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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 8/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2108
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Raoul de Chagny, 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. A few lines from the Phantom libretto appear in this chapter, and I own none of them.
Summary: Christine has triumphed, and Erik recognises a threat in the Populaire's new patron.
Author's Notes: Intended to be a Phantom version of my series Jottings from a Doctor's Journal, a collection of fragments, vignettes and missing scenes. Mainly musical-based, but I have picked up bits and pieces from various places.
THE INTERLOPER
The atmosphere was electric.
As the final notes died away, it seemed that even the air held its breath. After a pause, during which it was possible to hear the rustling silk of half a dozen evening gowns, the auditorium erupted into tumultuous applause. Christine looked at first rather bewildered and overwhelmed before she recovered her former poise and sank into a surprisingly graceful curtsey.
In Box Five on the Grand Tier, a shadow nodded its appreciation. “Bravissimi, Christine,” it murmured.
“You were right.”
Erik had been aware of the presence behind his chair for some moments before she spoke. Madame Giry might have thought that she could sneak through the door on silent feet and surprise him, but he missed nothing. Steepling his fingers in front of his face to hide the triumphant little smile which blossomed there he said smoothly, “I am gratified that you think so, Madame.”
The ballet mistress came further into the box and peered around the curtain towards the seats directly opposite, where the managers entertained their guests. “It would seem that the Vicomte de Chagny agrees with you,” she remarked.
“Does he really?” Erik ground his teeth as he followed her line of sight: the young nobleman was on his feet, his applause enthusiastic. The last thing he needed was a patron who actually had some interest in the arts – they would start questioning his creative decisions and trying to influence the management. “How surprising. The boy must be unique among his class.”
Madame Giry turned away from the stage. The lights were rising, indicating the interval. “What will you do now?”
“I will certainly not suffer Act Four and wait with baited breath to see whether Signor Piangi will ever manage to hit a correct note,” Erik said, getting to his feet and gathering his cloak and hat. “Naturally I will congratulate my pupil. Is there some other pressing business that you had in mind for me?”
“Have you considered the suggestion I made to you?”
His one visible eyebrow quirked into an impatient frown. “And precisely what suggestion would that be, Madame?”
She clucked her tongue in annoyance. “Christine has justified your faith in her, and more than proved herself before the world. Is it not time that you brought this charade to an end? There can be no good in continuing with a lie!”
“I will thank you to leave me to make that decision,” Erik replied coldly, pulling the brim of his hat low over his face with a practised tug. “Rather than doling out unwanted advice, I suggest you look to your petit rats. The dancing this evening was a disgrace.”
With a swirl of his cloak he slid into the narrow passageway concealed in one of the box’s supporting columns and closed the door, leaving Madame Giry open-mouthed behind him.
________________________________________
The rest of Hannibal played out with little incident.
After Elissa’s aria the audience wanted only to see Christine again, and showed their appreciation when she did appear with almost vulgar gusto. Erik had no desire to watch the remainder of the show from his box – he had seen quite enough in rehearsals and Chalumeau had never been a favourite composer of his. The man’s orchestrations were feeble and the libretto clichéd and trite. However, the Parisian opera-goers seemed to like him, leaving Erik and his artist’s sentiments very much in the minority. The managers would always pander to a taste for mediocrity if it brought in enough money; that could be the only possible reason for their inclusion of the Mozart-inspired but sub-standard Il Muto in the company’s current repertoire.
Before long he grew tired of waiting for Christine behind the mirror, and decided to haunt the backstage areas a little, showing just enough of his shadow and mask to frighten a couple of ballet rats and make the newer stage-hands nervous, prompting Joseph Buquet to relate one of his highly embellished tales about the Opera Ghost. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the head fly-man; Buquet was beginning to get far too near the truth for his own good.
At length, the cast left the stage for the final time, Piangi complaining loudly that if he was expected to climb onto the back of ‘that ridiculous elephant’ again he would need a longer ladder and Christine with her arms full of flowers. The moment she emerged she was surrounded by the corps de ballet, led by little Meg Giry; Erik cursed under his breath and slipped deeper into the shadows.
