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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 20/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2556
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Madame Giry, Meg Giry, Erik the Phantom, Messrs Andre and Firmin
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: The night of the Masquerade. Madame Giry is watching...
DEATH AND MADAME
It would be a night to remember.
Messrs Andre and Firmin had spared no expense with the bal masque they decided to throw on the thirty-first of December. Wine and champagne flowed, there was a groaning buffet prepared by the finest chefs in Paris and the orchestra had been rehearsed within an inch of their lives by Monsieur Reyer and his conductor in order to provide the music to which the exalted guests would dance. For years the Opera House had traditionally hosted a gala on New Year’s Eve; the managers thought it particularly fitting that they should preside over such an event in honour of the reopening of the theatre.
From the sidelines, keeping as much to the shadows as possible in order to observe, Madame Giry watched them, laughing and congratulating each other for their removal of the Phantom. Andre had even come dressed ridiculously as a skeleton, much to their combined amusement. She wondered how much of the champagne they had already sampled; Firmin in particular looked less than steady on his feet, and was plainly ogling the female guests as they arrived, decked out in the finest the Parisian tailors had to offer. One lady in scandalously sheer drapery, her generous curves more than suggested, took his interest for quite some time, until, with a flirtatious glance in his direction, she was swallowed up by the crowd. It did not matter – within moments his attention had been diverted by the plunging neckline of a gaudy Marie Antoinette.
“I’m impressed, Andre,” Firmin declared, raising his glass to his partner. “The cream of Paris society, the new chandelier... quite a night, old man, quite a night.”
Andre sketched a bow in reply, and attempted to look modest. “One does one’s best, my dear fellow. For once, I may dare to hope that the newspapers will be discussing us for reasons other than that of relating scandal.”
“Ah, but the publicity, don’t forget that. No such thing as bad publicity.” Firmin hiccupped. “All the same, since he’s the orchestrator of the event, it’s rather a pity that the Phantom can’t be here!”
Andre stared at his friend for a long moment, before their eyes met and Firmin gave a drunken grin. Madame Giry ground her teeth as the two guffawed mightily before turning and ascending the grand staircase to greet some more privileged guests. She watched the footmen announce the latest arrivals, too far away to hear their names, and then froze as she recognised the couple who entered to accept the managers’ fawning attentions. Dressed as a hussar, and looking noble and handsome in his braided uniform, was the Vicomte de Chagny, and on his arm Christine Daae shimmered in pink and blue tulle, her hair and skirts scattered with silver stars. The dress was daring, displaying her milky-white shoulders, and she looked a little uncomfortable as Andre bent over her hand; even from this distance, Antoinette could see that there was still no engagement ring on her finger.
The two descended the grand escallier, Raoul confident of his place in society and his right to be amongst the assembled great and good, Christine’s nervousness more and more apparent the closer she got to Madame Giry’s dark corner. She seemed to be clinging to rather than holding her fiancé’s arm; her eyes darted right and left, as though expecting danger to appear from any direction.
“They came, then,” said a little voice at Antoinette’s shoulder, and she turned to see Meg standing there, looking at her friend in concern. “I almost didn’t think they would.”
“It would appear from Christine’s expression that she would rather be somewhere else.”
“I think it was Raoul’s idea that they should attend, not Christine’s. He wanted to get her out into company again, but people are already talking – Carlotta is holding court in the supper room, telling anyone who will listen about Christine and the Phantom. The details are extremely lurid and completely untrue.” Meg directed wide eyes to her mother. “Do you think he will come tonight?”
Madame Giry sighed. “I cannot say, ma petite. Everyone believes that he has gone; if they did not, they would think twice before cavorting in this manner.”
“You do not agree, though, do you, Maman?” Meg asked. “You think he is still here.”
“And what makes you say that?” Antoinette enquired, raising an eyebrow.
Her little ballerina gave her a fondly exasperated glance before returning her attention to Christine. The girl was now gazing around her as though she were desperately seeking someone. “I would have to be blind not to notice all the strange comings and goings over the years. All those notes you left me when you had to ‘pop out’ for a few hours, the deliveries of food that were too big to be just for the two of us, the night you came home with blood all over your coat...”
