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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 19/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2462
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: 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: Nearly six months have passed since the night of Il Muto. Christine finds she cannot keep away from the Opera.
SILENT NIGHT
It was late, and the theatre was quiet, the workmen obviously having finished for the Christmas holiday.
As she had done on many occasions over the past few months, Christine slipped into the building through a side door which was always unlocked, and made her way swiftly towards her old dressing room. She did not tell Raoul about these evening visits, sneaking out of the house when he was not at home for he would talk her out of her intentions. He was caught up in some business venture at present and often unavoidably detained; on these nights she pleaded the headache and retreated to her room, unable to spend the hours making stilted small-talk with the Comtess and her daughters. They accepted her on the surface because Raoul had declared that he loved her and would marry no one else, but Christine knew that she was not seen as wifely material for the heir to the Comte de Chagny. One watched chorus girls, lusted after them and attempted to seduce them, they did not invite them into the drawing room for tea.
Tonight there was a family gathering at the Hotel de Chagny, to celebrate the festive season, but Christine was not invited. Raoul did his apologetic best, popping up to see her at regular intervals, but his presence was always demanded downstairs by his mother and elder brother, to entertain the ladies. Christine didn’t really mind, as a party was the last place she wanted to be, but she could not deny the feelings of loss and loneliness which consumed her when he left. Assuring him that she was quite all right and would probably read before going to bed, she tiptoed down the back stairs and walked the by now familiar route to the bottom of the long gravelled drive where she hailed a cab for the short journey to the Opera. It was not entirely safe to be travelling alone so late in the evening, but she knew that Raoul would not approve and this was something she had to do whether she received his support or not.
It did not take her long to negotiate the darkened corridors. Though there was obviously still some work to be done, even with the aid of a lamp she could see that the theatre was nearly ready to reopen. She took out her key and unlocked the door to the dressing room. Familiarity enclosed her as she entered; the mirror was still there, dominating the little chamber. Her heart leapt once again at the sight of it. Idly she had wondered why it had not been removed, but then reasoned it was likely that no one else knew of the passageway hidden behind. Though she tried, she could not find the catch which allowed the mirror to turn on its pivot, allowing access to the tunnels beyond. Lighting some candles and drawing up a chair she sat down, facing her own reflection. She lost count of how many times she had done this over the last six months, reaching out to him with her voice and her song. Though he must have heard her, must be somewhere below, he never once answered her. At odd moments, when her despair began to break through, she decided that he must be dead, that they had found him and rid themselves of the Phantom once and for all, but she could not truly believe it. He was there, and eventually he must come; he would be unable to resist siren call of his own Angel of Music.
And so she sang, for what seemed like hours. She invested everything in that private performance, singing, as she had done so often, only for him, until, exhausted, she leaned her hot forehead against the glass and let the tears that prickled in her eyes spill onto her cheeks. There was nothing, no response, no presence behind the mirror. Her only audience was silence. In that moment, Christine had never felt so alone.
“Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory...” she whispered. “Angel... Maestro... Erik... I‘m here, I came back... please don’t shut me out...”
The reflection which met her as she raised her head stared back with the wild-eyed gaze of a girl so worried and confused that she looked almost hunted. She was thin and pale, dark circles beneath her eyes, her white face blossoming from the darkness around her like that of a ghost. Or a phantom, she thought, how appropriate...
“You probably don’t want to see me,” she said, talking directly to the mirror, “and I honestly don’t know what I would say to you if we were face to face at this very moment. I don’t know why you did what you did, whether you killed Monsieur Buquet or if it truly was an accident... I don’t know what to think, but I don’t want my Angel to be a murderer. I don’t want him to be the Phantom. I just want my teacher, my protector, my friend, here with me again.”
“He will not come.”
The voice made Christine jump. She spun round in her chair and stared in astonishment at the woman standing in the doorway; Madame Giry had approached without a sound, concealing herself in the shadows. The ballet mistress’s face was hard, gaunt, her expression one of disapproval.
“Madame, what are you doing here so late? Should you not be with Meg tonight?” The Girys had always attended Midnight Mass and then returned to the Opera for the traditional Christmas feast. It was obvious, however, that such an event would not be happening this year; for the present the company was dispersed while the repairs were completed.
“I could ask you the same question,” Madame Giry said. “Instead I shall ask this one: why have you come back here, Christine? Is it to make an apology or to cause more pain?”
