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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 33/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2004
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny, Monsieur Andre, Monsieur Firmin
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: What happened after the gun went off...
THE ROAD TO HELL
(PART TWO)
Even amidst the commotion, the shot was loud.
Meg had never heard a real gun fired, not from such close quarters, and compared with the prop pistols used in the theatre it was deafening. She watched, helplessly, as the bullet flew across the stage; it seemed so incredibly slow, time running on the wrong speed, as it almost hit Christine, brushing through her hair. Behind her, in the act of reaching for one of the vicomte’s men who had strayed too close, his Punjab lasso in his hand, the Phantom stiffened, his eyes flickering momentarily in shock before he turned and grabbed Christine to him, pressing her cheek against his chest. Before Meg’s astonished eyes a trapdoor that had most certainly not been there before opened in the stage and the two of them vanished in a swirl of black.
“Christine!” Raoul was there, in the orchestra pit. He started forwards, but Christine was gone; whirling back to the marksman who Meg realised must have been there among the musicians all along, he snatched the revolver from the hapless youth’s hand. “You fool! You might have hit Mademoiselle Daae! I thought I told you to shoot only when the right moment came?”
“I’m sorry, Monsieur le Vicomte!” the poor man cried, quailing before Raoul’s anger. “But how was I to know which moment was the right one?”
Disgusted, the vicomte tossed the gun to one side. As the curtain belatedly fell, blocking out the sight of the audience buzzing like an overturned beehive, he hoisted himself up onto the stage, crossing to the spot from which the Phantom and Christine had disappeared. It was surrounded by some of the more senior stagehands, the managers hovering on the fringes and peering over their shoulders. Beyond them, the rest of the company stood around aimlessly in groups of two or three; the ballerinas had gathered together and were chattering loudly, peering up with exaggerated squeals of fear into the flies as though the Opera Ghost might suddenly return and snatch them away, too. Meg looked for her mother, but all she could see was a cane lying on the boards; of Madame Giry there was no sign.
“Well?” Raoul asked. “Can we get down there?”
Pierre, the head scenery-shifter, glanced up from his examination of the stage. “I can’t find any trace of an opening, Monsieur; it’s as if there was never a door here at all!”
“How is that possible?”
“It must be a mechanism of the Ghost’s own design.” Pierre shrugged. “I’ve no idea how it works, or where it leads.”
“Does it matter?” Andre enquired tremulously. “The Phantom has what he wanted – perhaps now he’ll leave us alone!”
The vicomte rounded on him, forcing the nervous manager to take a pace backwards. “So you think the loss of Mademoiselle Daae a worthy sacrifice for your peace of mind, do you?” he demanded. “Just to make life easier for yourself, you would leave her with him? That maniac has already killed one person in this theatre – who is to say that he won’t harm her now he has her in his clutches? And where are La Carlotta and Signor Piangi? Has the Phantom taken them, too?”
“He’d never be able to carry Carlotta off,” one of the men muttered with a grin, jabbing his fellow in the ribs with his elbow. He sobered immediately when Raoul shot him a glare.
Firmin stepped between his partner and de Chagny, puffing up like a red-faced peacock. “Now look here, Monsieur,” he blustered, “Don’t forget that this whole charade was your idea. You promised us that the Phantom would be dealt with, and now here we are with empty hands, three missing singers and the prospect of having to refund an entire house – again! The queues at the box office have already begun – we will be ruined, sir, ruined!”
“You agreed to the plan – both of you!” Raoul countered. “You wanted the Phantom caught!”
“Of course! But at the end of the show, Monsieur, at the end! After the curtain fell! Just think of the revenue - ”
“I don’t have time for this.” The vicomte walked away, but before he had taken two strides he seemed to change his mind and turned back to the managers. “May I remind you, Messieurs, whose patronage it was that kept this theatre in business despite your appalling mismanagement? Without the de Chagny name, not to mention our sizeable cheques, you would have been ruined months ago, despite the Phantom!”
Andre’s mouth fell open.
“Monsieur le Vicomte!” Firmin protested, but Raoul ignored him.
“Someone was hit by that bullet,” Pierre announced, cutting across the argument. “There’s blood on the boards.”
“Dear God.” All the colour drained from Raoul’s face and he bent down beside the stagehand to see for himself. There was a long pause, and then he said sharply, “Someone get an axe. We’ll cut our way through.”
