![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 21/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2116
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Madame Giry, Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: After the ball, Meg finds herself in the position of confidante...
LITTLE GIRY ADVISES
For a long moment after the Phantom’s disappearance there was silence in the ballroom, before the paralysis which had overtaken everyone suddenly evaporated and they all began talking at once. Some expressed shock; others horror or indignation, but one thing became perfectly clear: despite the disaster of six months ago, hardly anyone had actually believed that the Opera Ghost was real, apparently taking the managers’ assertion that Buquet’s death and the destruction of the chandelier had been simply accidents to be the truth.
Meg pushed her way through the crowd, trying to reach her mother. Madame Giry hurried away, towards a side door which led into the main body of the theatre, and Meg could guess where she was going, but she was caught in the excited crush; before she could get close the Vicomte de Chagny had beaten her to it. They were speaking, and she strained to hear the words over the general din, reading their lips when the noise became too great.
“...I must speak with you!” That was Raoul, worry and confusion obvious on his face.
Madame Giry shook her head. “This is not the time, Monsieur, believe me. I cannot stop now, I have - ”
“Please.” He caught hold of her sleeve as she turned to go, pulling her back in desperation. “You know more about this ‘Phantom’ than anyone else. Madame, I am imploring you – tell me who he is!”
Meg ducked under the outstretched arm of a Pierrot, squeezed herself between two rotund sultans and apologised when she stepped on Madame de Pompadour’s foot. Ahead, the vicomte was following her mother from the room; she looked around, craning her neck and trying to spot Christine in the melee, but there was no sign of her friend. Carlotta was once again surrounded by an admiring throng, to whom she was doubtless embellishing her spiteful tales, and on the staircase she could just see Monsieur Andre sitting with the leather satchel containing the Phantom’s opera across his knees. Firmin was patting his shoulder and offering him a drink from his hip flask. There was nothing to be gained by remaining, and so Meg dashed into the darkness after Raoul.
Drawn by their voices, she found them in a little room backstage, usually the province of the scene-shifters during their breaks. Lamplight bled through the gap between the door and its frame, and Meg crept closer, not wishing to announce her presence.
“...in a cage,” her mother was saying, “I have no idea how he came to be there, or for how long he was kept prisoner by those gypsies, but they locked him up and forced him to perform for the thousands who descended upon the fairs. He is a genius, a magician, and architect and a musician of great skill and ability, and yet they displayed him alongside other freaks of nature: men and women, even children deformed through no fault of their own. I saw two poor boys joined at the head, pointed at and jeered by lads their own age, and through it all they tightly held each other’s hand, their faces so sad.” Madame Giry paused. “Do you think it right to find amusement in those who cannot help themselves, Monsieur?”
“No, Madame, I do not. But this man of whom you speak... whatever his talents, surely nature has made him a monster? Why else would he have done what he has?” Raoul asked.
“If he is a monster, and I do not believe that, then it is the world which is responsible. I know little enough of his life before we met, but I am aware that he has been shown nothing but anger and hatred by the people around him, and all because of his face. How can a child be expected to understand right from wrong if he is not taught? How can someone love another if they have no idea what love even is?”
There was a silence, and Meg held her breath. Eventually, the vicomte said, “Madame Giry, I only wish to protect Christine. If this man is a threat to her, then what can I do?”
“Persuade her to leave, for good this time. It may be the only way.” The ballet mistress sighed. “It may be the only way to protect both of them.”
________________________________________
The door opened, and Meg quickly scuttled to one side, barely avoiding her mother as she emerged, a lantern in her hand. She looked both ways along the corridor, frowning, and strode off, her heels clacking on the floorboards for some time after she had vanished from sight. Meg let out the breath she had been holding.
“Do you often eavesdrop, Mademoiselle?” a voice asked, and she jumped, spinning around to see Raoul standing behind her. So engrossed had she been in keeping herself hidden from Antoinette that she had not even heard him leaving the room. One hand on her thumping heart, she said,
“Sometimes it is the only way to learn the truth, Monsieur. If no one will talk to you, it is best to keep your eyes and ears open.”
