. “We all know exactly what she’s like; I wouldn’t believe her if she told me Monday followed Sunday.”
“We did our best to limit the damage,” added Gianni.
Puzzled, Christine took the paper and scanned the columns, Meg peering over her shoulder. Beneath a piece about the lack of funds for the army and another on the threat of a dockers’ strike, she found it:
MONSTROUS MAESTRO OF THE OPERA POPULAIRE
Could Erik Claudin, the man with half a face, really be the fabled Phantom of the Opera?
Christine heard a cry which sounded like her own, but from so far away. Meg was talking quickly to her mother, voice garbled as though she were underwater. The newspaper fell from Christine’s nerveless hands, someone shouted her name, and the next moment she was rushing down a long tunnel as the greying walls closed in on her. There was a whooshing in her ears and then, as if unseen hands had dropped a heavy stage curtain, everything went black.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2140
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, 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: Think of it...
“Christine! Where in the world have you been hiding?”
Meg flew across the stage as soon as Christine, self-conscious of the ring on her finger, climbed the steps. At the sound of her shriek several people turned to look, Madame Giry among them; thankfully Augustine Albert was conspicuous by her absence, but there were still mutterings and Christine could feel eyes on her from all angles as she approached her friend. She did her best to hold her head high, trying to ignore the burning sensation of multiple gazes on her back.
“It was Sunday, Meg,” she said, pleased with herself when her voice emerged calmly with barely a wobble. “Where do you think I was?”
“Don’t try and tell me you were at home, because I checked,” the little ballerina told her; Christine made shushing movements with her hands, glancing around at the members of the company who were watching them with undisguised interest, and all but dragged Meg towards the wings. “Remember I was there; I saw it all. What happened?”
“If I tell you, will you promise not to scream?”
Meg’s eyes were almost round. “You don’t mean - ”
Wordlessly, Christine held out her left hand. The diamond caught the light and Meg had to clap both hands over her mouth to stifle her instinctive squeal. When she trusted herself to remove them she grabbed Christine’s fingers, turning them this way and that to better examine the ring, and said breathlessly,
“He actually asked you? After everything on Saturday night? After all that he - ”
Christine nodded. “It wasn’t exactly a conventional proposal.”
“Right.” Looking back and forth to check if there was any chance they would be overheard, Meg folded her arms and adopted her best listening expression. “Go on: tell me everything.”
________________________________________
He hadn’t heard her.
As the silence seemed to stretch on interminably, Erik’s face crumpled in disappointment. He hung his head, staring at the intricately-patterned rug upon which he knelt.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I’m so sorry. Forgive me; I should never have asked. Why should you wish to tie yourself to something like me, to live in the darkness? I understand completely.” His long fingers folded over the ring box. “We will never speak of it again.”
Seeing that if she did not do something quickly the ring would vanish, Christine leapt forwards, catching hold of Erik’s arm. “Wait!” she cried desperately, and he frowned at her in confusion. “I said yes, Erik. I said yes.”
He blinked slowly, unable to take in the enormity of her words. “Yes?” he repeated, as though she addressed him in a foreign tongue.
Smiling, she nodded. “Yes.”
“My God. You said yes?” he asked, eyes wide and incredulous. He looked so much like a child that she could not help but laugh.
“Yes, Erik,” she told him, “I said yes.”
“I never dared to hope...” Frozen, he gazed at her in amazement. Eventually Christine pointed to the little velvet box.
“Is that for me?” she asked lightly.
Erik started as though awoken from a trance. She held out her left hand to him and he withdrew the ring from its satin bed, slipping it onto her finger with infinite care. For a moment they both admired the way in which the stones, a diamond and two rubies, sparkled in the lamplight like tiny stars before Christine suddenly found herself in Erik’s arms, being pulled to her feet. She was about to speak, but before she could open her mouth he threw back his head, shouting to the ceiling, and from there to the world above,
“She said yes! Do you hear that? She has accepted me!” There was triumph in his tone and when he looked down at her his ravaged face was lit with the first smile of genuine happiness that she had ever seen there. His mismatched eyes were soft, brimming with tears that this time did not fall. “Oh, Christine,” he said, “You have made Erik the happiest man alive.”
“Then I must be the happiest woman,” she returned, winding her arms about his neck and standing on tiptoe to kiss him.
He lifted a hand to cup her cheek, gazing into her eyes. “I don’t know how you do it,” he told her, his wonderful voice thick with emotion, “but you have accomplished something that no one else has ever done. You... you make me feel human. I had despaired of ever knowing what it would be like, to feel as other men do. To be loved...”
She tried to form an answer, but the right words would not come. Settling instead on actions that would speak louder than any pretty sentiments she might imagine, she just held him tightly, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he stroked her hair. Freed from its elaborate pinning, it tumbled down her back in a wild mass; Erik wound a curl around his finger and whispered,
“When we are wed, never wear your hair up as other matrons do. You are too young... I want to see you always like this; wild and beautiful.”
“Do you want to see me in a ruined dress as well?” she asked, surprising herself with her flirtatiousness.
He laughed. “Who would not when you wear it so... decorously?” he asked with a flick of his one perfect eyebrow. “What a pair we must make, you and I. Like something from a Perrault tale.”
“Those tales have happy endings. I am thankful we bear no resemblance to anything written by the Brothers Grimm.” Christine rested her head against his chest. “I do sometimes feel like Cinderella.”
“Hardly an apt comparison, my dear. After all, I am the one sleeping in a cellar,” Erik said, amused. “I was thinking more of Beau - ”
She stiffened, looking up at him. “Don’t you dare say it. Don’t you dare say that you were thinking of Beauty and the Beast. This is nothing like that story.”
