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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 24/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1763
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: An exchange of letters, and a surprise for Giry...
NOTES III
Christine had never actually been inside Box Five before.
She had looked up at it many times. In the beginning it was from a mixture of curiosity and trepidation whenever one of the ballet rats took up the chorus of ‘He’s here – the Phantom!’; more lately she had glanced in its direction in search of Erik, in the hope that he might be watching and show his approval of her performance. Now that she was here, she could understand his insistence that the box be left for his use alone – it commanded by far the best view of the stage and the auditorium as a whole, and there were plenty of deep shadows in which to hide. In fact, it was sumptuous and the opulence nearly took her breath away as she moved further inside, running a hand over the plush velvet of the seats and the heavy, draping curtains, her feet sinking into the thick, luxurious pile of the carpet. The brilliant, almost garish decoration with which the building was filled was as prevalent here as in the grand public rooms; little details caught her eye, carved fruit and musical instruments wound into the woodwork. She could see more clearly than ever the dramatic statues which adorned the proscenium and gave a slight shudder when she realised how sinister they appeared in the dim glow of the gas lamps. Beautiful when viewed from below and caught by the limelight, now they glared and leered at her and she found she had to look away.
Slowly, she made her way towards the single chair which stood at the front of the box, a chair which could only have been placed there for one person. It was a large chair, almost a throne with its blood red cushions and gilded legs. Christine imagined him sitting there alone, shrouded in darkness, his gaze fixed on the stage. Perhaps he steepled his fingers, his eyes gleaming as he contemplated the likely success or failure of the production before him. She could not help wondering how long he had been observing her inept and graceless attempts to be a ballerina before he came to her that night as her Angel. Colouring slightly with embarrassment at the memory, she hoped that he had not seen her trip and fall when they were rehearsing Romeo and Juliet; she became entangled with Meg and the whole ballet chorus had gone down like a row of dominoes. Madame had not been pleased that day, and Christine had nearly given up her theatrical career on the spot.
The envelope she carried crackled in her hand and she shook her head. All that had been some time ago, and the present was what mattered now. Rounding the chair and trying not to feel as though she might topple out of the box, she leant to lay the letter on its seat and was surprised to find one already there. Frowning, she picked it up, putting down her own in its place, and looked at it; the stationery was the kind she had seen before, ivory with a black border almost like that used after a death, and on the front was written ‘Antoinette’ in Erik’s large, looping hand.
A noise came from below and she jumped. Ducking carefully into the shadow cast by the curtains, she peered over the edge into the auditorium; a couple of the stage hands were pulling boxes from a trolley and talking loudly, discussing, as she realised a moment later, the night of the masquerade. Reluctant to listen to their gossip, Christine tucked the letter away in her bodice and slipped quietly into the passage, closing the door of the Phantom’s box behind her.
________________________________________
It was becoming so late that after three knocks she assumed that Madame Giry had gone home and was turning away when the door abruptly opened and the ballet mistress stood on the threshold. She looked surprised at the identity of her visitor, and, Christine thought, a little disappointed. Both emotions were quickly pushed aside, however, and she was ushered into the little office that was Madame Giry’s province when not on the stage or in the rehearsal rooms. It was obvious to both of them who Madame had really been expecting.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said in answer to Christine’s unspoken question, and stepped back to allow her into the room. “I thought that you might be... might be someone else. It doesn’t matter now.”
“I don’t think that particular someone would use the door,” Christine replied, and Madame smiled slightly.
“That is true.” She glanced at the far wall, and Christine could just see the narrow section of panelling that was a little lighter in colour than the rest. If she looked closer, she felt sure that she would be able to find the concealed hinges which allowed the wall-covering to swing open much like the mirror in her dressing room. “The first time he came to me here, I was taken by surprise and thought that he had appeared out of thin air. He always delighted in wrong-footing me.” A sharp black gaze was turned in Christine’s direction. “Have you seen him?”
Christine said nothing, instead holding out the envelope she had found in Box Five.
