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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 35/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3611
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: A discussion, and an unwanted visitor.
CLASH OF THE TITANS
“I don’t believe it!” Erik said again, pacing the room. “It took years to rid ourselves of that talentless harpy, and now we have to endure her brother! Goodness knows what she has told him..!”
Madame Giry’s brow arched sceptically. “Knowing Carlotta, it will have been a tissue of lies, nothing more than gossip and exaggeration. You have little to fear; from what you told me about the Don Juan performance she was gone before you even stepped out onto the stage.”
“She’s more likely to have filled his head with horrible things about me,” Christine pointed out, watching the Phantom as he took another turn about the little room. It was Monsieur Pevitt’s old office, which had come to Erik now by default; had the circumstances been different she would have felt proud that he finally had an official space of his own within the theatre. The libretti for Die Fledermaus were stacked on the desk and his hat hung on the stand beside the door. “You know how much she hated me.”
“Carlotta would have hated anyone who upstaged her,” the ballet mistress said kindly, patting her hand. “You were unfortunate to be the one in the firing line. And we all know who was to blame for that...” She shot Erik a sharp glare as he passed, but he barely noticed, head down and fingers tightly laced behind his back. Christine saw a spot of blood on the dressing that swathed his right hand and hoped that he had not reopened the cuts.
“We need a plan of action,” he muttered. “Damage limitation... precisely how much does he know?”
“Surely the best thing to do would be to carry on as normal,” Madame Giry told him. “There is no need to raise his suspicions by behaving in a furtive or guilty manner. As far as Carlotta was concerned she was targeted by a madman with a taste for cruel pranks, a trickster determined to oust her from her position of Prima Donna in favour of Christine.”
At her words he finally stopped moving and stared at her, mouth twitching in annoyance. “And precisely what do you mean by that, Madame?” he enquired in a dangerous tone.
Antoinette ignored him. Christine never ceased to marvel at the ballet mistress’s ability to remain sanguine in the face of Erik’s wrath. “I mean that there is no direct evidence to connect you with the Phantom, whatever Le Figaro claims. You may be chorus master, but Christine is not the Prima Donna. When Carlotta departed, so did the Opera Ghost.”
“Surely you can’t imagine we can pretend everything that happened was Carlotta’s delusion, Madame?” asked Christine in astonishment. “What about the masquerade? Everyone saw Erik then - ”
“They saw someone in a ridiculously overblown costume,” Madame Giry said firmly. “Only a few who were nearby actually saw and heard what occurred between you, and no one with any sense believed those stupid stories Carlotta spread about you being the Phantom’s mistress. My point is,” she added when Erik opened his mouth to object, “no one really knows what was real and what was fantasy, invention. Your talent for misdirection and sleight of hand works in your favour. You communicated with the managers by letter, they never saw you. When you were heard by others the night of Il Muto and again at the ball, your voice was disguised, you held everyone under your spell. Who would believe that a normal man is capable of such things?”
Erik frowned, unfurling himself and folding his arms. “You mean that we should laugh off any accusations as nonsense?”
“Do you have a better idea? What evidence is there, truly, beyond a handful of tall tales and muddled memories? Those of us who were directly involved will say nothing, and the others are too far away to cause trouble.”
He looked at her for a long moment before throwing up both hands in defeat. “Damn it, Annie, why do you have to be right all the time?”
“Because someone decided you needed a conscience and a guiding hand,” she told him, a tiny smile lurking about her lips as she brushed a speck of dust from her skirts. “I don’t believe for a moment that we met by chance.”
“Fate thought I was lacking aggravation in my life, obviously,” said Erik dryly. Rounding the battered desk he sank into the chair behind it, leaning back with a sigh. “Maybe I should just leave Paris, go somewhere no one has ever heard of the Opera Ghost. I could start again, become someone else.”
“Erik, you wouldn’t leave the Opera?” Christine cried, sitting up straight. She reached out to grab his hand. “You can’t!”
“It’s all right, my dear, I would never leave you behind,” he assured her, touching his lips to her knuckles. “We could both build a completely new life, away from those who would judge us.”
“And you would be happy to have to win the confidence and acceptance of a whole new group of people?” asked Madame Giry, brows lifting in surprise. “You would merely be exchanging one set of prejudices for another.”