“You were barely six years old when that - ” Madame Giry caught herself too late, and Meg smiled slightly.
“And then there’s the fact that you have always delivered his letters. He gives them to no one else. You take his salary up to Box Five, and he leaves you English sweets in return.” She turned her gaze back to her mother, her young face serious. “I know, Maman. I’ve known for years, caught glimpses of him and heard the two of you talking when you thought I was asleep. I was just waiting for you to tell me, to trust me with his secrets.”
“Ah, my dear,” said Antoinette, adjusting the angle of the tiny riding hat and veil pinned atop Meg’s golden curls and smoothing the shoulders of her pink damask jacket. “If I could have done so, I would, but he did not permit it. He is not a man to cross.”
Meg submitted to the maternal fussing. “You are worried about him,” she remarked. “If you care enough about him to be concerned, he cannot be all bad.”
“That is true. However, he is damaged, and wounded and unpredictable. Though he promised me years ago that he would never harm you, should you encounter him I do not want you to approach. Do you understand that, Meg?” Madame Giry touched her daughter beneath her chin, bringing Meg’s gaze up to meet hers. “Give me your word that you will stay away from him.”
Reluctantly, Meg did so. Though she would never tell her, Antoinette was secretly proud of her only child. Meg might be overlooked by most of the company, dismissed as Little Giry, but she kept her eyes and ears open. Really, it was inevitable that she should have worked out at least part of the truth about Erik, and Antoinette felt a pang of remorse that she had told Christine more about him than she had ever mentioned to her daughter.
Across the room Christine was standing alone and vulnerable for a moment without her vicomte, who was engaged in animated conversation with an overweight Julius Caesar. Their eyes met briefly, and Madame Giry found herself wishing that her former pupil could share Meg’s wisdom and maturity. How different things might have been!
________________________________________
As midnight approached, the ballroom grew hotter and stuffier, the press of people becoming almost unbearable.
Despite her original intentions to the contrary, Antoinette granted a dance or two when asked, rather enjoying herself as she was twirled around the floor. Such was her formidable reputation that most men did not dare to approach her, but surprisingly Monsieur Andre was one brave enough to make the attempt. Though she hesitated he was extremely persuasive; she found him light on his feet and such a competent dancer that she couldn’t help wondering exactly how he had come to be managing the Opera in the first place. Meg was obviously enjoying herself, changing partners with every new measure and captivating them all in between finding time to giggle with the other ballet rats over copious glasses of champagne. Madame promised herself that she would chase them all off home by twelve fifteen at the latest, knowing that she would be dealing with sore heads and upset stomachs in the morning. As the evening wore on even Christine seemed to relax a little and was smiling happily as Raoul whirled her past admiring gentlemen and gossiping women, refusing to waltz or polka with anyone but his beautiful fiancée. Her features gradually lost their desperate look and she had eyes for no one but de Chagny.
So far, the ball had continued without incident, but Madame Giry could not help the feelings of apprehension which crept up her spine with increasing frequency as the clock ticked its way past eleven o’clock. If Erik were still there, deep down below, she could not truly believe that he would ignore such an auspicious occasion as this pass without making an appearance. He had been a bitter and broken man when last she saw him; having passed six months in that hole with nothing but his own company would not have improved the situation. The closer they came to the New Year and the unveiling of the new chandelier, the more convinced she became that the Phantom would come to the party.
Slipping away, she snatched up a candle from her office and began to systematically check all of the entrances to the cellars she knew of. He had sealed them, it was true, and there were probably dozens more all over the building, but logic dictated that if he were going to emerge from his self-imposed seclusion he would choose a route which would be easy to re-open and attract as little attention as possible. After trying several possible sites, she realised that there was one tunnel which would be more secluded than any other: that which lay behind the mirror in Christine’s empty dressing room.
