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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 52/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3992
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Getting even.
SPEAKING OUT
“You are quite sure you wish to do this?” Olivier Fontaine asked, taking Christine’s hand and leading her to one of the chairs that had been set out by the window. The managers had graciously suggested their office as neutral ground in which the interview could take place, though it was obvious whose idea that had been when Monsieur Marigny reluctantly made a pile of his paperwork and dropped it into a drawer, grumbling all the way. “There is still time to back out without losing face.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but Monsieur Claudin believe this is the best way to remove our tormentor and I agree with him.”
“As does the Vicomte, it would appear.” Beaming, Fontaine turned to Raoul and bowed. “Allow me to say how pleased I am to welcome you back to the Opera Populaire, Monsieur. It must be quite like old times to be in this room once more.”
Raoul smiled thinly. “Oh, yes. Add a couple of black-bordered notes on your blotter and have an irate soprano storm through the door and I might never have left.”
The manager laughed, and then looked faintly embarrassed when no one else did. “Well, there should be everything here that you need. Shall I ask Remy to procure some coffee..?”
“Thank you, that would be most kind,” Christine told him and he hurried off, leaving the two old friends alone. She sat down and regarded her ex-fiancé. “I do hope you’re not going to allow your dislike of Erik to colour your story; we must all be as one upon this.”
Setting down his hat and gloves on the desk Raoul took out a handkerchief and dusted off the seat of one of the other chairs before sitting. “Never fear, Christine, I will keep to the script. I have no desire for the debacle here to hang over my head for the rest of my life like some dreadful sword of Damocles.” He watched the dust motes dancing in the sunlight as it fell through the slats of the blind. “But you are right, I don’t like Erik and I know the feeling is mutual. However, I will refrain from attempting to do him harm as long as he offers me the same consideration.”
She sighed. “I wish you would try to see past all of that.”
“The man tried to kill me on more than one occasion, if you recall.”
“Raoul, he did not try to kill you,” Christine objected.
“Well, he damn near broke my wrist,” he said, cradling the appendage that had come off worse in an encounter with the Punjab lasso. “He nearly did kill you, and frightened you out of your wits...” Frustrated, he shook his head sharply. “I really don’t know how you can look at him with such devotion when you know what he has done, what he has done to you.”
“I have forgiven him all of that. I wish that you could do the same.”
“Little Lotte, still the kind-hearted optimist.” Raoul looked at her fondly. “You always did see the best in everyone.”
Christine opened her mouth, but she was saved a response when the office door opened and Erik entered the room, Didier Tolbert close behind him. The journalist appeared even younger beside the imposing figure of the Phantom, quivering from either nerves or excitement, a broad smile plastered onto his face and a notebook at the ready. He was smartly-dressed, in a dark blue suit that was just a shade too big for him, the cuffs of jacket and trousers slightly too long, as though he had borrowed it specially for the occasion. His eager aspect reminded Christine of Bruno when he wanted a stick thrown for him.
Behind them came another man carrying a bulky contraption covered with a cloth that, when it was set down and stood upon its four legs she realised was a camera; though she had seen one occasionally when Monsieur Lefevre invited the press to announce the coming season the lenses had always been trained upon Carlotta and Piangi and this was her first experience of seeing one up close. Seeing her interest Tolbert said quickly,
“I hope you don’t mind, Mademoiselle; I was just telling Monsieur Claudin that I have secured a large advance from La Monde and they have requested a photograph to accompany the interview. Eustache here is an expert with the camera.”
The man addressed as Eustache glanced up from his apparatus with a toothy grin. “It’s always a pleasure to photograph a beautiful woman.”
Blushing, Christine glanced at Erik, who was looking uncomfortable. While the two press men were setting things up a secretary arrived with the ordered coffee and in the ensuing bustle she took the opportunity to ask, “Are you all right with this? We can tell them no if - ”
“And allow me to look like a coward and a fool?” A tiny smile turned up the visible corner of his mouth, gone as quickly as it appeared. “No, I will endure it. If nothing else, it may stop the gossip concerning my appearance that I believe is still circulating in some quarters.”
“I think we are ready to begin,” Tolbert announced. He waited for them all to take their seats, Erik and Raoul on either side of Christine, as far away from one another as possible, before settling his notebook upon his knee and poising his pencil above a clean sheet of paper. After a pregnant pause he posed his first question: “The Opera Populaire is relatively young; how did these rumours of a ‘Phantom’ come about?”
________________________________________
“...and so, I devised a plan to trap this madman and free Mademoiselle Daae from his constant and unwelcome attentions,” Raoul said, adding with a grimace, “Though they may have denied it since, the managers at the time gave me their wholehearted support.”
Tolbert scribbled furiously. “And this plan... it concerned the performance of Don Juan Triumphant demanded by the ‘Phantom’?”
“We had little choice but to comply; he had already caused thousands of francs worth of damage to the auditorium when he released the chandelier, and he threatened worse.”