Christine stiffened. She had never heard such coldness in her old instructor’s voice before. “What do you mean? I am still a member of the company, and I have every right to be here if I choose,” she said, the suddenly frosty atmosphere in the room making her defensive. A little voice in her head pointed out that since she had effectively run away after the disaster of Il Muto she might not even be a member of the chorus any more. Letters had come from the Populaire but she had foolishly allowed Raoul to set them aside, declaring that she was still too shaken to deal with them. That had been some time in August; now it was the end of December. Did she still have a job?
Madame raised an eyebrow. “At this time of night on Christmas Eve, a week before the theatre is due to officially reopen and when the casting of the next production is still up in the air? Of course, it is quite natural that you should be here. Tell me the truth, Christine: have you come to see him? If so, you will be disappointed.”
A lead weight seemed to settle in Christine’s chest. Hesitantly she asked, “He is not... is not... dead?”
“He could be. Anything could happen to him down there on his own and no one would ever know.” Madame Giry walked over to the mirror, her reflection looming up beside Christine’s, her black dress and fur-trimmed coat stark in the dim light. She looked... sad, Christine realised. “I have not seen him since the night of Il Muto. He sealed up every entrance to the cellars I know of, and there have been no notes, no instructions. The Phantom is, to all intents and purposes, gone. When we heard nothing for two months, those idiots, Firmin and Andre, cracked open the champagne.”
Gone... Christine could barely comprehend such a thing. No doubt the Opera without its Ghost would be a completely different place, no undercurrent of fear and trepidation, no dramatic stories and strange occurrences. But no Opera Ghost meant no Angel of Music. No Erik... She could not imagine the theatre without him.
“Where is your vicomte, child?” Madame Giry asked, her beady eye falling on the diamond engagement ring which hung on a chain around Christine’s neck. Self-consciously she covered it with her hand, tucking it back into the bodice of her dress. Though she had attempted to wear it there many times it had never felt truly comfortable on her finger. “There is no place for you here now, not after all that has happened.”
“I can’t leave. I can’t stay away; I tried so hard, but something here keeps drawing me back. I can’t stay away from him, Madame, I need him.” The words came out in a rush, and she did not realise exactly what she had said until they hung in the air and she could not take them back. “I discovered that I can’t sing without him, not truly; he made me what I am, and without his guidance I am nothing more than an automaton, remembering the lines but unsure of the meaning.”
“Perhaps your discovery was made too late. You must consider the consequences of your actions, Christine. Do you only need Erik to help you sing? If that is the case, then return to Raoul and forget your angel. Do not raise his hopes again; I doubt if he could stand it.”
“Madame Giry, why are you here?” Christine could not help asking the question.
The ballet mistress sighed. “I have been walking the corridors at night for some time now, hoping that just once he might show himself and prove to me that he is all right. Though he may pretend to be a Phantom, underneath he is just as vulnerable as the rest of us, and tonight of all nights... I did not want him to be alone.”
“He will not be alone, Madame. I will be here.”
“And what of your fiancé?” Madame Giry enquired.
“Raoul will be occupied for an hour or two more. He will not miss me,” Christine said truthfully. “My Angel was my comfort for a long time. Now I wish to be the same for him, even if he does not realise.”
Madame inclined her head. “Make sure that you truly know what you want, Christine. It would seem to me that you have two men who love you, a very privileged position for any woman. Affections are not to be trifled with.”
Christine met the sharp gaze steadily; for the first time in her life she did not feel intimidated by the ballet mistress. “I do not intend to trifle with anyone’s affections, Madame.”
With a nod, Madame Giry moved towards the door. As she reached it, Christine asked without turning round,
“Did Erik kill Joseph Buquet?”
There was a long pause. Christine held her breath. Eventually Madame said,
“I do not know. But the man was a nasty piece of work who hurt more than one person in this theatre. Do not waste your tears on him.”
The door closed behind her, leaving Christine once more with just her reflection for company. She stared at it for some time, seeing past her own face to the passage she knew to be behind it. In her memory she traced the twists and turns, the winding staircases and cobwebbed tunnels, ending at last by the edge of the lake where a black and gold gondola was moored, bobbing gently in the inky water. Beyond that lake lay a house set into the rock of the Opera House’s foundations, its door concealed from prying eyes, and inside the house a man sat before a magnificent pipe organ, the music he played echoing through the sprawling cellars and sometimes heard faintly by those in the world above. Oh, how she wished she could hear that music now, have it fill her with strange and unfathomable emotions, be enfolded in its dark and dangerous embrace.