As she approached, she could see that the door was standing open; shadows shifted beyond it, inside the little room, and Antoinette reached out for them, her fingers grasping fabric, silk and satin sliding against her skin. The figure, indistinct in the yellow candlelight, tried to pull away, but she held on tight. She lifted her light, and gasped as a grinning skull beneath a ludicrously–plumed hat swam into focus, distorted by the flickering of the flame. This vision, wrapped in a blood red velvet cloak, stood stock still before her, a leather folder held tightly against its chest by one long-fingered white hand.
“Dear God...” she breathed, and then jumped as the creature spoke.
“Unhand me, Madame. Red Death is stalking abroad and he is indiscriminate in choosing his victims,” it said in Erik’s voice, his richly modulated tones clear despite the mask that covered his entire face. There was ice and anger in that voice, and Madame Giry felt her blood run cold at the sound. She slowly released her hold on his sleeve and waited for him to leave, but to her surprise he remained standing behind the door, waiting as she lit the wick of the lantern which had been left on the dressing table and turned up the flame.
The increase in light revealed him in all his glory. He was not a small man, but the profusion of feathers on his wide felt hat made him seem impossibly tall, the cut of his scarlet doublet and the heavy cloak broadening his shoulders and giving him a truly imposing presence. Without moving a muscle, he was able to fill the room, towering over her, the gold lace which covered the costume sparkling in the glow of the lamp, right down to the rosettes which adorned his incongruously small shoes.
He was, in a word, magnificent. However, Antoinette could not ignore the aura of malevolence he carried with him. It was quite obvious that he had not emerged merely to dance at the ball.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Why return now, after all this time? Everyone believes you are dead.”
“Not everyone, surely? Were you not haunting these halls yourself in the last few months, pathetically calling out to me?” Erik enquired, tilting his head slightly.
Madame Giry stared at him, her fingers flexing at her side. She knew he was smiling and had his face not been covered by papier mache she would have struck him. “You were watching me,” she said, stunned. “All that time, when I was worried about you, all alone down there... all that time you were watching me and you did not once reply? Oh, you are an evil man, Erik!”
“Of course. I am the Phantom, am I not? What room have I for mercy, compassion or love? A monster has no need of such emotions.”
“You cannot believe that. You cannot speak in such a way about yourself!” she cried. “For God’s sake, what did I ever do to receive such treatment? I helped you, cared for you - ”
“And I allowed myself to become weak because of it,” Erik said. “I will not be weak again. I cannot.” He turned away, bowing his head and sending the grotesque carnival parody of a face he wore into shadow. “I would never survive it.”
Quickly, Madame Giry approached him, catching hold of his hand before he could withdraw it. “Then leave. Fly from here and begin again somewhere new, somewhere beyond this insanity. I will help you, come with you if you wish it, but please do not become entangled with the world out there again. If it nearly destroyed you before, what chance have you now?”
Hesitantly, he looked at her, his wondering eyes visible behind the mask. “You... you would do that for me?”
Though she had never even considered such a prospect before that moment, Antoinette nodded. “If that is what it will take to keep you safe from harm then I will do it. Contrary to what you may believe, Erik, you are not universally hated and reviled. There is some compassion in the world. I will do this for you if you agree to give up Christine, to allow her to marry her vicomte and be happy.”
The instant those words left her mouth it was obvious that she had said the wrong thing. Erik’s shoulders stiffened, and he drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at her. “I might have known that your offer would have some conditions, Madame,” he snapped. “Nothing in life is ever freely given. So, they are to be married then, Christine and the boy? He is to make an honest woman of his Jezebel.”
She tried to grab for him as he whirled about and pulled open the dressing room door, but the material of his costume slid through her outstretched fingers like water. “Erik, please!” she called after him. “What are you going to do?”
The corridor was so dark that she could barely see him, but there was enough light to make out the gesture he made with the leather folder, obviously so important to him. He held it out at arm’s length, and hissed,
“My life’s work is complete - Don Juan Triumphant is ready to be performed. They will soon discover that the Phantom has returned, and he has scores to settle.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2556
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Madame Giry, Meg Giry, Erik the Phantom, Messrs Andre and Firmin
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: The night of the Masquerade. Madame Giry is watching...