“Erik, you have gained the respect of everyone here,” said Christine, adding when he pulled a face, “All right, maybe not absolutely everyone, but you have proved yourself and you are valued. The managers would not ask you to stay on if they were not convinced of your ability.” Getting up she perched on the desk in front of him, forcing him to look at her. “If you decide to throw all that over you are running away and that is a cowardly response. I told you before: I do not think you are a coward.”
He gave no response, head sunk on one hand, for some time until eventually he gave her fingers a squeeze and said, “Two against one? That’s hardly fair now, is it?”
“Does that mean you’re not going to run off to places unknown?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, I suppose not. Not at present, at any rate.”
“Good.” Christine bent down and kissed him on his uncovered cheek. “I don’t think I want to start my married life as a fugitive.”
“You make it sound as if someone would be pursuing us,” Erik complained. “I prefer to think of it as reinventing myself.”
“You say that as though you’ve done it before.”
“It has been necessary over the years,” was all he would say and Christine realised once again how little she knew of his past. Now that they were engaged she hoped he might allow his defences to drop and share some of that mysterious, tantalising period of his life with her. It was no use asking him directly; he would retreat behind those invisible walls and might never emerge. When he deemed the time to be right he would tell her. She hoped that moment would not be too long in coming.
“You can reinvent yourself now,” said Madame Giry. “From Phantom to chorus master is no little step.”
“Some would view it as a step backwards,” Erik remarked, the visible corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.
“Others might call it a step in the right direction,” she replied.
He bowed his head in assent, but Christine could see him smirking. So, evidently, could Madame, for she got to her feet and retrieved her cane from where it was propped against the wall.
“I can see that further conversation on this subject is useless,” she said. “It’s high time I returned to my ballerinas; no doubt the news of your engagement is right round the building by now.”
Erik groaned, and this time it was Madame Giry’s turn to smirk. Head held high she turned towards the door but before she could reach it someone knocked from outside, startling them all. Erik recovered his composure almost immediately, straightening in his chair. “No rest for the wicked, it would seem,” he said, calling upon the visitor to enter.
“I’m surprised to find you still here,” a familiar voice announced as the door opened. Augustine Albert, a vision in a brilliant green silk walking dress trimmed with marabou feathers that looked as though she had borrowed it from La Carlotta’s wardrobe, stood on the threshold, her nose in the air and a disdainful expression upon her pale face. There was no sign of the mark on her cheek left by Christine’s slap. “I thought that the managers would have had the sense to throw you out on your ear as soon as they discovered what you really are.”
Madame Giry stared at the newcomer, dark eyes hard. “Would you like me to fetch any assistance?” she asked Erik evenly.
“Thank you, but no,” he replied, much to Christine’s surprise. “Would you leave us alone, please?”
Reluctantly the ballet mistress nodded, sailing past Augustine, her look of thinly-veiled contempt running over the soprano before she vanished into the corridor. Christine automatically rose to follow, but stopped when Erik said,
“Not you, Christine. I would rather you remained.”
Augustine shot them both a glare. “I refuse to speak in front of your paramour.”
“Paramour?” Erik laughed, which only seemed to infuriate her. “What an amusing thought. Unfortunately I refuse to speak without a witness, so Christine remains. Those are my terms: you may take them or leave them.”
Slowly, and feeling incredibly awkward, Christine sat once more, surreptitiously scooting her chair a little closer to his. Augustine watched her through eyes narrowed suspiciously; when it became clear that Christine was not going to leave the room, she strode forwards until she stood right in front of the desk. She really did look as though she thought herself prima donna, Christine thought; how much had Béringer paid her for that pack of lies, so that she could afford such an expensive new dress and hat? The parasol she carried in one hand looked as though it would cost a weeks’ wages alone.
“I don’t know how you have the nerve to show your horrible excuse for a face here,” she hissed, shoving her own face close to his mask. “Something that hideous doesn’t belong in a civilised society; the only place for you is in a travelling fair!”
Incredibly, Erik didn’t even bat an eyelid at this torrent of abuse. He sat up; if possible, even straighter than before, clasped his hands on the blotter and enquired calmly, “Why did you not attend rehearsal this morning, Mademoiselle Albert?”