You have two men who love you...
Could Madame Giry be right? Erik had never said as much to her, had never so much as touched her with more than fatherly affection and certainly not mentioned the word love in her presence. Raoul’s devotion shone in his eyes whenever he laid them upon her, obvious for all to see. But he had been brought up knowing that he was accepted and cared for; he could afford to take love for granted because it was freely offered. Christine remembered the little Erik had told her of his mother, how she had been afraid of his face and would not even put her arms around him. How did one show love when they had always been denied it? How do you reach out to another when you have always been alone?
She thought again of the underground house and its occupant, of the echoing passages and the heavy, oppressive silence which surrounded him. Down below in his twilight world did he even know that it was Christmas Eve? Had he ever spent this night with another living soul? Was he lonely, in that little house on his own?
So many questions and no hope of an answer. She closed her eyes and began to sing once more, her voice clear and pure in the darkened hush of the empty theatre:
Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and child,
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace
As she let the final notes die away, she hoped that she might hear movement behind the mirror, but there was nothing. His presence, which over the months she had become so good at divining, was entirely absent. Disappointed, Christine slumped in her chair. She had tried so hard to reach him, only to fail once again.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour, and she jumped. Midnight! How the evening had flown; Raoul would probably be creeping towards her room even now, hoping that she would still be awake so that they could exchange a Christmas kiss. Like Cinderella she gathered her things, in a hurry to leave before the magic disappeared. Bending her head she pressed a kiss against the cold glass of the mirror. “Merry Christmas, Angel,” she whispered.
________________________________________
A few minutes later, there was a gust of cold and musty air as the mirror turned slightly. Light from a lantern spilled through the gap, silhouetting the man holding it against the wall of the passage behind him.
“Christine...?” he called softly, a hopeful note in his voice.
The room was empty but for a single candle still burning on the dressing table.
It was too late; Christine Daae had gone.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2462
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: 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: Nearly six months have passed since the night of Il Muto. Christine finds she cannot keep away from the Opera.
SILENT NIGHT
It was late, and the theatre was quiet, the workmen obviously having finished for the Christmas holiday.
As she had done on many occasions over the past few months, Christine slipped into the building through a side door which was always unlocked, and made her way swiftly towards her old dressing room. She did not tell Raoul about these evening visits, sneaking out of the house when he was not at home for he would talk her out of her intentions. He was caught up in some business venture at present and often unavoidably detained; on these nights she pleaded the headache and retreated to her room, unable to spend the hours making stilted small-talk with the Comtess and her daughters. They accepted her on the surface because Raoul had declared that he loved her and would marry no one else, but Christine knew that she was not seen as wifely material for the heir to the Comte de Chagny. One watched chorus girls, lusted after them and attempted to seduce them, they did not invite them into the drawing room for tea.
Tonight there was a family gathering at the Hotel de Chagny, to celebrate the festive season, but Christine was not invited. Raoul did his apologetic best, popping up to see her at regular intervals, but his presence was always demanded downstairs by his mother and elder brother, to entertain the ladies. Christine didn’t really mind, as a party was the last place she wanted to be, but she could not deny the feelings of loss and loneliness which consumed her when he left. Assuring him that she was quite all right and would probably read before going to bed, she tiptoed down the back stairs and walked the by now familiar route to the bottom of the long gravelled drive where she hailed a cab for the short journey to the Opera. It was not entirely safe to be travelling alone so late in the evening, but she knew that Raoul would not approve and this was something she had to do whether she received his support or not.
It did not take her long to negotiate the darkened corridors. Though there was obviously still some work to be done, even with the aid of a lamp she could see that the theatre was nearly ready to reopen. She took out her key and unlocked the door to the dressing room. Familiarity enclosed her as she entered; the mirror was still there, dominating the little chamber. Her heart leapt once again at the sight of it. Idly she had wondered why it had not been removed, but then reasoned it was likely that no one else knew of the passageway hidden behind. Though she tried, she could not find the catch which allowed the mirror to turn on its pivot, allowing access to the tunnels beyond. Lighting some candles and drawing up a chair she sat down, facing her own reflection. She lost count of how many times she had done this over the last six months, reaching out to him with her voice and her song. Though he must have heard her, must be somewhere below, he never once answered her. At odd moments, when her despair began to break through, she decided that he must be dead, that they had found him and rid themselves of the Phantom once and for all, but she could not truly believe it. He was there, and eventually he must come; he would be unable to resist siren call of his own Angel of Music.