By the time he reached the back of the mirror once more, Antoinette had arrived to chase away the ballerinas. He smirked to hear her rebuking them for their poor performance before the door closed, muffling her raised voice. Thinking himself finally alone with his pupil, he opened his mouth to call her only to hear a breathless voice say,
“Christine, I can’t believe it was really you singing! Who is this remarkable tutor of yours?”
Damn and blast it all, little Giry had remained!
Christine took her friend’s hands. “Do you remember I told you about my father’s stories? About the Angel of Music?”
“Of course.” Meg nodded, blonde curls bobbing. “They were such beautiful stories.”
“Well, I have been blessed, Meg. I have been visited by the Angel of Music! It is he who has transformed my voice.” A dreamy smile touched Christine’s lips, and she turned her gaze upwards, as though towards the heavenly realm from which she believed her teacher had been sent. “I can feel him, here in this room. He’s always with me, just out of my reach. Always watching me...”
“Christine...” Meg looked concerned, a frown creasing her forehead. “They were just stories; they can’t come true. Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not feeling overcome by the excitement?”
“No. No, nothing like that.” Christine pulled the lacy dressing gown she was wearing over her costume closer around her shoulders as though she were suddenly feeling cold. “It’s just... it frightens me a little.”
“Oh, Christine!” cried Meg, squeezing the hand she still held. “Don’t be frightened. You were wonderful!”
Christine appeared to want to say something more, but before she could speak the door opened to reveal the black-clad figure of Madame Giry and the two girls sprang apart with the kind of guilty expressions one would expect to see on the faces of small children caught raiding the biscuit tin. The ballet mistress fixed her daughter with a stern glare.
“Meg Giry, are you a dancer?” she demanded, and upon receiving a nod in reply snapped, “Then go and practise!”
Meg scuttled off, muttering rebelliously, “Practise. Always practise...”
Antoinette ignored her, turning to Christine. Her face softened slightly. “You have done well tonight, child. He is pleased with you.” Christine looked confused, and doubtless would have asked to whom she referred, but had no chance as Madame Giry took an envelope from her pocket. “I was asked to give this to you.”
Now it was Erik’s turn to frown. Precisely who was behind this missive? In his guise of the Angel of Music he had never communicated with Christine in writing; the Phantom used notes, the Angel spoke with his song. He watched as Antoinette departed and Christine sat down to open the letter. Her perplexed expression remained as she read its contents.
“The attic... the red scarf... Little Lotte?”
She repeated the words under her breath as she removed Elissa’s headdress and began to brush out her hair. They meant nothing to Erik; he pushed them aside as the childish attempt at introduction by an admirer. Touching the glass which seemed destined to continually remain between them, he readied himself to sing, to draw his angel to him once more. Her name danced lightly upon his tongue as he lifted his voice and...
The dressing room door opened yet again. Erik almost put his hand straight through the mirror in anger and frustration. He bit back a growl; those silly little ballet rats would feel the force of the Phantom’s wrath...
Christine did not turn round. “You had better go, Meg, before Madame Giry gets really cross,” she said, and there was a laugh from the doorway. It was a deep, undoubtedly masculine laugh. Erik froze.
“I know we have not seen each other for many years, but I hope that you would not mistake me for Mademoiselle Giry. I do not believe that I could stand en pointe,” the voice said lightly, and added, “Christine Daae, where is your red scarf? Tell me you have not lost it again. And after I ran into the sea to fetch it for you!”
Those few words had an incredible effect upon Christine. The hairbrush was thrown aside and her face lit up with the kind of pleasure Erik had only seen when he paid her one of his rare compliments. She spun in her chair, throwing out her hands with a cry of delight to the tall young man who stood on the threshold, his handsome face wreathed in smiles and his golden hair glowing in the light from the lamp above the door.
It was de Chagny. Erik hated him on sight.
“Oh, Raoul, it is you!” Christine exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
He bowed. “I came to pay my respects to the Populaire’s newest diva, naturally. And to ask if she would do me the honour of accompanying me to supper.”
“I...” She seemed on the point of accepting, when something obviously occurred to Christine. “I’m sorry, Raoul, but I can’t. My teacher wouldn’t like it.”
“Does your teacher have control of your voice or your life, Christine?” Raoul asked with a superior smile which made Erik’s long fingers curl into fists.
“He is very strict. But everything he says is for my own good, and I cannot go against his wishes.”