DEATH AND MADAME
It would be a night to remember.
Messrs Andre and Firmin had spared no expense with the bal masque they decided to throw on the thirty-first of December. Wine and champagne flowed, there was a groaning buffet prepared by the finest chefs in Paris and the orchestra had been rehearsed within an inch of their lives by Monsieur Reyer and his conductor in order to provide the music to which the exalted guests would dance. For years the Opera House had traditionally hosted a gala on New Year’s Eve; the managers thought it particularly fitting that they should preside over such an event in honour of the reopening of the theatre.
From the sidelines, keeping as much to the shadows as possible in order to observe, Madame Giry watched them, laughing and congratulating each other for their removal of the Phantom. Andre had even come dressed ridiculously as a skeleton, much to their combined amusement. She wondered how much of the champagne they had already sampled; Firmin in particular looked less than steady on his feet, and was plainly ogling the female guests as they arrived, decked out in the finest the Parisian tailors had to offer. One lady in scandalously sheer drapery, her generous curves more than suggested, took his interest for quite some time, until, with a flirtatious glance in his direction, she was swallowed up by the crowd. It did not matter – within moments his attention had been diverted by the plunging neckline of a gaudy Marie Antoinette.
“I’m impressed, Andre,” Firmin declared, raising his glass to his partner. “The cream of Paris society, the new chandelier... quite a night, old man, quite a night.”
Andre sketched a bow in reply, and attempted to look modest. “One does one’s best, my dear fellow. For once, I may dare to hope that the newspapers will be discussing us for reasons other than that of relating scandal.”
“Ah, but the publicity, don’t forget that. No such thing as bad publicity.” Firmin hiccupped. “All the same, since he’s the orchestrator of the event, it’s rather a pity that the Phantom can’t be here!”
Andre stared at his friend for a long moment, before their eyes met and Firmin gave a drunken grin. Madame Giry ground her teeth as the two guffawed mightily before turning and ascending the grand staircase to greet some more privileged guests. She watched the footmen announce the latest arrivals, too far away to hear their names, and then froze as she recognised the couple who entered to accept the managers’ fawning attentions. Dressed as a hussar, and looking noble and handsome in his braided uniform, was the Vicomte de Chagny, and on his arm Christine Daae shimmered in pink and blue tulle, her hair and skirts scattered with silver stars. The dress was daring, displaying her milky-white shoulders, and she looked a little uncomfortable as Andre bent over her hand; even from this distance, Antoinette could see that there was still no engagement ring on her finger.
The two descended the grand escallier, Raoul confident of his place in society and his right to be amongst the assembled great and good, Christine’s nervousness more and more apparent the closer she got to Madame Giry’s dark corner. She seemed to be clinging to rather than holding her fiancé’s arm; her eyes darted right and left, as though expecting danger to appear from any direction.
“They came, then,” said a little voice at Antoinette’s shoulder, and she turned to see Meg standing there, looking at her friend in concern. “I almost didn’t think they would.”
“It would appear from Christine’s expression that she would rather be somewhere else.”
“I think it was Raoul’s idea that they should attend, not Christine’s. He wanted to get her out into company again, but people are already talking – Carlotta is holding court in the supper room, telling anyone who will listen about Christine and the Phantom. The details are extremely lurid and completely untrue.” Meg directed wide eyes to her mother. “Do you think he will come tonight?”
Madame Giry sighed. “I cannot say, ma petite. Everyone believes that he has gone; if they did not, they would think twice before cavorting in this manner.”
“You do not agree, though, do you, Maman?” Meg asked. “You think he is still here.”
“And what makes you say that?” Antoinette enquired, raising an eyebrow.
Her little ballerina gave her a fondly exasperated glance before returning her attention to Christine. The girl was now gazing around her as though she were desperately seeking someone. “I would have to be blind not to notice all the strange comings and goings over the years. All those notes you left me when you had to ‘pop out’ for a few hours, the deliveries of food that were too big to be just for the two of us, the night you came home with blood all over your coat...”