“We still don’t know exactly what happened when the chandelier fell,” Christine interjected quickly. “An investigation revealed that the chains securing it were in poor repair.”
“But it is generally believed that the Phantom took advantage of circumstances,” Raoul countered. “It was our intention to allow the man to believe his opera would be performed and take him captive when he attempted to leave after the final curtain call. Unfortunately, though we had a marksman trained upon box five all evening, our quarry failed to appear. I can only assume that someone made him aware of our plans.”
“The ballet mistress? She was the one who delivered the infamous notes, I believe,” Tolbert said, frowning.
“We don’t know. But Madame Giry denies contacting the Phantom,” Christine told him. “She was also coerced by him into doing his bidding and though she tried to warn Monsieur le Vicomte and the managers against such a dangerous plan she was never his accomplice.”
The journalist nodded. “And how did you come to be caught up in all of this, Monsieur Claudin? You would seem to have been wise in keeping your distance up to this point.”
Erik sat up straight, his attention, which had been directed at the posters advertising past glories which lined the office walls, now firmly upon Tolbert. “I had been Mademoiselle Daae’s teacher for some time, having undertaken her tuition after hearing her sing during a visit to my cousin. I was quite transfixed by her voice, and asked Madame Giry if Christine might wish to hone such a glorious instrument by taking formal training.” He smiled and Christine returned it; though the details were deliberately vague, she knew that the story was quite true. “As she was occupied most of the day with rehearsals for the corps de ballet, I came to the Opera in the evenings to work with her.”
“And you were aware of the distress the attentions of this ‘Phantom’ were causing?”
“I suggested that she inform the authorities, and did my best to be available should she need my assistance. Much has been made of her so-called ‘disappearance’ on the night of the gala, but the truth is rather more mundane: after such sudden promotion and acclaim, not to mention a surprise meeting with a friend she had not seen for several years - ” Erik glanced at Raoul, who inclined his head “ – she became overwrought and, knowing her tendency to nervous collapse, I made sure that I was waiting for her at the stage door. When she found herself incapable of enduring any more pressure I escorted her home.”
“And the preparation for Don Juan Triumphant... you helped her there as well?” Tolbert asked.
“Of course. It was a difficult piece, rather ahead of its time in composition.” Erik ignored the inelegant snort made by the Vicomte, who at a glare from Christine hastily sobered. “She needed considerable assistance with the role. In the end it was fortunate that I did know the work fairly well, as the Primo Uomo abandoned his role halfway through the performance.”
“Ah, yes, Ubaldo Piangi. Well, at least there we can be certain the ‘Phantom’ had no hand in his disappearance as he and La Carlotta were reportedly alive and well and leading the company at the Teatro La Fenice in The Marriage of Figaro last month,” the reporter observed with a smile.
“Signora Guidicelli threw one of her tantrums and decided to walk out; Piangi being the faithful soul he is, he followed her, leaving the opera quite suddenly bereft of a Don Juan.”
“I see.” Tolbert’s pencil flew across the paper. “And you made a decision to step into the breach, as it were?”
“Indeed. As I was unable to secure a ticket due to the notoriety of the piece, Madame Giry agreed with the stage manager that I could watch from the wings.” Erik spread his hands helplessly. “What can I say, Monsieur, but that it was pure instinct and a desire to save the show that led me to snatch up the cloak Piangi had thrown to the floor during his departure and walk onto the stage.”
Tolbert looked at Christine, eyebrows raised. “And you realised your tutor had taken Signor Piangi’s place?”
“Immediately,” she replied. “Even were the physical differences not so obvious, I would know Monsieur Claudin’s voice anywhere.”
“And yet the men waiting to catch the ‘Phantom’ were apparently unaware of the substitution.” The journalist frowned. “Had it not occurred to you, Monsieur le Vicomte, that the very man you wished to catch might have tried something similar? It would have given him unfettered access to Mademoiselle Daae, and the perfect opportunity to snatch her away.”
“We did not imagine that even the Phantom would try something so blatantly arrogant as to take the stage in the middle of his own opera,” Raoul said, and Christine surreptitiously smacked Erik’s hand when she caught him smirking.
“But your marksman thought differently, did he not? He fired and shot Monsieur Claudin in the shoulder.”
“A simple and unfortunate case of mistaken identity. Monsieur Claudin - ” Raoul glanced at Erik, who stared impassively back “ – was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And do you hold Monsieur le Vicomte’s actions against him?” Tolbert asked Erik. “Forgive me, but I can detect a little tension between you.”
“I do not blame Monsieur le Vicomte for my injury,” Erik said. “He was only doing what he thought was right to protect Mademoiselle Daae. I would have done the same myself. In fact,” he added, and Raoul’s eyes widened in surprise at his next words, “I have de Chagny to thank for my continued existence; he was quick to help once he realised what had happened and procured medical assistance at his own expense, which most would have refused to do for a complete stranger. In many respects I owe him my life. Any tension you may observe is the natural rivalry of two men who happen to care very deeply about the same woman; I count myself fortunate in the extreme that she has chosen to accept my humble suit when she could have had so much more.”