“Nonsense. Even the strictest teacher would allow that you have had such a triumph this evening that you positively deserve supper at the very best restaurant,” the vicomte declared. He captured her hand and raised it to his lips. “Now, you must get changed and I must get my hat. I will call for my carriage and return as quickly as I can. We can spend the rest of the evening catching up! I have missed you, Little Lotte.”
“Raoul, wait!” Christine called, but he was already gone. She sighed and turned back to the mirror on her dressing table, meeting the worried gaze of her reflection. “Oh, dear.”
She had good reason to worry.
Behind the full-length glass on the other side of the room, Erik was fuming. His anger, never very far from the surface, had risen with Raoul’s intrusion, his burgeoning hatred of the young aristocrat pushing away the hesitation and fear of rejection which had until now made him reluctant to reveal himself to Christine. She had asked repeatedly over the last few months if she might see her Angel at last, and always he had had a convincing excuse to hand, sure that were they to come face to face she would cast him aside. Eventually he would be able to delay no more, but there was still time and he planned meticulously for that moment, so that when it finally came it would be perfect. Christine would experience the glory that was his music and never have to discover the monster that lay behind it.
Now, however, rage threw caution to the winds. When he spoke, his voice thundered through the room, making Christine jump. “Insolent boy! How dare he try to share in my triumph?”
“Angel?” Christine whispered, trembling, her dark eyes flicking anxiously around her. “Angel, is that you?”
“Ignorant fool!” Erik snarled. “All he wishes to do is bask in your glory!”
“I’m sorry, Angel, I did not think... forgive me!” she cried, falling to her knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. “Please stay by my side!”
She was so close that he could reach out and touch her were it not for the glass between them. The light from the room spilling into the passageway fell on the lantern in its niche and an idea took hold in Erik’s mind. He pitched his voice low, allowing its beauty to roll seductively through the air. His hand hovered above the switch which would cause the mirror to turn on its hidden pivot and remove the final barrier.
“Come to me, Christine. Come to your Angel of Music...”
The mirror opened; Christine Daae gasped. The Phantom smiled, and welcomed her to his world.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2108
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom, Raoul de Chagny, 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. A few lines from the Phantom libretto appear in this chapter, and I own none of them.
Summary: Christine has triumphed, and Erik recognises a threat in the Populaire's new patron.
Author's Notes: Intended to be a Phantom version of my series Jottings from a Doctor's Journal, a collection of fragments, vignettes and missing scenes. Mainly musical-based, but I have picked up bits and pieces from various places.
THE INTERLOPER
The atmosphere was electric.
As the final notes died away, it seemed that even the air held its breath. After a pause, during which it was possible to hear the rustling silk of half a dozen evening gowns, the auditorium erupted into tumultuous applause. Christine looked at first rather bewildered and overwhelmed before she recovered her former poise and sank into a surprisingly graceful curtsey.
In Box Five on the Grand Tier, a shadow nodded its appreciation. “Bravissimi, Christine,” it murmured.
“You were right.”
Erik had been aware of the presence behind his chair for some moments before she spoke. Madame Giry might have thought that she could sneak through the door on silent feet and surprise him, but he missed nothing. Steepling his fingers in front of his face to hide the triumphant little smile which blossomed there he said smoothly, “I am gratified that you think so, Madame.”
The ballet mistress came further into the box and peered around the curtain towards the seats directly opposite, where the managers entertained their guests. “It would seem that the Vicomte de Chagny agrees with you,” she remarked.
“Does he really?” Erik ground his teeth as he followed her line of sight: the young nobleman was on his feet, his applause enthusiastic. The last thing he needed was a patron who actually had some interest in the arts – they would start questioning his creative decisions and trying to influence the management. “How surprising. The boy must be unique among his class.”
Madame Giry turned away from the stage. The lights were rising, indicating the interval. “What will you do now?”
“I will certainly not suffer Act Four and wait with baited breath to see whether Signor Piangi will ever manage to hit a correct note,” Erik said, getting to his feet and gathering his cloak and hat. “Naturally I will congratulate my pupil. Is there some other pressing business that you had in mind for me?”
“Have you considered the suggestion I made to you?”
His one visible eyebrow quirked into an impatient frown. “And precisely what suggestion would that be, Madame?”