“You were barely six years old when that - ” Madame Giry caught herself too late, and Meg smiled slightly.
“And then there’s the fact that you have always delivered his letters. He gives them to no one else. You take his salary up to Box Five, and he leaves you English sweets in return.” She turned her gaze back to her mother, her young face serious. “I know, Maman. I’ve known for years, caught glimpses of him and heard the two of you talking when you thought I was asleep. I was just waiting for you to tell me, to trust me with his secrets.”
“Ah, my dear,” said Antoinette, adjusting the angle of the tiny riding hat and veil pinned atop Meg’s golden curls and smoothing the shoulders of her pink damask jacket. “If I could have done so, I would, but he did not permit it. He is not a man to cross.”
Meg submitted to the maternal fussing. “You are worried about him,” she remarked. “If you care enough about him to be concerned, he cannot be all bad.”
“That is true. However, he is damaged, and wounded and unpredictable. Though he promised me years ago that he would never harm you, should you encounter him I do not want you to approach. Do you understand that, Meg?” Madame Giry touched her daughter beneath her chin, bringing Meg’s gaze up to meet hers. “Give me your word that you will stay away from him.”
Reluctantly, Meg did so. Though she would never tell her, Antoinette was secretly proud of her only child. Meg might be overlooked by most of the company, dismissed as Little Giry, but she kept her eyes and ears open. Really, it was inevitable that she should have worked out at least part of the truth about Erik, and Antoinette felt a pang of remorse that she had told Christine more about him than she had ever mentioned to her daughter.
Across the room Christine was standing alone and vulnerable for a moment without her vicomte, who was engaged in animated conversation with an overweight Julius Caesar. Their eyes met briefly, and Madame Giry found herself wishing that her former pupil could share Meg’s wisdom and maturity. How different things might have been!
________________________________________
As midnight approached, the ballroom grew hotter and stuffier, the press of people becoming almost unbearable.
Despite her original intentions to the contrary, Antoinette granted a dance or two when asked, rather enjoying herself as she was twirled around the floor. Such was her formidable reputation that most men did not dare to approach her, but surprisingly Monsieur Andre was one brave enough to make the attempt. Though she hesitated he was extremely persuasive; she found him light on his feet and such a competent dancer that she couldn’t help wondering exactly how he had come to be managing the Opera in the first place. Meg was obviously enjoying herself, changing partners with every new measure and captivating them all in between finding time to giggle with the other ballet rats over copious glasses of champagne. Madame promised herself that she would chase them all off home by twelve fifteen at the latest, knowing that she would be dealing with sore heads and upset stomachs in the morning. As the evening wore on even Christine seemed to relax a little and was smiling happily as Raoul whirled her past admiring gentlemen and gossiping women, refusing to waltz or polka with anyone but his beautiful fiancée. Her features gradually lost their desperate look and she had eyes for no one but de Chagny.
So far, the ball had continued without incident, but Madame Giry could not help the feelings of apprehension which crept up her spine with increasing frequency as the clock ticked its way past eleven o’clock. If Erik were still there, deep down below, she could not truly believe that he would ignore such an auspicious occasion as this pass without making an appearance. He had been a bitter and broken man when last she saw him; having passed six months in that hole with nothing but his own company would not have improved the situation. The closer they came to the New Year and the unveiling of the new chandelier, the more convinced she became that the Phantom would come to the party.
Slipping away, she snatched up a candle from her office and began to systematically check all of the entrances to the cellars she knew of. He had sealed them, it was true, and there were probably dozens more all over the building, but logic dictated that if he were going to emerge from his self-imposed seclusion he would choose a route which would be easy to re-open and attract as little attention as possible. After trying several possible sites, she realised that there was one tunnel which would be more secluded than any other: that which lay behind the mirror in Christine’s empty dressing room.