With a puzzled expression, Madame took the note. She opened it and stared at the contents for a long moment, before, much to Christine’s shock and astonishment, she burst into tears. Quickly the young singer pulled out a handkerchief and offered it; Madame Giry took the square of cambric and lace gratefully and dabbing at her eyes passed Christine the letter. On the page, in that familiar bold handwriting, were just two words:
Thank you.
“He has never said it before,” the ballet mistress said hoarsely. “All these years, after everything I’ve done for him, he never thanked me. I suppose he never thought he needed to, or that I... I just... I just don’t - ” Her voice cracked and she began to cry again. Christine did her best to offer comfort, drawing up a chair and running off to fetch a cup of tea; she had never seen Madame so vulnerable and it unnerved her.
Eventually, the ballet mistress regained some of her composure. She took a sip of the tea, heavily sweetened with three spoonfuls of sugar, and glanced at Christine who was hovering at her shoulder in concern. “What has happened?” she asked. “This sudden change in Erik... something must be responsible for it. Is it your doing, Christine?”
Indirectly, Christine supposed, it might be. When she said those words to Erik in anger, threatened to cut him out of her life, she had not thought that they would have any effect upon him. He had spared Raoul, it was true, but the venomous cry hurled in their direction as they left could still send a shiver down her spine. Madame Giry was regarding her curiously, and so she briefly explained what had taken place between them beside her father’s grave.
“So Erik let him live.” Madame said. “I hope the vicomte knows how lucky he is.”
“He thinks of nothing but capturing the Phantom,” Christine responded bitterly. “No matter what I do I cannot dissuade him from this ridiculous scheme. Even my refusing to perform makes no difference.”
“Refusing to... You would do that for him? Stand up to them all, risk your career?” The ballet mistress stood, taking Christine’s hands in her own and squeezing them. Her dark eyes searched her former pupil’s face. “You would do that for Erik? Truly?”
“I cannot let them do this to him. Whatever has happened, whatever he has or hasn’t done, he does not deserve to be humiliated in such a way.”
“The opera. Don Juan Triumphant.” Madame Giry’s face was haunted, paler than ever against her stark black dress as a kind of horrified realisation dawned upon her. “A desecration of his life’s work... It would break him forever.”
Such a scenario had not occurred to Christine. She remembered finding the manuscript on the piano, opening it and being astounded and discomfited by the passion she discovered within the pages. Erik had come up behind her, startling her from the reverie into which she had sunk, and carefully removed the score from her hands, replacing it almost lovingly on the music stand. She could clearly see his long white fingers as they gently stroked the leather binding.
“My magnum opus, Christine,” he had said. “My Don Juan. He burns, but one day you shall hear him. One day everyone will hear him. He will stand as a fitting testament to my worthless life.”
Erik had poured his heart and soul into that opera. Doubtless the six month absence of the Phantom had been spent finishing that work which had been his major creative outlet for so long, a focus for him in his loneliness and solitude. And now that it was done, it was to be used against him. His masterpiece was to be his downfall!
“Madame Giry, what can we do?” Christine asked, grasping the ballet mistress’s hands tightly. “Raoul and the others... they won’t be content with capturing the Phantom. They mean to kill him!”
“Oh, Mon Dieu! We must warn him!” Madame Giry paced the office, obviously thinking desperately. Christine watched her, twisting the chain around her neck. “He has sealed all the entrances to the tunnels but the mirror in your room. Do you know how to open it?”
Christine shook her head. “I could never work the pivot. But I daren’t try to reach him that way – Raoul might see and he is so angry I would not want to lead him below. I’m afraid of what he might do.” Or rather, what Erik might to do him if he is provoked once more, she added silently.
“You must speak with him, Christine, tell him that he has to leave the Opera, to leave Paris, and as quickly as possible. Flight is his only chance of survival; if the police become involved there will be no reprieve for him, no mercy.” Madame crossed quickly to her desk and took up a pen, pulling a sheet of paper towards her as she spoke. “I will leave him a note in Box Five and hope that he finds it in time.”
Stepping forward, Christine stayed her hand as she began to write. “There’s no need for that, Madame. I left him a note half an hour ago, asking him to meet me on the roof.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1763
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: An exchange of letters, and a surprise for Giry...