Tolbert’s head was down as he meticulously noted every word, and he therefore missed the completely baffled expression on Raoul’s face at such an unexpected compliment from the man who was once his enemy. “You admit to a rivalry over Mademoiselle Daae, but I assume from the mere fact that you are sitting here together that the rumours of the Vicomte being behind the recent attack upon your person are untrue..?”
“Absolutely. I bear no malice towards Monsieur Claudin,” Raoul said firmly. “I am a man of honour, Monsieur, and a de Chagny would never stoop so low as to have a man beaten almost to death in his name.”
“And the ‘Phantom’?” the journalist asked. “I take it no more has been heard from him?”
“One of the tenors claimed to have heard voices a few weeks ago, but that was put down to a hoax perpetrated by his colleagues,” said Christine. “They do have a habit of playing tricks upon one another and theatre folk are always superstitious. Had the Phantom not appeared some other explanation for every lost powder puff or broken piece of scenery would have been found.”
“Of course.” Tolbert smiled and he sat forwards in his chair, face suddenly alight. “I have always wondered... do you actors really say ‘The Scottish Play’ rather than Macb - ”
“Yes,” Erik interrupted quickly, adding in a voice full of foreboding, “Never speak the name of The Scottish Play, Monsieur. You may have to pay a fearful penalty.”
“And he would know how to inflict a terrible forfeit,” Raoul added in a surprisingly light tone. “I’d do as he says if I were you.”
The young journalist laughed. “In that case I shall make sure I never give Monsieur Claudin cause to chastise me.” Carefully he closed his notebook and leaned back, tucking his pencil away in a pocket of his jacket. “I am extremely grateful to you, Mademoiselle, Messieurs. You have been most candid, and I hope as much as you all do that revealing the true story of the ‘Phantom of the Opera’ will convince those with a sinister and self-serving agenda to think again. This is the tale all of Paris has been desperate to hear, and I am so pleased you decided to choose me over more experienced reporters to share it with the rest of the world.”
“Experienced reporters... I thought that you were an investigative journalist?” Christine asked as they all got to their feet. Eustache was hovering near his camera and checking his watch. “Have you never been published before?”
“Oh, I have indeed, but just small pieces, really; theatre reviews and the like,” Tolbert admitted. “I’ve been trying to get into more serious journalism for a while, but sadly it’s not been easy. The seasoned hacks tend to resent interlopers, trespassers on what they see as their territory.”
“If you have been reporting on the arts that is no bad thing,” Erik remarked. “It shows you are a man of intelligence. I take it your interest in our story stemmed from there?”
“I could not stand to see Mademoiselle Daae so maligned.” Turning to Christine, Tolbert smiled shyly. “I have long admired you, Mademoiselle. You have deserved none of Béringer’s accusations, and I wanted to put things right if I could.”
Christine felt her face grow hot. “I have done little worth admiring, Monsieur. My career until recently has been fairly undistinguished.”
“You do yourself a disservice, Mademoiselle!” the reporter exclaimed, horrified.
“Indeed she does,” Erik agreed.
“From the moment I first saw you on the stage, when you were rehearsing Romeo et Juliet, I was transfixed,” Tolbert continued. “Such grace and poise! I had eyes for none of the other ballerinas. And you were so kind, so gracious when I presented you with a yellow rose at the stage door... though we spoke for barely a moment that is one of my happiest memories.”
“I...” For a moment Christine could find no words. Standing as they were out of Tolbert’s eye line she saw Erik and Raoul exchange a puzzled glance; Raoul shrugged and Erik shook his head. “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said eventually and Tolbert beamed.
________________________________________
“I suppose we never stop to think how our smallest actions affect those around us,” Christine remarked later. “I had altogether forgotten him.”
“I confess that I am not sure how he saw a perfectly poised ballerina in you, my dear,” Erik said, arching an amused eyebrow. “You were a little uncoordinated.”
“Christine is a beautiful dancer,” Raoul objected loyally. “She is very light on her feet.”
“I’m not, Raoul, not really. Sometimes I’m horribly clumsy.” She laughed. “And it’s worse; that rehearsal may have been the one where I lost my balance during a pirouette and collided with Meg. The whole line went down one by one like a row of falling dominoes! Madame Giry was furious; she had me doing extra practise for a month.”
Erik looked thoughtful. “I do seem to remember something about that. When you came to your lesson one evening you were limping...”
“...because Giselle trod on my foot when we were all trying to right ourselves,” Christine finished for him. “I was late and you were very stern with me.”
There was a sigh, and they both turned to find that Raoul was shaking his head. “I never really stood a chance, did I?” he asked with a wry smile. “There is a whole other world inside that building, one in which I was never included.”
“Oh, Raoul.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek; Erik frowned in disapproval so she did the same to him which mollified him somewhat. “I’m glad you weren’t; you gave me some normality when I needed it most.”