“What?” Backing off slightly, she looked rattled for a moment before quickly pulling herself together. “What the hell has that to do with you?”
“As a member of the chorus, and as an artiste with a named role in the current production, you are required to attend each and every rehearsal,” Erik said. He reached out for a cardboard file and drew it towards him, opening it and flicking through the pages within. “You were not here this morning; consequently I have been forced to allocate your part to someone who can be bothered to turn up. Maddalena will be played for the remaining performances by Mademoiselle Leclerc.” Without looking up he added, “That is all; you may go now.”
Augustine stared at him, mouth working up and down wordlessly. Her thin fingers curled into claws, and Christine wondered whether the handle of the parasol would snap under the pressure. “You... you... you miserable little toad!” the older soprano spat. “I know why you’re doing this: you want every singer with talent out of the way to make room for her!” She thrust out a hand, scarlet nails like talons, towards Christine, who instinctively backed away to avoid having an eye taken out. At close quarters it was obvious that the bruise on Augustine’s face had been disguised with over-zealous application of white pan-stick; the foundation was cracking in the warmth of the office and coupled with the circles of rouge on her cheeks and her carefully arranged blonde curls gave her the look of a dissolute china doll. “She’s got you by the short and curlies, hasn’t she? My God, she must be good. Is it worth it to have her suck - ”
“Mademoiselle Daae has nothing to do with this,” Erik snapped, cutting her off. “And I will thank you to watch your mouth in her presence. Kindly keep your filthy accusations to yourself.”
“It’s true! I know it is!” Augustine burst out laughing. “No wonder she’s got where she has. First the ‘Phantom’ and now you. She must know some tricks to keep a man interested. Where did you learn them, Christine? Can the Swedes teach us Parisian girls a few things?”
A muscle in Erik’s jaw twitched, and Christine saw his long fingers clench around the pen he held. She gently rested a hand upon his. “It’s all right, Erik; I’ll go,” she whispered, but he shook his head.
“There is no reason for you to leave,” he told her, directing a freezing glare towards Augustine. “You have said quite enough, Mademoiselle Albert; you may leave. Do not return until you have decided to make a commitment to this theatre.”
“Ha! What is the point when it is quite obvious who you has your favour,” the soprano declared. “I told you that you could have had a real woman, but you obviously prefer an outward appearance of innocence. I suppose it makes you feel more of a man, compensates for that which you are lacking.” Her gaze travelled downwards and the corners of her painted mouth turned upwards as though she could see something through the desk that amused her. “One cannot help but wonder: are you just as twisted... elsewhere?”
Without warning Erik surged to his feet. Leaning across the desktop he slammed both hands down on its battered surface, the sound of the impact making Christine jump. His strong white fingers gripped the wood so hard that the veins stood out, blue lines snaking across the taught skin on the backs of his hands. “Get out,” he commanded, the flesh and porcelain of his face in awful harmony; a mask of fury. “Get out now before I do something I may regret.”
Augustine looked genuinely scared for a moment as he loomed over her, but the expression was swiftly replaced with a sneer. “You needn’t worry; I’m going. I don’t need the Populaire anyway; all I have to do is call and I’ll have a position at any theatre in France.”
“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Erik said with an evil smile. Christine shuddered inwardly. She disliked that smile so much; it was the smile of the Phantom and she had so hoped that he was putting that part of him to rest. Despite herself she could not help but feel worried for Augustine; she more than anyone else knew what Erik was capable of should he be pushed too far. Unfortunately the other soprano was blithely unaware of the danger in which she stood.
“You can do nothing about it; you have no influence outside these walls,” she retorted confidently. “In fact, since you’re only a temporary chorus master, you have no power over me at all!”
“Actually, it so happens that I do,” Erik replied silkily. Pointing to a sheaf of papers, the topmost of which bore the Populaire’s elaborate crest, he added, “That is the contract I signed only an hour ago, agreeing to permanently take on the role. And as for influence, I believe Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine have plenty of it. They were not impressed with your little adventure into print, and are quite anxious to dismiss you. One word from them and no self-respecting theatre in Paris will have you. Not even the Opera Comique.”
“So this is your revenge. You’re trying to frighten me because I showed the world what an ugly troll you really are. That is how much I care for your threats, Monsieur!” Augustine snapped her fingers under his nose.