NOTES III
Christine had never actually been inside Box Five before.
She had looked up at it many times. In the beginning it was from a mixture of curiosity and trepidation whenever one of the ballet rats took up the chorus of ‘He’s here – the Phantom!’; more lately she had glanced in its direction in search of Erik, in the hope that he might be watching and show his approval of her performance. Now that she was here, she could understand his insistence that the box be left for his use alone – it commanded by far the best view of the stage and the auditorium as a whole, and there were plenty of deep shadows in which to hide. In fact, it was sumptuous and the opulence nearly took her breath away as she moved further inside, running a hand over the plush velvet of the seats and the heavy, draping curtains, her feet sinking into the thick, luxurious pile of the carpet. The brilliant, almost garish decoration with which the building was filled was as prevalent here as in the grand public rooms; little details caught her eye, carved fruit and musical instruments wound into the woodwork. She could see more clearly than ever the dramatic statues which adorned the proscenium and gave a slight shudder when she realised how sinister they appeared in the dim glow of the gas lamps. Beautiful when viewed from below and caught by the limelight, now they glared and leered at her and she found she had to look away.
Slowly, she made her way towards the single chair which stood at the front of the box, a chair which could only have been placed there for one person. It was a large chair, almost a throne with its blood red cushions and gilded legs. Christine imagined him sitting there alone, shrouded in darkness, his gaze fixed on the stage. Perhaps he steepled his fingers, his eyes gleaming as he contemplated the likely success or failure of the production before him. She could not help wondering how long he had been observing her inept and graceless attempts to be a ballerina before he came to her that night as her Angel. Colouring slightly with embarrassment at the memory, she hoped that he had not seen her trip and fall when they were rehearsing Romeo and Juliet; she became entangled with Meg and the whole ballet chorus had gone down like a row of dominoes. Madame had not been pleased that day, and Christine had nearly given up her theatrical career on the spot.
The envelope she carried crackled in her hand and she shook her head. All that had been some time ago, and the present was what mattered now. Rounding the chair and trying not to feel as though she might topple out of the box, she leant to lay the letter on its seat and was surprised to find one already there. Frowning, she picked it up, putting down her own in its place, and looked at it; the stationery was the kind she had seen before, ivory with a black border almost like that used after a death, and on the front was written ‘Antoinette’ in Erik’s large, looping hand.
A noise came from below and she jumped. Ducking carefully into the shadow cast by the curtains, she peered over the edge into the auditorium; a couple of the stage hands were pulling boxes from a trolley and talking loudly, discussing, as she realised a moment later, the night of the masquerade. Reluctant to listen to their gossip, Christine tucked the letter away in her bodice and slipped quietly into the passage, closing the door of the Phantom’s box behind her.
________________________________________
It was becoming so late that after three knocks she assumed that Madame Giry had gone home and was turning away when the door abruptly opened and the ballet mistress stood on the threshold. She looked surprised at the identity of her visitor, and, Christine thought, a little disappointed. Both emotions were quickly pushed aside, however, and she was ushered into the little office that was Madame Giry’s province when not on the stage or in the rehearsal rooms. It was obvious to both of them who Madame had really been expecting.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said in answer to Christine’s unspoken question, and stepped back to allow her into the room. “I thought that you might be... might be someone else. It doesn’t matter now.”
“I don’t think that particular someone would use the door,” Christine replied, and Madame smiled slightly.
“That is true.” She glanced at the far wall, and Christine could just see the narrow section of panelling that was a little lighter in colour than the rest. If she looked closer, she felt sure that she would be able to find the concealed hinges which allowed the wall-covering to swing open much like the mirror in her dressing room. “The first time he came to me here, I was taken by surprise and thought that he had appeared out of thin air. He always delighted in wrong-footing me.” A sharp black gaze was turned in Christine’s direction. “Have you seen him?”
Christine said nothing, instead holding out the envelope she had found in Box Five.