As she approached, she could see that the door was standing open; shadows shifted beyond it, inside the little room, and Antoinette reached out for them, her fingers grasping fabric, silk and satin sliding against her skin. The figure, indistinct in the yellow candlelight, tried to pull away, but she held on tight. She lifted her light, and gasped as a grinning skull beneath a ludicrously–plumed hat swam into focus, distorted by the flickering of the flame. This vision, wrapped in a blood red velvet cloak, stood stock still before her, a leather folder held tightly against its chest by one long-fingered white hand.
“Dear God...” she breathed, and then jumped as the creature spoke.
“Unhand me, Madame. Red Death is stalking abroad and he is indiscriminate in choosing his victims,” it said in Erik’s voice, his richly modulated tones clear despite the mask that covered his entire face. There was ice and anger in that voice, and Madame Giry felt her blood run cold at the sound. She slowly released her hold on his sleeve and waited for him to leave, but to her surprise he remained standing behind the door, waiting as she lit the wick of the lantern which had been left on the dressing table and turned up the flame.
The increase in light revealed him in all his glory. He was not a small man, but the profusion of feathers on his wide felt hat made him seem impossibly tall, the cut of his scarlet doublet and the heavy cloak broadening his shoulders and giving him a truly imposing presence. Without moving a muscle, he was able to fill the room, towering over her, the gold lace which covered the costume sparkling in the glow of the lamp, right down to the rosettes which adorned his incongruously small shoes.
He was, in a word, magnificent. However, Antoinette could not ignore the aura of malevolence he carried with him. It was quite obvious that he had not emerged merely to dance at the ball.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “Why return now, after all this time? Everyone believes you are dead.”
“Not everyone, surely? Were you not haunting these halls yourself in the last few months, pathetically calling out to me?” Erik enquired, tilting his head slightly.
Madame Giry stared at him, her fingers flexing at her side. She knew he was smiling and had his face not been covered by papier mache she would have struck him. “You were watching me,” she said, stunned. “All that time, when I was worried about you, all alone down there... all that time you were watching me and you did not once reply? Oh, you are an evil man, Erik!”
“Of course. I am the Phantom, am I not? What room have I for mercy, compassion or love? A monster has no need of such emotions.”
“You cannot believe that. You cannot speak in such a way about yourself!” she cried. “For God’s sake, what did I ever do to receive such treatment? I helped you, cared for you - ”
“And I allowed myself to become weak because of it,” Erik said. “I will not be weak again. I cannot.” He turned away, bowing his head and sending the grotesque carnival parody of a face he wore into shadow. “I would never survive it.”
Quickly, Madame Giry approached him, catching hold of his hand before he could withdraw it. “Then leave. Fly from here and begin again somewhere new, somewhere beyond this insanity. I will help you, come with you if you wish it, but please do not become entangled with the world out there again. If it nearly destroyed you before, what chance have you now?”
Hesitantly, he looked at her, his wondering eyes visible behind the mask. “You... you would do that for me?”
Though she had never even considered such a prospect before that moment, Antoinette nodded. “If that is what it will take to keep you safe from harm then I will do it. Contrary to what you may believe, Erik, you are not universally hated and reviled. There is some compassion in the world. I will do this for you if you agree to give up Christine, to allow her to marry her vicomte and be happy.”
The instant those words left her mouth it was obvious that she had said the wrong thing. Erik’s shoulders stiffened, and he drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at her. “I might have known that your offer would have some conditions, Madame,” he snapped. “Nothing in life is ever freely given. So, they are to be married then, Christine and the boy? He is to make an honest woman of his Jezebel.”
She tried to grab for him as he whirled about and pulled open the dressing room door, but the material of his costume slid through her outstretched fingers like water. “Erik, please!” she called after him. “What are you going to do?”
The corridor was so dark that she could barely see him, but there was enough light to make out the gesture he made with the leather folder, obviously so important to him. He held it out at arm’s length, and hissed,
“My life’s work is complete - Don Juan Triumphant is ready to be performed. They will soon discover that the Phantom has returned, and he has scores to settle.”