“I have no such desire for revenge, Mademoiselle Albert,” Erik said, regarding her much as one would an insect that had crawled onto their collar. “You, on the other hand, are clearly desperate to revenge yourself upon me for rejecting your advances. I think it is quite obvious to all of us that being repulsed caused you far more distress than the sight of my face!”
“You think I was bothered about being turned down by something like you?” Another peal of laughter escaped the soprano, hut this time it was rather forced. “Don’t flatter yourself. If you have so much power, then why do you not sack me on the spot?”
“I have good reason to, but if I wanted such a mundane way out I would have allowed the managers to deal with the affair,” Erik told her. He sat once more, leaning back in his chair. “Rather than simply terminating your employment, I have decided to give you a choice.”
She blinked, apparently genuinely surprised. “What... what do you mean?”
“If I allow you to just walk out of here, I am also allowing you to get away with the hurt you have caused. I find myself disinclined to do so; why should you be permitted to spread your hatred and bile wherever you choose with no repercussions?” Erik glanced at Christine and held out a hand to her. She took it, and could feel the almost imperceptible tremor in his fingers. Though outwardly he might radiate arrogance, he was trembling inside; for all his confidence it could not be easy to confront the woman who had so recently ripped away that precious barrier between him and the rest of the world. His mouth was set in a grim line. “You can destroy lives with a few ill-chosen words, Mademoiselle Albert, and I am not willing to let you ruin mine. Better people than you have insulted me and lived to regret it.”
Augustine was shaking, too, the parasol shuddering in her grip. Even so, she lifted her chin defiantly. “And what is this choice that I am to make?” she asked.
“Oh, it is quite simple. You can remain with the Populaire, starting again at the very bottom and channelling some of that jealousy and hate into your performance; you are not entirely without talent and if you applied yourself to your art instead of giving in to baser feelings you might even become a star. If you choose otherwise I will terminate your contract and you may take your chances. A career as a chanteuse in one of the late-night cabarets in Montmartre would appear to be the only one open to you.” Christine gasped at the insinuation but Erik was relentless. “I believe le Coq D’Or is recruiting; you may find the men there more to your taste. They are less discriminating.”
“You... you...” It seemed that Augustine was finally speechless. She stared, wide-eyed, at them both for several moments before her gaze fell to their clasped hands, and from there to the ring on Christine’s finger. “I see how it is,” she said softly. Her thin features tightened in a scowl and pushing her face into Christine’s she shouted, “I wish you well of him, you slut! The pair of you deserve each other!” Whirling around, she flounced out of the office, slamming the door so hard that Erik’s hat spun around on its hook and was propelled halfway across the room by the resultant draught.
They both watched the fedora as it settled on the dusty floor. “That woman disgusts me,” Erik said, his tone surprisingly mild.
“Do you really think that was the best way to deal with her?” Christine asked. “Surely letting the managers dismiss her would have made things easier for us all.”
“I did not want her to have an easy ride of it, not after what she did.”
She reached up and kissed his temple. “I understand that. But she can still do us damage, Erik. She and Béringer - ”
A low growl rumbled in his chest. “I do not wish to think about that man. Had I my way he would be dangling from the end of the Punjab lasso. However, he is not the only journalist in Paris and it is time we used the press to our advantage.” He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers in a quick, hard kiss that left her breathless. His eyes gleamed. “What do you say to an announcement of our engagement in L’Epoque?”
“Isn’t that rather grandiose? Where will we place it: in the society pages alongside those of the aristocracy?” Christine couldn’t help giggling at the thought.
“Why not?” Erik smiled, genuinely this time. “You are worth a hundred of any of them.”
“I thought you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself?”
He grimaced. “There is little hope of that. Antoinette is right: by now even the woman who cleans the water closets will know.” Leaning back slightly he regarded her thoughtfully, his gaze softening. “Whatever anyone thinks I find I want to shout your acceptance of me to the skies. In fact, I have a very compelling urge to run up to the roof and do just that.”
Christine shook her head, smiling. “Sometimes you can be very silly, Erik Claudin.”
“You are probably the first person ever to say so,” he said, adding with a wicked little grin, “And of course, if I can prove that harpy wrong and show the world that the ‘Monster of the Populaire’ is loved, so much the better.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3611
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: A discussion, and an unwanted visitor.