And so she sang, for what seemed like hours. She invested everything in that private performance, singing, as she had done so often, only for him, until, exhausted, she leaned her hot forehead against the glass and let the tears that prickled in her eyes spill onto her cheeks. There was nothing, no response, no presence behind the mirror. Her only audience was silence. In that moment, Christine had never felt so alone.
“Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory...” she whispered. “Angel... Maestro... Erik... I‘m here, I came back... please don’t shut me out...”
The reflection which met her as she raised her head stared back with the wild-eyed gaze of a girl so worried and confused that she looked almost hunted. She was thin and pale, dark circles beneath her eyes, her white face blossoming from the darkness around her like that of a ghost. Or a phantom, she thought, how appropriate...
“You probably don’t want to see me,” she said, talking directly to the mirror, “and I honestly don’t know what I would say to you if we were face to face at this very moment. I don’t know why you did what you did, whether you killed Monsieur Buquet or if it truly was an accident... I don’t know what to think, but I don’t want my Angel to be a murderer. I don’t want him to be the Phantom. I just want my teacher, my protector, my friend, here with me again.”
“He will not come.”
The voice made Christine jump. She spun round in her chair and stared in astonishment at the woman standing in the doorway; Madame Giry had approached without a sound, concealing herself in the shadows. The ballet mistress’s face was hard, gaunt, her expression one of disapproval.
“Madame, what are you doing here so late? Should you not be with Meg tonight?” The Girys had always attended Midnight Mass and then returned to the Opera for the traditional Christmas feast. It was obvious, however, that such an event would not be happening this year; for the present the company was dispersed while the repairs were completed.
“I could ask you the same question,” Madame Giry said. “Instead I shall ask this one: why have you come back here, Christine? Is it to make an apology or to cause more pain?”
Christine stiffened. She had never heard such coldness in her old instructor’s voice before. “What do you mean? I am still a member of the company, and I have every right to be here if I choose,” she said, the suddenly frosty atmosphere in the room making her defensive. A little voice in her head pointed out that since she had effectively run away after the disaster of Il Muto she might not even be a member of the chorus any more. Letters had come from the Populaire but she had foolishly allowed Raoul to set them aside, declaring that she was still too shaken to deal with them. That had been some time in August; now it was the end of December. Did she still have a job?
Madame raised an eyebrow. “At this time of night on Christmas Eve, a week before the theatre is due to officially reopen and when the casting of the next production is still up in the air? Of course, it is quite natural that you should be here. Tell me the truth, Christine: have you come to see him? If so, you will be disappointed.”
A lead weight seemed to settle in Christine’s chest. Hesitantly she asked, “He is not... is not... dead?”
“He could be. Anything could happen to him down there on his own and no one would ever know.” Madame Giry walked over to the mirror, her reflection looming up beside Christine’s, her black dress and fur-trimmed coat stark in the dim light. She looked... sad, Christine realised. “I have not seen him since the night of Il Muto. He sealed up every entrance to the cellars I know of, and there have been no notes, no instructions. The Phantom is, to all intents and purposes, gone. When we heard nothing for two months, those idiots, Firmin and Andre, cracked open the champagne.”
Gone... Christine could barely comprehend such a thing. No doubt the Opera without its Ghost would be a completely different place, no undercurrent of fear and trepidation, no dramatic stories and strange occurrences. But no Opera Ghost meant no Angel of Music. No Erik... She could not imagine the theatre without him.
“Where is your vicomte, child?” Madame Giry asked, her beady eye falling on the diamond engagement ring which hung on a chain around Christine’s neck. Self-consciously she covered it with her hand, tucking it back into the bodice of her dress. Though she had attempted to wear it there many times it had never felt truly comfortable on her finger. “There is no place for you here now, not after all that has happened.”