Raoul blushed but looked pleased. “I’m glad I was of some service to you, at least.”
“You always have been, you know that. But let’s not get into all that again.” Cheekily Christine pulled Erik’s watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and, evading its owner’s hands, flicked open the lid. “We’ve time before the curtain rises to have some dinner,” she announced, tucking the watch back where it belonged. “The Cafe de l’Opera is just round the corner and their bouillabaisse is delicious; will you come, Raoul, or do you have somewhere else you must be?”
“Philippe is expecting me, but not for at least another hour.” Grimacing, Raoul rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going to have to tell him about the interview; he won’t be happy that the family name is going to be all over the press again.”
“Get him roaring drunk first,” Erik suggested. “At least then he won’t remember in the morning.”
“Thank you, Monsieur, but if you don’t mind I think I’ll accept family advice from someone with more experience,” Raoul replied, with more levity than candour in his tone. “You can hardly - ”
“Ah, the delectable Mademoiselle Daae and her two suitors. Is there something you would like to tell my very devoted and curious readers?” At the sound of the oily, familiar voice, Christine spun around. Behind them, leaning on a nearby lamppost, was Francois Béringer, cigarette dangling from his lips and a rumpled notepad in his hand. With a leer he tipped his fraying shapeless hat to her. “Well?” he enquired. “I see one man’s obviously not enough for you. A Vicomte and a Phantom; quite a catch for any girl.”
“You blackguard,” Raoul snapped, fingers clenching into fists at his side. “You will pay for that slur; I demand satisfaction!” He stepped forwards and Christine wondered for a brief moment if he would slap Béringer across the face with his gloves but thankfully Erik grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragging him back.
“Don’t be such an idiot,” the Phantom hissed.
Raoul struggled free, trying to smooth down his crumpled collar. “Are you just going to stand there and allow him to insult Christine?” he demanded.
“If you challenge him to a duel you not only make yourself look ridiculous but also give him more ammunition!” Erik retorted. “Think for once in your life!”
Béringer laughed. “Oh, dear, oh, dear. What have you got yourself into?” he asked Christine conversationally.
Mind working quickly, an idea forming, she caught hold of both Erik and Raoul, much to their mutual surprise, linking her arms through theirs. With a brilliant smile she announced, “Actually, I know exactly what I’ve got myself into. You might be interested to know that we’re living quite happily in a ménage-a-trois out in Pigalle; Raoul has me on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and Erik on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. On Sundays anything goes; it’s all very scandalous and louche. In fact, one of those avant garde ‘Impressionist’ artists has enquired whether he can paint a portrait of me without my clothes and I’ve accepted.”
“Christine!” Raoul protested in a strained voice. He had gone a rather queer colour. Erik on the other hand kept silent, lips twitching; evidently having divined what she was doing. “Christine, what on earth are you talking about..?”
“Shhh, Raoul! I’m sorry, but you knew it all had to come out into the open sometime,” Christine told him. “We can’t keep living this double life.”
“Think of my brother..!” he moaned, not realising how his misunderstanding was adding to the performance.. “He’ll cut me off without a penny!”
“He would have read about it soon enough anyway,” Erik said, and Béringer looked suspicious.
“Read about it? Where?” he demanded sharply. “Who have you been talking to?”
Christine gave him an innocent stare. “There is more than one reporter in Paris, surely, Monsieur? You cannot be privy to all the juicy gossip.”
“Who? Who knows about this?” Béringer stepped forwards, face contorted in fury. Almost as one, Erik and Raoul closed ranks, shielding Christine from his rage. “You can’t do this to me... your story was mine. Mine!”
Pulling away from his fiancée, Erik drew himself up to his full height and looked down at the journalist with contempt. “I think you will find that our story belongs to no one but the Vicomte, Mademoiselle Daae and myself,” he said, “and we do not choose to share it with a man who has done his best to shame and humiliate us. You will just have to read about it in next week’s La Monde like everyone else.” With that, he pointedly turned his back upon Béringer, who was gobbling with wordless anger and looking as though he might suffer an apoplectic stroke, and Raoul and Christine did the same.
“Christine, what did you tell him that ridiculous story for?” Raoul asked, anxiety making his voice rather high-pitched. “When Philippe reads it he’ll kill me!”
Smiling, Christine shook her head. “Oh, Raoul.”
“You are an extremely convincing actress, my dear,” Erik said, and there was pride dancing in his eyes. “Whatever happened to that shy girl I used to tutor?”
“She grew up,” she told him, the smile becoming a grin. “Do you think we’ve done it, that it’s all over?”
He glanced over his shoulder to where Béringer was stamping on his notebook. “Only time will tell. And now, Mademoiselle, Monsieur, shall we go to dinner?” Erik enquired, crooking one elbow and offering his arm to Christine who took it once more with a curtsy. “I think we’ve earned it.”
“Oh, yes, please,” she said, and Raoul, still looking hopelessly confused, nodded. “I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely starving.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3992
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Raoul de Chagny, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Getting even.