The vicomte glanced up the passage in the direction Madame Giry had taken. “Why does she help him? Does he have some hold over her as well as Christine?”
“He saved her life,” Meg replied. “Relationships forged in adversity are often the strongest, I believe.”
“And what experience do you have of such things, Mademoiselle Giry?” Raoul enquired, his lips quirking in amusement.
She rounded on him, and he took a step back in surprise. “I read, I observe. You may think me young, but I have seen much of human life within these walls. Love, joy, fear, hope, pity, anger... my father died when I was just five years old, and I have spent almost all my time since then in this theatre with my mother, watching people come and go and seeing them in their good times and bad. Losing a parent makes you grow up quickly, Monsieur le Vicomte.” A sudden thought of Christine stilled her anger, and she added quietly, “And it can also make you lose yourself in dreams. For some it is easier than living in the real world and dealing with the pain.”
“What are we to do, Meg?” All trace of humour had flown from the vicomte’s face at the reference to Christine and the worry returned, making him look older. “How are we to save her from this man?”
Meg was startled by his use of her given name; she had not even realised that he knew it. “Surely the question should really be, does she wish to be saved?”
“Why would she not? He has threatened her, bewitched her – God damn it, he almost killed her!” he exclaimed.
“But does she see it that way? If she really were so frightened of him, would she have come back here tonight? Why not fly with you and forget he ever existed?”
Raoul’s eyebrows drew sharply together, and he regarded Meg suspiciously in the dim light. “She came because I asked her to; I thought it would do her good to enjoy herself instead of moping about the house. She has become far too pale and thin lately. What are you suggesting?”
Meg remembered Christine the night after the gala, the way she spoke about her ‘Angel of Music’. Yes, she had admitted to feeling fear, but Meg recalled the elation in her voice and how changed she seemed, no longer the shy, clumsy chorus girl but a leading lady. The ‘angel’ had transformed her, given her the confidence that she had lacked ever since she came to the Opera: confidence in herself. Meg did not see that in her friend now; Christine was a shadow of her former self. “There is a very thin line between love and hate, is there not?” she said.
“Surely you don’t mean she actually feels something for that... that creature?” Raoul asked in a hushed voice, eyes widening in horror at the prospect. “After all that he has done... could you care for such a man?”
Meg shrugged. “I’m not Christine. It’s what she believes that matters.”
________________________________________
Raoul left shortly after their exchange, looking more bewildered than ever and muttering under his breath.
Knowing that her mother would be gone for some time, Meg hung around backstage, avoiding the odd couple or two who had sneaked away from the wreckage of the party and taken advantage of the near-deserted darkness of the theatre. After practising a few movements and wishing she had thought to fetch her point shoes from the ballet rats’ dressing room, she found herself wandering out into the auditorium and standing alone on the stage.
Moonlight poured through the great skylight in the roof, its beams falling across the red velvet seats like bars upon a window. Beneath it hung the new chandelier, still shrouded in its tarpaulin; the Phantom’s appearance had prevented the triumphant unveiling. Meg sat on the edge of the stage for a while, enjoying the silence and taking in the vast room and the immaculate repairs which had been made. It would be so easy to believe that the events of that night in June had never happened.
At length, she reluctantly decided that it was time to go home. It must be after two in the morning by now, and several years’ experience told her that if her mother was with OG there was no telling when she would return. Though Meg had her suspicions as to the location of his home, she had no idea how to get there and even had she known, Antoinette would be livid if she arrived unannounced upon his doorstep. She made her way through the gloomy corridors towards the stage door, intending to wake Pierre the night watchman, who would doubtless be snoring in his booth by now, to let her out of the building.
As she passed Christine’s dressing room, however, she stopped, for the door stood ajar and she could hear the faint sound of someone weeping within. Hastily, Meg pushed the door fully open and there, in a pink and blue heap before the mirror was Christine herself, her face hidden by her hands and her shoulders heaving with each stifled sob. She looked somewhat the worse for wear, dust and cobwebs in her dark curls and her dress torn and dirty. Wondering where she could have been, Meg knelt beside her, taking Christine’s hands in hers and squeezing them tightly.