“That is true.” His lip curled slightly. “Kissing me will not bring forth a handsome prince.”
“I never wanted it to,” Christine told him seriously. “I could have had my prince, but I turned him down. Does that not tell you something?”
He sighed, turning his gaze to the floor. “Forgive me. I have had a low opinion of myself for so long... it is hard to change such thoughts when they have been close companions for most of my life.”
“Your life is going to change now. You must banish such thoughts.”
“I will try.” He raised his head slowly to offer her a slightly shaky smile. “With you to help me, I promise I will try.”
________________________________________
“May I have this dance, Mademoiselle?” He bowed deeply, holding out his bandaged hand. A battered, dishevelled suitor now, he was still elegance personified.
Christine regarded him, baffled. “A dance, Monsieur? But there is no music!”
“I shall be the music,” he declared, thumping his chest theatrically. “I was denied my second waltz with you at the ball; I claim it now, from my fiancée.” As the last word left his lips, he smiled, mouthing it again in positive glee.
Her own mouth quirked in an answering smile and she put her hand into his, careful of his wounds. “In that case, sir, I accept,” she said. “I will dance every dance with you if you wish it.”
“Ah, but we must not be too particular, must we?” Erik took the lead, moving to a tune only he could hear; somehow the path they took through the wrecked room managed to avoid any dangerous obstacles. He was sure-footed, confident; he could have been a dancer, Christine thought. She had never seen anyone move the way he did, with such natural grace; he almost seemed to glide, his steps making no sound upon the floor.
“Did Madame tell you that?” she asked, imagining the conversation that must have ensued when Erik told the ballet mistress of his intentions.
He was humming, but broke off to answer her. “She believed I needed educating with regards to social niceties.”
“Well,” said Christine, “I believe that once one is an engaged person it is quite acceptable to dance all evening with one’s intended.”
Erik raised his eyebrow. “Is that what convention dictates?”
She shrugged. “Do we need convention here? This is our world, and we can make the rules.”
“’Our world’?”
“When I accepted you I accepted all of this as well,” she told him. “Your world is my world now.”
He said nothing in response, but the humming became singing; there were no words, his voice carried the tune as it rose and fell with the timing of the dance, a single instrument taking the part of an orchestra and triumphantly succeeding. They whirled around the room; Christine expected to trip over the ripped hem of her dress, but following Erik’s assured lead her steps were as light as his. If he had taken her dancing under his tutelage as well as her voice, she reflected, she might have been a prima ballerina; his touch was like magic, alchemy, transforming base material into gold.
She turned her face to his and couldn’t contain the laughter that bubbled up within her at the sight of that silly, lopsided smile on his contradictory features. He gave her a quizzical look and she shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I’ve just never seen you happy before.”
“I’ve never truly had a reason to be happy before.”
“I don’t recognise that piece,” she remarked as they took another turn past the fireplace. “Did you compose it?”
“I am composing it as we speak,” he replied, “and I will send it to my publisher as soon as it is finished. Perhaps that is all I will write from now on, works celebrating the glory and wonder of love.”
Christine rested her head against his chest as they slowed to a gentle sway. “I like the sound of that.”
________________________________________
“Oh, Christine. I’m so happy for you,” Meg said, reaching out and pulling her friend into an enthusiastic hug.
“Indeed. Congratulations, my dear.” Madame Giry’s voice from behind made both girls jump. Lips twitching, the ballet mistress added, “You showed great strength and maturity in dealing with him yesterday; your presence calms him as nothing else could. I am proud of you.”
Christine blinked in surprise. “Thank you, Madame.”
“Where is Erik?” Meg glanced around, at the little groups of cast and crew who stood chatting. There was no sign of the former Phantom. “I thought that Mademoiselle Merriman and Signor Rossi were joining us today, and I’m sure he wouldn’t miss that.”
“He said he’d meet me here,” Christine said, frowning. It had taken a lot for Erik to summon the courage to leave the underground house in the face of the rumour and gossip that would doubtless by flying about the building but she could not believe that he had holed himself up in his lair, refusing to rejoin the world, after all that they had gone through the previous day. “That was half an hour ago.”
Madame Giry cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I believe he has been summoned to the managers’ office.” When the two gave her blank looks she withdrew a folded newspaper from behind her back, handing it to Christine. “I take it that you have not seen the front page of Le Figaro.”
Alphonse was suddenly there, Gianni with him, Marie hovering at Madame’s elbow. They had approached with barely a sound, and all looked unhappy. “We’re sorry, Christine,” Alphonse said, and the others nodded. “It was that bastard Béringer; we tried to tell him it was all nonsense but he chose to listen to Augustine.”
“Lying little harpy,” Marie snapped, dark little eyes flashing. “We all know exactly what she’s like; I wouldn’t believe her if she told me Monday followed Sunday.”
“We did our best to limit the damage,” added Gianni.
Puzzled, Christine took the paper and scanned the columns, Meg peering over her shoulder. Beneath a piece about the lack of funds for the army and another on the threat of a dockers’ strike, she found it:
Could Erik Claudin, the man with half a face, really be the fabled Phantom of the Opera?
Christine heard a cry which sounded like her own, but from so far away. Meg was talking quickly to her mother, voice garbled as though she were underwater. The newspaper fell from Christine’s nerveless hands, someone shouted her name, and the next moment she was rushing down a long tunnel as the greying walls closed in on her. There was a whooshing in her ears and then, as if unseen hands had dropped a heavy stage curtain, everything went black.