“You are quite sure you wish to do this?” Olivier Fontaine asked, taking Christine’s hand and leading her to one of the chairs that had been set out by the window. The managers had graciously suggested their office as neutral ground in which the interview could take place, though it was obvious whose idea that had been when Monsieur Marigny reluctantly made a pile of his paperwork and dropped it into a drawer, grumbling all the way. “There is still time to back out without losing face.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but Monsieur Claudin believe this is the best way to remove our tormentor and I agree with him.”
“As does the Vicomte, it would appear.” Beaming, Fontaine turned to Raoul and bowed. “Allow me to say how pleased I am to welcome you back to the Opera Populaire, Monsieur. It must be quite like old times to be in this room once more.”
Raoul smiled thinly. “Oh, yes. Add a couple of black-bordered notes on your blotter and have an irate soprano storm through the door and I might never have left.”
The manager laughed, and then looked faintly embarrassed when no one else did. “Well, there should be everything here that you need. Shall I ask Remy to procure some coffee..?”
“Thank you, that would be most kind,” Christine told him and he hurried off, leaving the two old friends alone. She sat down and regarded her ex-fiancé. “I do hope you’re not going to allow your dislike of Erik to colour your story; we must all be as one upon this.”
Setting down his hat and gloves on the desk Raoul took out a handkerchief and dusted off the seat of one of the other chairs before sitting. “Never fear, Christine, I will keep to the script. I have no desire for the debacle here to hang over my head for the rest of my life like some dreadful sword of Damocles.” He watched the dust motes dancing in the sunlight as it fell through the slats of the blind. “But you are right, I don’t like Erik and I know the feeling is mutual. However, I will refrain from attempting to do him harm as long as he offers me the same consideration.”
She sighed. “I wish you would try to see past all of that.”
“The man tried to kill me on more than one occasion, if you recall.”
“Raoul, he did not try to kill you,” Christine objected.
“Well, he damn near broke my wrist,” he said, cradling the appendage that had come off worse in an encounter with the Punjab lasso. “He nearly did kill you, and frightened you out of your wits...” Frustrated, he shook his head sharply. “I really don’t know how you can look at him with such devotion when you know what he has done, what he has done to you.”
“I have forgiven him all of that. I wish that you could do the same.”
“Little Lotte, still the kind-hearted optimist.” Raoul looked at her fondly. “You always did see the best in everyone.”
Christine opened her mouth, but she was saved a response when the office door opened and Erik entered the room, Didier Tolbert close behind him. The journalist appeared even younger beside the imposing figure of the Phantom, quivering from either nerves or excitement, a broad smile plastered onto his face and a notebook at the ready. He was smartly-dressed, in a dark blue suit that was just a shade too big for him, the cuffs of jacket and trousers slightly too long, as though he had borrowed it specially for the occasion. His eager aspect reminded Christine of Bruno when he wanted a stick thrown for him.
Behind them came another man carrying a bulky contraption covered with a cloth that, when it was set down and stood upon its four legs she realised was a camera; though she had seen one occasionally when Monsieur Lefevre invited the press to announce the coming season the lenses had always been trained upon Carlotta and Piangi and this was her first experience of seeing one up close. Seeing her interest Tolbert said quickly,
“I hope you don’t mind, Mademoiselle; I was just telling Monsieur Claudin that I have secured a large advance from La Monde and they have requested a photograph to accompany the interview. Eustache here is an expert with the camera.”
The man addressed as Eustache glanced up from his apparatus with a toothy grin. “It’s always a pleasure to photograph a beautiful woman.”
Blushing, Christine glanced at Erik, who was looking uncomfortable. While the two press men were setting things up a secretary arrived with the ordered coffee and in the ensuing bustle she took the opportunity to ask, “Are you all right with this? We can tell them no if - ”
“And allow me to look like a coward and a fool?” A tiny smile turned up the visible corner of his mouth, gone as quickly as it appeared. “No, I will endure it. If nothing else, it may stop the gossip concerning my appearance that I believe is still circulating in some quarters.”
“I think we are ready to begin,” Tolbert announced. He waited for them all to take their seats, Erik and Raoul on either side of Christine, as far away from one another as possible, before settling his notebook upon his knee and poising his pencil above a clean sheet of paper. After a pregnant pause he posed his first question: “The Opera Populaire is relatively young; how did these rumours of a ‘Phantom’ come about?”
________________________________________
“...and so, I devised a plan to trap this madman and free Mademoiselle Daae from his constant and unwelcome attentions,” Raoul said, adding with a grimace, “Though they may have denied it since, the managers at the time gave me their wholehearted support.”
Tolbert scribbled furiously. “And this plan... it concerned the performance of Don Juan Triumphant demanded by the ‘Phantom’?”
“We had little choice but to comply; he had already caused thousands of francs worth of damage to the auditorium when he released the chandelier, and he threatened worse.”