“Christine... Christine... whatever is the matter?” she asked gently.
Two tear-filled brown eyes were raised to meet hers. Christine tried to smile, but her face crumpled and she all but collapsed into Meg’s embrace. Little Giry held her without comment, rubbing Christine’s back in a comforting manner as her mother had always done when she was upset and murmuring reassurances.
“Oh, Meg, I’ve made such a mess of everything,” Christine said at last, wiping ineffectually at her eyes. Meg passed her a handkerchief and she dabbed at the make-up that had run in black rivulets down her hollow cheeks. “I’ve lost him. I think I’ve lost my angel forever.”
Meg opened her mouth to reply, but shut it again when she realised there was a pair of eyes peering at them through the gap where the mirror hadn’t completely shut behind her friend; curious, mismatched eyes that were somehow visible despite the shadows which shrouded their owner. He didn’t move, or speak, but she had felt his presence since her childhood and she recognised it now. A familiar cry, often started by her and taken up by the other petit rats, danced upon her lips and she mouthed the words:
He’s here, the Phantom of the Opera...
“Tell me what happened,” she said to Christine, deliberately deflecting her attention from the man watching them. “Tell me everything, and then maybe we can work a way out of this tangle.”
Christine sniffed. “I’m sorry, Meg. I wish I’d told you about it before, but he wouldn’t let me. I didn’t want to make him angry - ”
“That doesn’t matter,” Meg assured her. “Now, start at the beginning...”
As her friend began her tale, she glanced at the mirror again. This time, there was a faint light coming from behind the glass and she could see him, his white mask glowing ethereally in the surrounding darkness. He met her gaze for a long moment with that peculiar, almost hypnotic one of his own and then turned away, the gap closing soundlessly behind him.
Meg had the strangest feeling that she had somehow gained the Phantom’s approval.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2116
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Madame Giry, Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: After the ball, Meg finds herself in the position of confidante...
LITTLE GIRY ADVISES
For a long moment after the Phantom’s disappearance there was silence in the ballroom, before the paralysis which had overtaken everyone suddenly evaporated and they all began talking at once. Some expressed shock; others horror or indignation, but one thing became perfectly clear: despite the disaster of six months ago, hardly anyone had actually believed that the Opera Ghost was real, apparently taking the managers’ assertion that Buquet’s death and the destruction of the chandelier had been simply accidents to be the truth.
Meg pushed her way through the crowd, trying to reach her mother. Madame Giry hurried away, towards a side door which led into the main body of the theatre, and Meg could guess where she was going, but she was caught in the excited crush; before she could get close the Vicomte de Chagny had beaten her to it. They were speaking, and she strained to hear the words over the general din, reading their lips when the noise became too great.
“...I must speak with you!” That was Raoul, worry and confusion obvious on his face.
Madame Giry shook her head. “This is not the time, Monsieur, believe me. I cannot stop now, I have - ”
“Please.” He caught hold of her sleeve as she turned to go, pulling her back in desperation. “You know more about this ‘Phantom’ than anyone else. Madame, I am imploring you – tell me who he is!”
Meg ducked under the outstretched arm of a Pierrot, squeezed herself between two rotund sultans and apologised when she stepped on Madame de Pompadour’s foot. Ahead, the vicomte was following her mother from the room; she looked around, craning her neck and trying to spot Christine in the melee, but there was no sign of her friend. Carlotta was once again surrounded by an admiring throng, to whom she was doubtless embellishing her spiteful tales, and on the staircase she could just see Monsieur Andre sitting with the leather satchel containing the Phantom’s opera across his knees. Firmin was patting his shoulder and offering him a drink from his hip flask. There was nothing to be gained by remaining, and so Meg dashed into the darkness after Raoul.