“I don’t believe it!” Erik said again, pacing the room. “It took years to rid ourselves of that talentless harpy, and now we have to endure her brother! Goodness knows what she has told him..!”
Madame Giry’s brow arched sceptically. “Knowing Carlotta, it will have been a tissue of lies, nothing more than gossip and exaggeration. You have little to fear; from what you told me about the Don Juan performance she was gone before you even stepped out onto the stage.”
“She’s more likely to have filled his head with horrible things about me,” Christine pointed out, watching the Phantom as he took another turn about the little room. It was Monsieur Pevitt’s old office, which had come to Erik now by default; had the circumstances been different she would have felt proud that he finally had an official space of his own within the theatre. The libretti for Die Fledermaus were stacked on the desk and his hat hung on the stand beside the door. “You know how much she hated me.”
“Carlotta would have hated anyone who upstaged her,” the ballet mistress said kindly, patting her hand. “You were unfortunate to be the one in the firing line. And we all know who was to blame for that...” She shot Erik a sharp glare as he passed, but he barely noticed, head down and fingers tightly laced behind his back. Christine saw a spot of blood on the dressing that swathed his right hand and hoped that he had not reopened the cuts.
“We need a plan of action,” he muttered. “Damage limitation... precisely how much does he know?”
“Surely the best thing to do would be to carry on as normal,” Madame Giry told him. “There is no need to raise his suspicions by behaving in a furtive or guilty manner. As far as Carlotta was concerned she was targeted by a madman with a taste for cruel pranks, a trickster determined to oust her from her position of Prima Donna in favour of Christine.”
At her words he finally stopped moving and stared at her, mouth twitching in annoyance. “And precisely what do you mean by that, Madame?” he enquired in a dangerous tone.
Antoinette ignored him. Christine never ceased to marvel at the ballet mistress’s ability to remain sanguine in the face of Erik’s wrath. “I mean that there is no direct evidence to connect you with the Phantom, whatever Le Figaro claims. You may be chorus master, but Christine is not the Prima Donna. When Carlotta departed, so did the Opera Ghost.”
“Surely you can’t imagine we can pretend everything that happened was Carlotta’s delusion, Madame?” asked Christine in astonishment. “What about the masquerade? Everyone saw Erik then - ”
“They saw someone in a ridiculously overblown costume,” Madame Giry said firmly. “Only a few who were nearby actually saw and heard what occurred between you, and no one with any sense believed those stupid stories Carlotta spread about you being the Phantom’s mistress. My point is,” she added when Erik opened his mouth to object, “no one really knows what was real and what was fantasy, invention. Your talent for misdirection and sleight of hand works in your favour. You communicated with the managers by letter, they never saw you. When you were heard by others the night of Il Muto and again at the ball, your voice was disguised, you held everyone under your spell. Who would believe that a normal man is capable of such things?”
Erik frowned, unfurling himself and folding his arms. “You mean that we should laugh off any accusations as nonsense?”
“Do you have a better idea? What evidence is there, truly, beyond a handful of tall tales and muddled memories? Those of us who were directly involved will say nothing, and the others are too far away to cause trouble.”
He looked at her for a long moment before throwing up both hands in defeat. “Damn it, Annie, why do you have to be right all the time?”
“Because someone decided you needed a conscience and a guiding hand,” she told him, a tiny smile lurking about her lips as she brushed a speck of dust from her skirts. “I don’t believe for a moment that we met by chance.”
“Fate thought I was lacking aggravation in my life, obviously,” said Erik dryly. Rounding the battered desk he sank into the chair behind it, leaning back with a sigh. “Maybe I should just leave Paris, go somewhere no one has ever heard of the Opera Ghost. I could start again, become someone else.”
“Erik, you wouldn’t leave the Opera?” Christine cried, sitting up straight. She reached out to grab his hand. “You can’t!”
“It’s all right, my dear, I would never leave you behind,” he assured her, touching his lips to her knuckles. “We could both build a completely new life, away from those who would judge us.”
“And you would be happy to have to win the confidence and acceptance of a whole new group of people?” asked Madame Giry, brows lifting in surprise. “You would merely be exchanging one set of prejudices for another.”