“We still don’t know exactly what happened when the chandelier fell,” Christine interjected quickly. “An investigation revealed that the chains securing it were in poor repair.”
“But it is generally believed that the Phantom took advantage of circumstances,” Raoul countered. “It was our intention to allow the man to believe his opera would be performed and take him captive when he attempted to leave after the final curtain call. Unfortunately, though we had a marksman trained upon box five all evening, our quarry failed to appear. I can only assume that someone made him aware of our plans.”
“The ballet mistress? She was the one who delivered the infamous notes, I believe,” Tolbert said, frowning.
“We don’t know. But Madame Giry denies contacting the Phantom,” Christine told him. “She was also coerced by him into doing his bidding and though she tried to warn Monsieur le Vicomte and the managers against such a dangerous plan she was never his accomplice.”
The journalist nodded. “And how did you come to be caught up in all of this, Monsieur Claudin? You would seem to have been wise in keeping your distance up to this point.”
Erik sat up straight, his attention, which had been directed at the posters advertising past glories which lined the office walls, now firmly upon Tolbert. “I had been Mademoiselle Daae’s teacher for some time, having undertaken her tuition after hearing her sing during a visit to my cousin. I was quite transfixed by her voice, and asked Madame Giry if Christine might wish to hone such a glorious instrument by taking formal training.” He smiled and Christine returned it; though the details were deliberately vague, she knew that the story was quite true. “As she was occupied most of the day with rehearsals for the corps de ballet, I came to the Opera in the evenings to work with her.”
“And you were aware of the distress the attentions of this ‘Phantom’ were causing?”
“I suggested that she inform the authorities, and did my best to be available should she need my assistance. Much has been made of her so-called ‘disappearance’ on the night of the gala, but the truth is rather more mundane: after such sudden promotion and acclaim, not to mention a surprise meeting with a friend she had not seen for several years - ” Erik glanced at Raoul, who inclined his head “ – she became overwrought and, knowing her tendency to nervous collapse, I made sure that I was waiting for her at the stage door. When she found herself incapable of enduring any more pressure I escorted her home.”
“And the preparation for Don Juan Triumphant... you helped her there as well?” Tolbert asked.
“Of course. It was a difficult piece, rather ahead of its time in composition.” Erik ignored the inelegant snort made by the Vicomte, who at a glare from Christine hastily sobered. “She needed considerable assistance with the role. In the end it was fortunate that I did know the work fairly well, as the Primo Uomo abandoned his role halfway through the performance.”
“Ah, yes, Ubaldo Piangi. Well, at least there we can be certain the ‘Phantom’ had no hand in his disappearance as he and La Carlotta were reportedly alive and well and leading the company at the Teatro La Fenice in The Marriage of Figaro last month,” the reporter observed with a smile.
“Signora Guidicelli threw one of her tantrums and decided to walk out; Piangi being the faithful soul he is, he followed her, leaving the opera quite suddenly bereft of a Don Juan.”
“I see.” Tolbert’s pencil flew across the paper. “And you made a decision to step into the breach, as it were?”
“Indeed. As I was unable to secure a ticket due to the notoriety of the piece, Madame Giry agreed with the stage manager that I could watch from the wings.” Erik spread his hands helplessly. “What can I say, Monsieur, but that it was pure instinct and a desire to save the show that led me to snatch up the cloak Piangi had thrown to the floor during his departure and walk onto the stage.”
Tolbert looked at Christine, eyebrows raised. “And you realised your tutor had taken Signor Piangi’s place?”
“Immediately,” she replied. “Even were the physical differences not so obvious, I would know Monsieur Claudin’s voice anywhere.”
“And yet the men waiting to catch the ‘Phantom’ were apparently unaware of the substitution.” The journalist frowned. “Had it not occurred to you, Monsieur le Vicomte, that the very man you wished to catch might have tried something similar? It would have given him unfettered access to Mademoiselle Daae, and the perfect opportunity to snatch her away.”
“We did not imagine that even the Phantom would try something so blatantly arrogant as to take the stage in the middle of his own opera,” Raoul said, and Christine surreptitiously smacked Erik’s hand when she caught him smirking.
“But your marksman thought differently, did he not? He fired and shot Monsieur Claudin in the shoulder.”
“A simple and unfortunate case of mistaken identity. Monsieur Claudin - ” Raoul glanced at Erik, who stared impassively back “ – was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And do you hold Monsieur le Vicomte’s actions against him?” Tolbert asked Erik. “Forgive me, but I can detect a little tension between you.”
“I do not blame Monsieur le Vicomte for my injury,” Erik said. “He was only doing what he thought was right to protect Mademoiselle Daae. I would have done the same myself. In fact,” he added, and Raoul’s eyes widened in surprise at his next words, “I have de Chagny to thank for my continued existence; he was quick to help once he realised what had happened and procured medical assistance at his own expense, which most would have refused to do for a complete stranger. In many respects I owe him my life. Any tension you may observe is the natural rivalry of two men who happen to care very deeply about the same woman; I count myself fortunate in the extreme that she has chosen to accept my humble suit when she could have had so much more.”