Drawn by their voices, she found them in a little room backstage, usually the province of the scene-shifters during their breaks. Lamplight bled through the gap between the door and its frame, and Meg crept closer, not wishing to announce her presence.
“...in a cage,” her mother was saying, “I have no idea how he came to be there, or for how long he was kept prisoner by those gypsies, but they locked him up and forced him to perform for the thousands who descended upon the fairs. He is a genius, a magician, and architect and a musician of great skill and ability, and yet they displayed him alongside other freaks of nature: men and women, even children deformed through no fault of their own. I saw two poor boys joined at the head, pointed at and jeered by lads their own age, and through it all they tightly held each other’s hand, their faces so sad.” Madame Giry paused. “Do you think it right to find amusement in those who cannot help themselves, Monsieur?”
“No, Madame, I do not. But this man of whom you speak... whatever his talents, surely nature has made him a monster? Why else would he have done what he has?” Raoul asked.
“If he is a monster, and I do not believe that, then it is the world which is responsible. I know little enough of his life before we met, but I am aware that he has been shown nothing but anger and hatred by the people around him, and all because of his face. How can a child be expected to understand right from wrong if he is not taught? How can someone love another if they have no idea what love even is?”
There was a silence, and Meg held her breath. Eventually, the vicomte said, “Madame Giry, I only wish to protect Christine. If this man is a threat to her, then what can I do?”
“Persuade her to leave, for good this time. It may be the only way.” The ballet mistress sighed. “It may be the only way to protect both of them.”
________________________________________
The door opened, and Meg quickly scuttled to one side, barely avoiding her mother as she emerged, a lantern in her hand. She looked both ways along the corridor, frowning, and strode off, her heels clacking on the floorboards for some time after she had vanished from sight. Meg let out the breath she had been holding.
“Do you often eavesdrop, Mademoiselle?” a voice asked, and she jumped, spinning around to see Raoul standing behind her. So engrossed had she been in keeping herself hidden from Antoinette that she had not even heard him leaving the room. One hand on her thumping heart, she said,
“Sometimes it is the only way to learn the truth, Monsieur. If no one will talk to you, it is best to keep your eyes and ears open.”
The vicomte glanced up the passage in the direction Madame Giry had taken. “Why does she help him? Does he have some hold over her as well as Christine?”
“He saved her life,” Meg replied. “Relationships forged in adversity are often the strongest, I believe.”
“And what experience do you have of such things, Mademoiselle Giry?” Raoul enquired, his lips quirking in amusement.
She rounded on him, and he took a step back in surprise. “I read, I observe. You may think me young, but I have seen much of human life within these walls. Love, joy, fear, hope, pity, anger... my father died when I was just five years old, and I have spent almost all my time since then in this theatre with my mother, watching people come and go and seeing them in their good times and bad. Losing a parent makes you grow up quickly, Monsieur le Vicomte.” A sudden thought of Christine stilled her anger, and she added quietly, “And it can also make you lose yourself in dreams. For some it is easier than living in the real world and dealing with the pain.”
“What are we to do, Meg?” All trace of humour had flown from the vicomte’s face at the reference to Christine and the worry returned, making him look older. “How are we to save her from this man?”
Meg was startled by his use of her given name; she had not even realised that he knew it. “Surely the question should really be, does she wish to be saved?”
“Why would she not? He has threatened her, bewitched her – God damn it, he almost killed her!” he exclaimed.
“But does she see it that way? If she really were so frightened of him, would she have come back here tonight? Why not fly with you and forget he ever existed?”
Raoul’s eyebrows drew sharply together, and he regarded Meg suspiciously in the dim light. “She came because I asked her to; I thought it would do her good to enjoy herself instead of moping about the house. She has become far too pale and thin lately. What are you suggesting?”
Meg remembered Christine the night after the gala, the way she spoke about her ‘Angel of Music’. Yes, she had admitted to feeling fear, but Meg recalled the elation in her voice and how changed she seemed, no longer the shy, clumsy chorus girl but a leading lady. The ‘angel’ had transformed her, given her the confidence that she had lacked ever since she came to the Opera: confidence in herself. Meg did not see that in her friend now; Christine was a shadow of her former self. “There is a very thin line between love and hate, is there not?” she said.