She clucked her tongue in annoyance. “Christine has justified your faith in her, and more than proved herself before the world. Is it not time that you brought this charade to an end? There can be no good in continuing with a lie!”
“I will thank you to leave me to make that decision,” Erik replied coldly, pulling the brim of his hat low over his face with a practised tug. “Rather than doling out unwanted advice, I suggest you look to your petit rats. The dancing this evening was a disgrace.”
With a swirl of his cloak he slid into the narrow passageway concealed in one of the box’s supporting columns and closed the door, leaving Madame Giry open-mouthed behind him.
________________________________________
The rest of Hannibal played out with little incident.
After Elissa’s aria the audience wanted only to see Christine again, and showed their appreciation when she did appear with almost vulgar gusto. Erik had no desire to watch the remainder of the show from his box – he had seen quite enough in rehearsals and Chalumeau had never been a favourite composer of his. The man’s orchestrations were feeble and the libretto clichéd and trite. However, the Parisian opera-goers seemed to like him, leaving Erik and his artist’s sentiments very much in the minority. The managers would always pander to a taste for mediocrity if it brought in enough money; that could be the only possible reason for their inclusion of the Mozart-inspired but sub-standard Il Muto in the company’s current repertoire.
Before long he grew tired of waiting for Christine behind the mirror, and decided to haunt the backstage areas a little, showing just enough of his shadow and mask to frighten a couple of ballet rats and make the newer stage-hands nervous, prompting Joseph Buquet to relate one of his highly embellished tales about the Opera Ghost. He made a mental note to keep an eye on the head fly-man; Buquet was beginning to get far too near the truth for his own good.
At length, the cast left the stage for the final time, Piangi complaining loudly that if he was expected to climb onto the back of ‘that ridiculous elephant’ again he would need a longer ladder and Christine with her arms full of flowers. The moment she emerged she was surrounded by the corps de ballet, led by little Meg Giry; Erik cursed under his breath and slipped deeper into the shadows.
By the time he reached the back of the mirror once more, Antoinette had arrived to chase away the ballerinas. He smirked to hear her rebuking them for their poor performance before the door closed, muffling her raised voice. Thinking himself finally alone with his pupil, he opened his mouth to call her only to hear a breathless voice say,
“Christine, I can’t believe it was really you singing! Who is this remarkable tutor of yours?”
Damn and blast it all, little Giry had remained!
Christine took her friend’s hands. “Do you remember I told you about my father’s stories? About the Angel of Music?”
“Of course.” Meg nodded, blonde curls bobbing. “They were such beautiful stories.”
“Well, I have been blessed, Meg. I have been visited by the Angel of Music! It is he who has transformed my voice.” A dreamy smile touched Christine’s lips, and she turned her gaze upwards, as though towards the heavenly realm from which she believed her teacher had been sent. “I can feel him, here in this room. He’s always with me, just out of my reach. Always watching me...”
“Christine...” Meg looked concerned, a frown creasing her forehead. “They were just stories; they can’t come true. Are you sure you’re all right? You’re not feeling overcome by the excitement?”
“No. No, nothing like that.” Christine pulled the lacy dressing gown she was wearing over her costume closer around her shoulders as though she were suddenly feeling cold. “It’s just... it frightens me a little.”
“Oh, Christine!” cried Meg, squeezing the hand she still held. “Don’t be frightened. You were wonderful!”
Christine appeared to want to say something more, but before she could speak the door opened to reveal the black-clad figure of Madame Giry and the two girls sprang apart with the kind of guilty expressions one would expect to see on the faces of small children caught raiding the biscuit tin. The ballet mistress fixed her daughter with a stern glare.
“Meg Giry, are you a dancer?” she demanded, and upon receiving a nod in reply snapped, “Then go and practise!”
Meg scuttled off, muttering rebelliously, “Practise. Always practise...”
Antoinette ignored her, turning to Christine. Her face softened slightly. “You have done well tonight, child. He is pleased with you.” Christine looked confused, and doubtless would have asked to whom she referred, but had no chance as Madame Giry took an envelope from her pocket. “I was asked to give this to you.”
Now it was Erik’s turn to frown. Precisely who was behind this missive? In his guise of the Angel of Music he had never communicated with Christine in writing; the Phantom used notes, the Angel spoke with his song. He watched as Antoinette departed and Christine sat down to open the letter. Her perplexed expression remained as she read its contents.