Tolbert’s head was down as he meticulously noted every word, and he therefore missed the completely baffled expression on Raoul’s face at such an unexpected compliment from the man who was once his enemy. “You admit to a rivalry over Mademoiselle Daae, but I assume from the mere fact that you are sitting here together that the rumours of the Vicomte being behind the recent attack upon your person are untrue..?”
“Absolutely. I bear no malice towards Monsieur Claudin,” Raoul said firmly. “I am a man of honour, Monsieur, and a de Chagny would never stoop so low as to have a man beaten almost to death in his name.”
“And the ‘Phantom’?” the journalist asked. “I take it no more has been heard from him?”
“One of the tenors claimed to have heard voices a few weeks ago, but that was put down to a hoax perpetrated by his colleagues,” said Christine. “They do have a habit of playing tricks upon one another and theatre folk are always superstitious. Had the Phantom not appeared some other explanation for every lost powder puff or broken piece of scenery would have been found.”
“Of course.” Tolbert smiled and he sat forwards in his chair, face suddenly alight. “I have always wondered... do you actors really say ‘The Scottish Play’ rather than Macb - ”
“Yes,” Erik interrupted quickly, adding in a voice full of foreboding, “Never speak the name of The Scottish Play, Monsieur. You may have to pay a fearful penalty.”
“And he would know how to inflict a terrible forfeit,” Raoul added in a surprisingly light tone. “I’d do as he says if I were you.”
The young journalist laughed. “In that case I shall make sure I never give Monsieur Claudin cause to chastise me.” Carefully he closed his notebook and leaned back, tucking his pencil away in a pocket of his jacket. “I am extremely grateful to you, Mademoiselle, Messieurs. You have been most candid, and I hope as much as you all do that revealing the true story of the ‘Phantom of the Opera’ will convince those with a sinister and self-serving agenda to think again. This is the tale all of Paris has been desperate to hear, and I am so pleased you decided to choose me over more experienced reporters to share it with the rest of the world.”
“Experienced reporters... I thought that you were an investigative journalist?” Christine asked as they all got to their feet. Eustache was hovering near his camera and checking his watch. “Have you never been published before?”
“Oh, I have indeed, but just small pieces, really; theatre reviews and the like,” Tolbert admitted. “I’ve been trying to get into more serious journalism for a while, but sadly it’s not been easy. The seasoned hacks tend to resent interlopers, trespassers on what they see as their territory.”
“If you have been reporting on the arts that is no bad thing,” Erik remarked. “It shows you are a man of intelligence. I take it your interest in our story stemmed from there?”
“I could not stand to see Mademoiselle Daae so maligned.” Turning to Christine, Tolbert smiled shyly. “I have long admired you, Mademoiselle. You have deserved none of Béringer’s accusations, and I wanted to put things right if I could.”
Christine felt her face grow hot. “I have done little worth admiring, Monsieur. My career until recently has been fairly undistinguished.”
“You do yourself a disservice, Mademoiselle!” the reporter exclaimed, horrified.
“Indeed she does,” Erik agreed.
“From the moment I first saw you on the stage, when you were rehearsing Romeo et Juliet, I was transfixed,” Tolbert continued. “Such grace and poise! I had eyes for none of the other ballerinas. And you were so kind, so gracious when I presented you with a yellow rose at the stage door... though we spoke for barely a moment that is one of my happiest memories.”
“I...” For a moment Christine could find no words. Standing as they were out of Tolbert’s eye line she saw Erik and Raoul exchange a puzzled glance; Raoul shrugged and Erik shook his head. “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said eventually and Tolbert beamed.
________________________________________
“I suppose we never stop to think how our smallest actions affect those around us,” Christine remarked later. “I had altogether forgotten him.”
“I confess that I am not sure how he saw a perfectly poised ballerina in you, my dear,” Erik said, arching an amused eyebrow. “You were a little uncoordinated.”
“Christine is a beautiful dancer,” Raoul objected loyally. “She is very light on her feet.”
“I’m not, Raoul, not really. Sometimes I’m horribly clumsy.” She laughed. “And it’s worse; that rehearsal may have been the one where I lost my balance during a pirouette and collided with Meg. The whole line went down one by one like a row of falling dominoes! Madame Giry was furious; she had me doing extra practise for a month.”
Erik looked thoughtful. “I do seem to remember something about that. When you came to your lesson one evening you were limping...”
“...because Giselle trod on my foot when we were all trying to right ourselves,” Christine finished for him. “I was late and you were very stern with me.”
There was a sigh, and they both turned to find that Raoul was shaking his head. “I never really stood a chance, did I?” he asked with a wry smile. “There is a whole other world inside that building, one in which I was never included.”
“Oh, Raoul.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek; Erik frowned in disapproval so she did the same to him which mollified him somewhat. “I’m glad you weren’t; you gave me some normality when I needed it most.”