“Erik, you have gained the respect of everyone here,” said Christine, adding when he pulled a face, “All right, maybe not absolutely everyone, but you have proved yourself and you are valued. The managers would not ask you to stay on if they were not convinced of your ability.” Getting up she perched on the desk in front of him, forcing him to look at her. “If you decide to throw all that over you are running away and that is a cowardly response. I told you before: I do not think you are a coward.”
He gave no response, head sunk on one hand, for some time until eventually he gave her fingers a squeeze and said, “Two against one? That’s hardly fair now, is it?”
“Does that mean you’re not going to run off to places unknown?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, I suppose not. Not at present, at any rate.”
“Good.” Christine bent down and kissed him on his uncovered cheek. “I don’t think I want to start my married life as a fugitive.”
“You make it sound as if someone would be pursuing us,” Erik complained. “I prefer to think of it as reinventing myself.”
“You say that as though you’ve done it before.”
“It has been necessary over the years,” was all he would say and Christine realised once again how little she knew of his past. Now that they were engaged she hoped he might allow his defences to drop and share some of that mysterious, tantalising period of his life with her. It was no use asking him directly; he would retreat behind those invisible walls and might never emerge. When he deemed the time to be right he would tell her. She hoped that moment would not be too long in coming.
“You can reinvent yourself now,” said Madame Giry. “From Phantom to chorus master is no little step.”
“Some would view it as a step backwards,” Erik remarked, the visible corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.
“Others might call it a step in the right direction,” she replied.
He bowed his head in assent, but Christine could see him smirking. So, evidently, could Madame, for she got to her feet and retrieved her cane from where it was propped against the wall.
“I can see that further conversation on this subject is useless,” she said. “It’s high time I returned to my ballerinas; no doubt the news of your engagement is right round the building by now.”
Erik groaned, and this time it was Madame Giry’s turn to smirk. Head held high she turned towards the door but before she could reach it someone knocked from outside, startling them all. Erik recovered his composure almost immediately, straightening in his chair. “No rest for the wicked, it would seem,” he said, calling upon the visitor to enter.
“I’m surprised to find you still here,” a familiar voice announced as the door opened. Augustine Albert, a vision in a brilliant green silk walking dress trimmed with marabou feathers that looked as though she had borrowed it from La Carlotta’s wardrobe, stood on the threshold, her nose in the air and a disdainful expression upon her pale face. There was no sign of the mark on her cheek left by Christine’s slap. “I thought that the managers would have had the sense to throw you out on your ear as soon as they discovered what you really are.”
Madame Giry stared at the newcomer, dark eyes hard. “Would you like me to fetch any assistance?” she asked Erik evenly.
“Thank you, but no,” he replied, much to Christine’s surprise. “Would you leave us alone, please?”
Reluctantly the ballet mistress nodded, sailing past Augustine, her look of thinly-veiled contempt running over the soprano before she vanished into the corridor. Christine automatically rose to follow, but stopped when Erik said,
“Not you, Christine. I would rather you remained.”
Augustine shot them both a glare. “I refuse to speak in front of your paramour.”
“Paramour?” Erik laughed, which only seemed to infuriate her. “What an amusing thought. Unfortunately I refuse to speak without a witness, so Christine remains. Those are my terms: you may take them or leave them.”
Slowly, and feeling incredibly awkward, Christine sat once more, surreptitiously scooting her chair a little closer to his. Augustine watched her through eyes narrowed suspiciously; when it became clear that Christine was not going to leave the room, she strode forwards until she stood right in front of the desk. She really did look as though she thought herself prima donna, Christine thought; how much had Béringer paid her for that pack of lies, so that she could afford such an expensive new dress and hat? The parasol she carried in one hand looked as though it would cost a weeks’ wages alone.
“I don’t know how you have the nerve to show your horrible excuse for a face here,” she hissed, shoving her own face close to his mask. “Something that hideous doesn’t belong in a civilised society; the only place for you is in a travelling fair!”
Incredibly, Erik didn’t even bat an eyelid at this torrent of abuse. He sat up; if possible, even straighter than before, clasped his hands on the blotter and enquired calmly, “Why did you not attend rehearsal this morning, Mademoiselle Albert?”
“What?” Backing off slightly, she looked rattled for a moment before quickly pulling herself together. “What the hell has that to do with you?”