“I can’t leave. I can’t stay away; I tried so hard, but something here keeps drawing me back. I can’t stay away from him, Madame, I need him.” The words came out in a rush, and she did not realise exactly what she had said until they hung in the air and she could not take them back. “I discovered that I can’t sing without him, not truly; he made me what I am, and without his guidance I am nothing more than an automaton, remembering the lines but unsure of the meaning.”
“Perhaps your discovery was made too late. You must consider the consequences of your actions, Christine. Do you only need Erik to help you sing? If that is the case, then return to Raoul and forget your angel. Do not raise his hopes again; I doubt if he could stand it.”
“Madame Giry, why are you here?” Christine could not help asking the question.
The ballet mistress sighed. “I have been walking the corridors at night for some time now, hoping that just once he might show himself and prove to me that he is all right. Though he may pretend to be a Phantom, underneath he is just as vulnerable as the rest of us, and tonight of all nights... I did not want him to be alone.”
“He will not be alone, Madame. I will be here.”
“And what of your fiancé?” Madame Giry enquired.
“Raoul will be occupied for an hour or two more. He will not miss me,” Christine said truthfully. “My Angel was my comfort for a long time. Now I wish to be the same for him, even if he does not realise.”
Madame inclined her head. “Make sure that you truly know what you want, Christine. It would seem to me that you have two men who love you, a very privileged position for any woman. Affections are not to be trifled with.”
Christine met the sharp gaze steadily; for the first time in her life she did not feel intimidated by the ballet mistress. “I do not intend to trifle with anyone’s affections, Madame.”
With a nod, Madame Giry moved towards the door. As she reached it, Christine asked without turning round,
“Did Erik kill Joseph Buquet?”
There was a long pause. Christine held her breath. Eventually Madame said,
“I do not know. But the man was a nasty piece of work who hurt more than one person in this theatre. Do not waste your tears on him.”
The door closed behind her, leaving Christine once more with just her reflection for company. She stared at it for some time, seeing past her own face to the passage she knew to be behind it. In her memory she traced the twists and turns, the winding staircases and cobwebbed tunnels, ending at last by the edge of the lake where a black and gold gondola was moored, bobbing gently in the inky water. Beyond that lake lay a house set into the rock of the Opera House’s foundations, its door concealed from prying eyes, and inside the house a man sat before a magnificent pipe organ, the music he played echoing through the sprawling cellars and sometimes heard faintly by those in the world above. Oh, how she wished she could hear that music now, have it fill her with strange and unfathomable emotions, be enfolded in its dark and dangerous embrace.
You have two men who love you...
Could Madame Giry be right? Erik had never said as much to her, had never so much as touched her with more than fatherly affection and certainly not mentioned the word love in her presence. Raoul’s devotion shone in his eyes whenever he laid them upon her, obvious for all to see. But he had been brought up knowing that he was accepted and cared for; he could afford to take love for granted because it was freely offered. Christine remembered the little Erik had told her of his mother, how she had been afraid of his face and would not even put her arms around him. How did one show love when they had always been denied it? How do you reach out to another when you have always been alone?
She thought again of the underground house and its occupant, of the echoing passages and the heavy, oppressive silence which surrounded him. Down below in his twilight world did he even know that it was Christmas Eve? Had he ever spent this night with another living soul? Was he lonely, in that little house on his own?
So many questions and no hope of an answer. She closed her eyes and began to sing once more, her voice clear and pure in the darkened hush of the empty theatre:
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and child,
Holy infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace
As she let the final notes die away, she hoped that she might hear movement behind the mirror, but there was nothing. His presence, which over the months she had become so good at divining, was entirely absent. Disappointed, Christine slumped in her chair. She had tried so hard to reach him, only to fail once again.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour, and she jumped. Midnight! How the evening had flown; Raoul would probably be creeping towards her room even now, hoping that she would still be awake so that they could exchange a Christmas kiss. Like Cinderella she gathered her things, in a hurry to leave before the magic disappeared. Bending her head she pressed a kiss against the cold glass of the mirror. “Merry Christmas, Angel,” she whispered.
________________________________________
A few minutes later, there was a gust of cold and musty air as the mirror turned slightly. Light from a lantern spilled through the gap, silhouetting the man holding it against the wall of the passage behind him.
“Christine...?” he called softly, a hopeful note in his voice.
The room was empty but for a single candle still burning on the dressing table.
It was too late; Christine Daae had gone.