“Surely you don’t mean she actually feels something for that... that creature?” Raoul asked in a hushed voice, eyes widening in horror at the prospect. “After all that he has done... could you care for such a man?”
Meg shrugged. “I’m not Christine. It’s what she believes that matters.”
________________________________________
Raoul left shortly after their exchange, looking more bewildered than ever and muttering under his breath.
Knowing that her mother would be gone for some time, Meg hung around backstage, avoiding the odd couple or two who had sneaked away from the wreckage of the party and taken advantage of the near-deserted darkness of the theatre. After practising a few movements and wishing she had thought to fetch her point shoes from the ballet rats’ dressing room, she found herself wandering out into the auditorium and standing alone on the stage.
Moonlight poured through the great skylight in the roof, its beams falling across the red velvet seats like bars upon a window. Beneath it hung the new chandelier, still shrouded in its tarpaulin; the Phantom’s appearance had prevented the triumphant unveiling. Meg sat on the edge of the stage for a while, enjoying the silence and taking in the vast room and the immaculate repairs which had been made. It would be so easy to believe that the events of that night in June had never happened.
At length, she reluctantly decided that it was time to go home. It must be after two in the morning by now, and several years’ experience told her that if her mother was with OG there was no telling when she would return. Though Meg had her suspicions as to the location of his home, she had no idea how to get there and even had she known, Antoinette would be livid if she arrived unannounced upon his doorstep. She made her way through the gloomy corridors towards the stage door, intending to wake Pierre the night watchman, who would doubtless be snoring in his booth by now, to let her out of the building.
As she passed Christine’s dressing room, however, she stopped, for the door stood ajar and she could hear the faint sound of someone weeping within. Hastily, Meg pushed the door fully open and there, in a pink and blue heap before the mirror was Christine herself, her face hidden by her hands and her shoulders heaving with each stifled sob. She looked somewhat the worse for wear, dust and cobwebs in her dark curls and her dress torn and dirty. Wondering where she could have been, Meg knelt beside her, taking Christine’s hands in hers and squeezing them tightly.
“Christine... Christine... whatever is the matter?” she asked gently.
Two tear-filled brown eyes were raised to meet hers. Christine tried to smile, but her face crumpled and she all but collapsed into Meg’s embrace. Little Giry held her without comment, rubbing Christine’s back in a comforting manner as her mother had always done when she was upset and murmuring reassurances.
“Oh, Meg, I’ve made such a mess of everything,” Christine said at last, wiping ineffectually at her eyes. Meg passed her a handkerchief and she dabbed at the make-up that had run in black rivulets down her hollow cheeks. “I’ve lost him. I think I’ve lost my angel forever.”
Meg opened her mouth to reply, but shut it again when she realised there was a pair of eyes peering at them through the gap where the mirror hadn’t completely shut behind her friend; curious, mismatched eyes that were somehow visible despite the shadows which shrouded their owner. He didn’t move, or speak, but she had felt his presence since her childhood and she recognised it now. A familiar cry, often started by her and taken up by the other petit rats, danced upon her lips and she mouthed the words:
He’s here, the Phantom of the Opera...
“Tell me what happened,” she said to Christine, deliberately deflecting her attention from the man watching them. “Tell me everything, and then maybe we can work a way out of this tangle.”
Christine sniffed. “I’m sorry, Meg. I wish I’d told you about it before, but he wouldn’t let me. I didn’t want to make him angry - ”
“That doesn’t matter,” Meg assured her. “Now, start at the beginning...”
As her friend began her tale, she glanced at the mirror again. This time, there was a faint light coming from behind the glass and she could see him, his white mask glowing ethereally in the surrounding darkness. He met her gaze for a long moment with that peculiar, almost hypnotic one of his own and then turned away, the gap closing soundlessly behind him.
Meg had the strangest feeling that she had somehow gained the Phantom’s approval.