“As a member of the chorus, and as an artiste with a named role in the current production, you are required to attend each and every rehearsal,” Erik said. He reached out for a cardboard file and drew it towards him, opening it and flicking through the pages within. “You were not here this morning; consequently I have been forced to allocate your part to someone who can be bothered to turn up. Maddalena will be played for the remaining performances by Mademoiselle Leclerc.” Without looking up he added, “That is all; you may go now.”
Augustine stared at him, mouth working up and down wordlessly. Her thin fingers curled into claws, and Christine wondered whether the handle of the parasol would snap under the pressure. “You... you... you miserable little toad!” the older soprano spat. “I know why you’re doing this: you want every singer with talent out of the way to make room for her!” She thrust out a hand, scarlet nails like talons, towards Christine, who instinctively backed away to avoid having an eye taken out. At close quarters it was obvious that the bruise on Augustine’s face had been disguised with over-zealous application of white pan-stick; the foundation was cracking in the warmth of the office and coupled with the circles of rouge on her cheeks and her carefully arranged blonde curls gave her the look of a dissolute china doll. “She’s got you by the short and curlies, hasn’t she? My God, she must be good. Is it worth it to have her suck - ”
“Mademoiselle Daae has nothing to do with this,” Erik snapped, cutting her off. “And I will thank you to watch your mouth in her presence. Kindly keep your filthy accusations to yourself.”
“It’s true! I know it is!” Augustine burst out laughing. “No wonder she’s got where she has. First the ‘Phantom’ and now you. She must know some tricks to keep a man interested. Where did you learn them, Christine? Can the Swedes teach us Parisian girls a few things?”
A muscle in Erik’s jaw twitched, and Christine saw his long fingers clench around the pen he held. She gently rested a hand upon his. “It’s all right, Erik; I’ll go,” she whispered, but he shook his head.
“There is no reason for you to leave,” he told her, directing a freezing glare towards Augustine. “You have said quite enough, Mademoiselle Albert; you may leave. Do not return until you have decided to make a commitment to this theatre.”
“Ha! What is the point when it is quite obvious who you has your favour,” the soprano declared. “I told you that you could have had a real woman, but you obviously prefer an outward appearance of innocence. I suppose it makes you feel more of a man, compensates for that which you are lacking.” Her gaze travelled downwards and the corners of her painted mouth turned upwards as though she could see something through the desk that amused her. “One cannot help but wonder: are you just as twisted... elsewhere?”
Without warning Erik surged to his feet. Leaning across the desktop he slammed both hands down on its battered surface, the sound of the impact making Christine jump. His strong white fingers gripped the wood so hard that the veins stood out, blue lines snaking across the taught skin on the backs of his hands. “Get out,” he commanded, the flesh and porcelain of his face in awful harmony; a mask of fury. “Get out now before I do something I may regret.”
Augustine looked genuinely scared for a moment as he loomed over her, but the expression was swiftly replaced with a sneer. “You needn’t worry; I’m going. I don’t need the Populaire anyway; all I have to do is call and I’ll have a position at any theatre in France.”
“Oh, I very much doubt that,” Erik said with an evil smile. Christine shuddered inwardly. She disliked that smile so much; it was the smile of the Phantom and she had so hoped that he was putting that part of him to rest. Despite herself she could not help but feel worried for Augustine; she more than anyone else knew what Erik was capable of should he be pushed too far. Unfortunately the other soprano was blithely unaware of the danger in which she stood.
“You can do nothing about it; you have no influence outside these walls,” she retorted confidently. “In fact, since you’re only a temporary chorus master, you have no power over me at all!”
“Actually, it so happens that I do,” Erik replied silkily. Pointing to a sheaf of papers, the topmost of which bore the Populaire’s elaborate crest, he added, “That is the contract I signed only an hour ago, agreeing to permanently take on the role. And as for influence, I believe Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine have plenty of it. They were not impressed with your little adventure into print, and are quite anxious to dismiss you. One word from them and no self-respecting theatre in Paris will have you. Not even the Opera Comique.”
“So this is your revenge. You’re trying to frighten me because I showed the world what an ugly troll you really are. That is how much I care for your threats, Monsieur!” Augustine snapped her fingers under his nose.