Raoul blushed but looked pleased. “I’m glad I was of some service to you, at least.”
“You always have been, you know that. But let’s not get into all that again.” Cheekily Christine pulled Erik’s watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and, evading its owner’s hands, flicked open the lid. “We’ve time before the curtain rises to have some dinner,” she announced, tucking the watch back where it belonged. “The Cafe de l’Opera is just round the corner and their bouillabaisse is delicious; will you come, Raoul, or do you have somewhere else you must be?”
“Philippe is expecting me, but not for at least another hour.” Grimacing, Raoul rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going to have to tell him about the interview; he won’t be happy that the family name is going to be all over the press again.”
“Get him roaring drunk first,” Erik suggested. “At least then he won’t remember in the morning.”
“Thank you, Monsieur, but if you don’t mind I think I’ll accept family advice from someone with more experience,” Raoul replied, with more levity than candour in his tone. “You can hardly - ”
“Ah, the delectable Mademoiselle Daae and her two suitors. Is there something you would like to tell my very devoted and curious readers?” At the sound of the oily, familiar voice, Christine spun around. Behind them, leaning on a nearby lamppost, was Francois Béringer, cigarette dangling from his lips and a rumpled notepad in his hand. With a leer he tipped his fraying shapeless hat to her. “Well?” he enquired. “I see one man’s obviously not enough for you. A Vicomte and a Phantom; quite a catch for any girl.”
“You blackguard,” Raoul snapped, fingers clenching into fists at his side. “You will pay for that slur; I demand satisfaction!” He stepped forwards and Christine wondered for a brief moment if he would slap Béringer across the face with his gloves but thankfully Erik grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragging him back.
“Don’t be such an idiot,” the Phantom hissed.
Raoul struggled free, trying to smooth down his crumpled collar. “Are you just going to stand there and allow him to insult Christine?” he demanded.
“If you challenge him to a duel you not only make yourself look ridiculous but also give him more ammunition!” Erik retorted. “Think for once in your life!”
Béringer laughed. “Oh, dear, oh, dear. What have you got yourself into?” he asked Christine conversationally.
Mind working quickly, an idea forming, she caught hold of both Erik and Raoul, much to their mutual surprise, linking her arms through theirs. With a brilliant smile she announced, “Actually, I know exactly what I’ve got myself into. You might be interested to know that we’re living quite happily in a ménage-a-trois out in Pigalle; Raoul has me on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and Erik on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. On Sundays anything goes; it’s all very scandalous and louche. In fact, one of those avant garde ‘Impressionist’ artists has enquired whether he can paint a portrait of me without my clothes and I’ve accepted.”
“Christine!” Raoul protested in a strained voice. He had gone a rather queer colour. Erik on the other hand kept silent, lips twitching; evidently having divined what she was doing. “Christine, what on earth are you talking about..?”
“Shhh, Raoul! I’m sorry, but you knew it all had to come out into the open sometime,” Christine told him. “We can’t keep living this double life.”
“Think of my brother..!” he moaned, not realising how his misunderstanding was adding to the performance.. “He’ll cut me off without a penny!”
“He would have read about it soon enough anyway,” Erik said, and Béringer looked suspicious.
“Read about it? Where?” he demanded sharply. “Who have you been talking to?”
Christine gave him an innocent stare. “There is more than one reporter in Paris, surely, Monsieur? You cannot be privy to all the juicy gossip.”
“Who? Who knows about this?” Béringer stepped forwards, face contorted in fury. Almost as one, Erik and Raoul closed ranks, shielding Christine from his rage. “You can’t do this to me... your story was mine. Mine!”
Pulling away from his fiancée, Erik drew himself up to his full height and looked down at the journalist with contempt. “I think you will find that our story belongs to no one but the Vicomte, Mademoiselle Daae and myself,” he said, “and we do not choose to share it with a man who has done his best to shame and humiliate us. You will just have to read about it in next week’s La Monde like everyone else.” With that, he pointedly turned his back upon Béringer, who was gobbling with wordless anger and looking as though he might suffer an apoplectic stroke, and Raoul and Christine did the same.
“Christine, what did you tell him that ridiculous story for?” Raoul asked, anxiety making his voice rather high-pitched. “When Philippe reads it he’ll kill me!”
Smiling, Christine shook her head. “Oh, Raoul.”
“You are an extremely convincing actress, my dear,” Erik said, and there was pride dancing in his eyes. “Whatever happened to that shy girl I used to tutor?”
“She grew up,” she told him, the smile becoming a grin. “Do you think we’ve done it, that it’s all over?”
He glanced over his shoulder to where Béringer was stamping on his notebook. “Only time will tell. And now, Mademoiselle, Monsieur, shall we go to dinner?” Erik enquired, crooking one elbow and offering his arm to Christine who took it once more with a curtsy. “I think we’ve earned it.”
“Oh, yes, please,” she said, and Raoul, still looking hopelessly confused, nodded. “I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely starving.”