With a puzzled expression, Madame took the note. She opened it and stared at the contents for a long moment, before, much to Christine’s shock and astonishment, she burst into tears. Quickly the young singer pulled out a handkerchief and offered it; Madame Giry took the square of cambric and lace gratefully and dabbing at her eyes passed Christine the letter. On the page, in that familiar bold handwriting, were just two words:
“He has never said it before,” the ballet mistress said hoarsely. “All these years, after everything I’ve done for him, he never thanked me. I suppose he never thought he needed to, or that I... I just... I just don’t - ” Her voice cracked and she began to cry again. Christine did her best to offer comfort, drawing up a chair and running off to fetch a cup of tea; she had never seen Madame so vulnerable and it unnerved her.
Eventually, the ballet mistress regained some of her composure. She took a sip of the tea, heavily sweetened with three spoonfuls of sugar, and glanced at Christine who was hovering at her shoulder in concern. “What has happened?” she asked. “This sudden change in Erik... something must be responsible for it. Is it your doing, Christine?”
Indirectly, Christine supposed, it might be. When she said those words to Erik in anger, threatened to cut him out of her life, she had not thought that they would have any effect upon him. He had spared Raoul, it was true, but the venomous cry hurled in their direction as they left could still send a shiver down her spine. Madame Giry was regarding her curiously, and so she briefly explained what had taken place between them beside her father’s grave.
“So Erik let him live.” Madame said. “I hope the vicomte knows how lucky he is.”
“He thinks of nothing but capturing the Phantom,” Christine responded bitterly. “No matter what I do I cannot dissuade him from this ridiculous scheme. Even my refusing to perform makes no difference.”
“Refusing to... You would do that for him? Stand up to them all, risk your career?” The ballet mistress stood, taking Christine’s hands in her own and squeezing them. Her dark eyes searched her former pupil’s face. “You would do that for Erik? Truly?”
“I cannot let them do this to him. Whatever has happened, whatever he has or hasn’t done, he does not deserve to be humiliated in such a way.”
“The opera. Don Juan Triumphant.” Madame Giry’s face was haunted, paler than ever against her stark black dress as a kind of horrified realisation dawned upon her. “A desecration of his life’s work... It would break him forever.”
Such a scenario had not occurred to Christine. She remembered finding the manuscript on the piano, opening it and being astounded and discomfited by the passion she discovered within the pages. Erik had come up behind her, startling her from the reverie into which she had sunk, and carefully removed the score from her hands, replacing it almost lovingly on the music stand. She could clearly see his long white fingers as they gently stroked the leather binding.
“My magnum opus, Christine,” he had said. “My Don Juan. He burns, but one day you shall hear him. One day everyone will hear him. He will stand as a fitting testament to my worthless life.”
Erik had poured his heart and soul into that opera. Doubtless the six month absence of the Phantom had been spent finishing that work which had been his major creative outlet for so long, a focus for him in his loneliness and solitude. And now that it was done, it was to be used against him. His masterpiece was to be his downfall!
“Madame Giry, what can we do?” Christine asked, grasping the ballet mistress’s hands tightly. “Raoul and the others... they won’t be content with capturing the Phantom. They mean to kill him!”
“Oh, Mon Dieu! We must warn him!” Madame Giry paced the office, obviously thinking desperately. Christine watched her, twisting the chain around her neck. “He has sealed all the entrances to the tunnels but the mirror in your room. Do you know how to open it?”
Christine shook her head. “I could never work the pivot. But I daren’t try to reach him that way – Raoul might see and he is so angry I would not want to lead him below. I’m afraid of what he might do.” Or rather, what Erik might to do him if he is provoked once more, she added silently.
“You must speak with him, Christine, tell him that he has to leave the Opera, to leave Paris, and as quickly as possible. Flight is his only chance of survival; if the police become involved there will be no reprieve for him, no mercy.” Madame crossed quickly to her desk and took up a pen, pulling a sheet of paper towards her as she spoke. “I will leave him a note in Box Five and hope that he finds it in time.”
Stepping forward, Christine stayed her hand as she began to write. “There’s no need for that, Madame. I left him a note half an hour ago, asking him to meet me on the roof.”