“I have no such desire for revenge, Mademoiselle Albert,” Erik said, regarding her much as one would an insect that had crawled onto their collar. “You, on the other hand, are clearly desperate to revenge yourself upon me for rejecting your advances. I think it is quite obvious to all of us that being repulsed caused you far more distress than the sight of my face!”
“You think I was bothered about being turned down by something like you?” Another peal of laughter escaped the soprano, hut this time it was rather forced. “Don’t flatter yourself. If you have so much power, then why do you not sack me on the spot?”
“I have good reason to, but if I wanted such a mundane way out I would have allowed the managers to deal with the affair,” Erik told her. He sat once more, leaning back in his chair. “Rather than simply terminating your employment, I have decided to give you a choice.”
She blinked, apparently genuinely surprised. “What... what do you mean?”
“If I allow you to just walk out of here, I am also allowing you to get away with the hurt you have caused. I find myself disinclined to do so; why should you be permitted to spread your hatred and bile wherever you choose with no repercussions?” Erik glanced at Christine and held out a hand to her. She took it, and could feel the almost imperceptible tremor in his fingers. Though outwardly he might radiate arrogance, he was trembling inside; for all his confidence it could not be easy to confront the woman who had so recently ripped away that precious barrier between him and the rest of the world. His mouth was set in a grim line. “You can destroy lives with a few ill-chosen words, Mademoiselle Albert, and I am not willing to let you ruin mine. Better people than you have insulted me and lived to regret it.”
Augustine was shaking, too, the parasol shuddering in her grip. Even so, she lifted her chin defiantly. “And what is this choice that I am to make?” she asked.
“Oh, it is quite simple. You can remain with the Populaire, starting again at the very bottom and channelling some of that jealousy and hate into your performance; you are not entirely without talent and if you applied yourself to your art instead of giving in to baser feelings you might even become a star. If you choose otherwise I will terminate your contract and you may take your chances. A career as a chanteuse in one of the late-night cabarets in Montmartre would appear to be the only one open to you.” Christine gasped at the insinuation but Erik was relentless. “I believe le Coq D’Or is recruiting; you may find the men there more to your taste. They are less discriminating.”
“You... you...” It seemed that Augustine was finally speechless. She stared, wide-eyed, at them both for several moments before her gaze fell to their clasped hands, and from there to the ring on Christine’s finger. “I see how it is,” she said softly. Her thin features tightened in a scowl and pushing her face into Christine’s she shouted, “I wish you well of him, you slut! The pair of you deserve each other!” Whirling around, she flounced out of the office, slamming the door so hard that Erik’s hat spun around on its hook and was propelled halfway across the room by the resultant draught.
They both watched the fedora as it settled on the dusty floor. “That woman disgusts me,” Erik said, his tone surprisingly mild.
“Do you really think that was the best way to deal with her?” Christine asked. “Surely letting the managers dismiss her would have made things easier for us all.”
“I did not want her to have an easy ride of it, not after what she did.”
She reached up and kissed his temple. “I understand that. But she can still do us damage, Erik. She and Béringer - ”
A low growl rumbled in his chest. “I do not wish to think about that man. Had I my way he would be dangling from the end of the Punjab lasso. However, he is not the only journalist in Paris and it is time we used the press to our advantage.” He bent his head and pressed his lips to hers in a quick, hard kiss that left her breathless. His eyes gleamed. “What do you say to an announcement of our engagement in L’Epoque?”
“Isn’t that rather grandiose? Where will we place it: in the society pages alongside those of the aristocracy?” Christine couldn’t help giggling at the thought.
“Why not?” Erik smiled, genuinely this time. “You are worth a hundred of any of them.”
“I thought you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself?”
He grimaced. “There is little hope of that. Antoinette is right: by now even the woman who cleans the water closets will know.” Leaning back slightly he regarded her thoughtfully, his gaze softening. “Whatever anyone thinks I find I want to shout your acceptance of me to the skies. In fact, I have a very compelling urge to run up to the roof and do just that.”
Christine shook her head, smiling. “Sometimes you can be very silly, Erik Claudin.”
“You are probably the first person ever to say so,” he said, adding with a wicked little grin, “And of course, if I can prove that harpy wrong and show the world that the ‘Monster of the Populaire’ is loved, so much the better.”