“The attic... the red scarf... Little Lotte?”
She repeated the words under her breath as she removed Elissa’s headdress and began to brush out her hair. They meant nothing to Erik; he pushed them aside as the childish attempt at introduction by an admirer. Touching the glass which seemed destined to continually remain between them, he readied himself to sing, to draw his angel to him once more. Her name danced lightly upon his tongue as he lifted his voice and...
The dressing room door opened yet again. Erik almost put his hand straight through the mirror in anger and frustration. He bit back a growl; those silly little ballet rats would feel the force of the Phantom’s wrath...
Christine did not turn round. “You had better go, Meg, before Madame Giry gets really cross,” she said, and there was a laugh from the doorway. It was a deep, undoubtedly masculine laugh. Erik froze.
“I know we have not seen each other for many years, but I hope that you would not mistake me for Mademoiselle Giry. I do not believe that I could stand en pointe,” the voice said lightly, and added, “Christine Daae, where is your red scarf? Tell me you have not lost it again. And after I ran into the sea to fetch it for you!”
Those few words had an incredible effect upon Christine. The hairbrush was thrown aside and her face lit up with the kind of pleasure Erik had only seen when he paid her one of his rare compliments. She spun in her chair, throwing out her hands with a cry of delight to the tall young man who stood on the threshold, his handsome face wreathed in smiles and his golden hair glowing in the light from the lamp above the door.
It was de Chagny. Erik hated him on sight.
“Oh, Raoul, it is you!” Christine exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
He bowed. “I came to pay my respects to the Populaire’s newest diva, naturally. And to ask if she would do me the honour of accompanying me to supper.”
“I...” She seemed on the point of accepting, when something obviously occurred to Christine. “I’m sorry, Raoul, but I can’t. My teacher wouldn’t like it.”
“Does your teacher have control of your voice or your life, Christine?” Raoul asked with a superior smile which made Erik’s long fingers curl into fists.
“He is very strict. But everything he says is for my own good, and I cannot go against his wishes.”
“Nonsense. Even the strictest teacher would allow that you have had such a triumph this evening that you positively deserve supper at the very best restaurant,” the vicomte declared. He captured her hand and raised it to his lips. “Now, you must get changed and I must get my hat. I will call for my carriage and return as quickly as I can. We can spend the rest of the evening catching up! I have missed you, Little Lotte.”
“Raoul, wait!” Christine called, but he was already gone. She sighed and turned back to the mirror on her dressing table, meeting the worried gaze of her reflection. “Oh, dear.”
She had good reason to worry.
Behind the full-length glass on the other side of the room, Erik was fuming. His anger, never very far from the surface, had risen with Raoul’s intrusion, his burgeoning hatred of the young aristocrat pushing away the hesitation and fear of rejection which had until now made him reluctant to reveal himself to Christine. She had asked repeatedly over the last few months if she might see her Angel at last, and always he had had a convincing excuse to hand, sure that were they to come face to face she would cast him aside. Eventually he would be able to delay no more, but there was still time and he planned meticulously for that moment, so that when it finally came it would be perfect. Christine would experience the glory that was his music and never have to discover the monster that lay behind it.
Now, however, rage threw caution to the winds. When he spoke, his voice thundered through the room, making Christine jump. “Insolent boy! How dare he try to share in my triumph?”
“Angel?” Christine whispered, trembling, her dark eyes flicking anxiously around her. “Angel, is that you?”
“Ignorant fool!” Erik snarled. “All he wishes to do is bask in your glory!”
“I’m sorry, Angel, I did not think... forgive me!” she cried, falling to her knees, hands clasped as if in prayer. “Please stay by my side!”
She was so close that he could reach out and touch her were it not for the glass between them. The light from the room spilling into the passageway fell on the lantern in its niche and an idea took hold in Erik’s mind. He pitched his voice low, allowing its beauty to roll seductively through the air. His hand hovered above the switch which would cause the mirror to turn on its hidden pivot and remove the final barrier.
“Come to me, Christine. Come to your Angel of Music...”
The mirror opened; Christine Daae gasped. The Phantom smiled, and welcomed her to his world.