The managers squawked at the prospect of yet more damage to the building but no one took any notice. Pierre and one of the firemen left to fetch the requested tool as Remy, Firmin’s secretary, ran out from the wings, crying desperately that the crowd in the foyer was becoming increasingly ugly and wanting to know whether he should call the police before someone was hurt. Andre and Firmin together turned their anger on the unfortunate young man, who had spent the performance in his office and consequently had no idea what was going on. As Firmin stalked into the wings declaring that, since two of the four acts had been played out when the opera came abruptly to an end, no one would be refunded more than half their entrance fee, Raoul was left momentarily alone and Meg took the opportunity to run quickly to his side.
“Monsieur le Vicomte?” she hissed in his ear.
He glanced up in surprise. “Mademoiselle Giry! What - ?”
Meg put a finger to her lips. “If you come with me, I may be able to take you to Christine. But we must be quick!”
“You can? But - ” Raoul stared at her, bewildered. “Do you know where they are?”
“Not exactly, no, but I think I know how to get down into the cellars. Follow me!” Boldly, she caught hold of his hand; startled, he allowed her to drag him to his feet and across the stage, behind the curtain and flats which made up the Don Juan set and through the wings, heading for the passages beyond. One or two members of the cast saw them and shouted ribald comments about the fickleness of love and how one ballerina was much like another; Meg paid them no heed, intent on reaching Christine’s dressing room before her mother could vanish below.
“Mademoiselle Giry – Meg – where are we going?” Raoul asked, having to half-walk, half-run to keep in time with her pace. “Meg, please, tell me - ”
“The Phantom has passageways all over the building; that’s how he comes and goes as he pleases without being seen. Christine told me that the Angel of Music was teaching her in her dressing room, that she heard his voice there,” Meg said, not slowing for even a moment. Past the dancers’ communal space, and the chorus rooms; on the left was Piangi’s, and next to that Carlotta’s chamber, the biggest in the building, the door standing open to reveal a half-open wardrobe with empty hangers and a dressing table cleared of bottles and potions. It seemed that, whatever the reason for her sudden departure, the diva had gone for good. Meg found it hard to feel sorry. “I saw him myself, on the night of the masquerade: I saw him there, in the mirror.”
“He was behind you, hiding in the room? The blackguard! Are there no lengths to which he will not go?”
Meg shook her head impatiently. “No, I saw him in the mirror. I don’t know how, but he was watching me through the glass. He held my gaze for a moment before he just vanished, and there was my own reflection looking back at me.”
“You think this man is a magician?” Raoul did not sound particularly convinced.
“I know he is. But it wasn’t magic that helped him to take Christine away after the gala.” Meg glanced over her shoulder to see that his expression matched his sceptical tone. She broke into a run, forcing him to increase his own pace. Ahead of them the door of Christine’s room was slightly ajar, a candle flame flickering within; Meg pushed it fully open, ready to rush inside.
She was brought up short on the threshold, Raoul running right into her back, when she saw her mother standing in front of the very mirror they had just been discussing, the light blossoming and becoming stronger, silhouetting Madame Giry’s dark figure against the glass. Raoul tried to move forwards, but Meg lifted a hand, holding him back, watching in fascination as the mirror seemed to suddenly and impossibly rise an inch or two into the air. Before their eyes it began to turn, pivoting around to reveal a brickwork tunnel beyond, illuminated by the lantern held by a shadowy form which stood within. A hand shot out, a hand whose wrist was encircled by bright painted bangles; it took hold of Madame Giry’s sleeve, and the two of them moved further into the tunnel as the mirror swung slowly shut. For a moment, by some clever trick of the light, they could be seen clearly through the glass as had the Phantom on New Year’s Eve, and Meg recognised the small figure with the lantern. Her dress was dirty and dishevelled, her white face drawn with anxiety, but she was alive.
“Christine!” Raoul exclaimed, all but shoving Meg aside in his haste as he leapt towards the mirror. He was too late; the light faded and the two women were gone, leaving nothing but reflections to mock those left behind. Frustrated, he slammed a hand against the glass, and swore vehemently. “Why did you not let me go to her?” he demanded.
“Because we don’t know what has happened,” Meg said calmly, moving the stool from Christine’s dressing table in front of the mirror and climbing onto it, taking the candle with her. “We could have made things worse by rushing in.”
Raoul watched her, his eyes wide and frantic, as she ran her hand across the gilded frame. “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for the way through,” she told him, her fingers moving delicately over the moulding. “There must be a way to open it from this side.”
Behind her she could hear him pacing back and forth in frustration as she worked methodically around the mirror; every so often his reflection, ghostly in the dim light, passed across its surface. For someone used to having servants jump to his every command, the waiting must have been torture. Eventually, he stopped, one hand tangled in his hair. “This delay is insane!” he exclaimed. “Could we not just smash the glass?”
“Monsieur le Vicomte, you must learn something about stealth,” said Meg, her heart leaping as she felt something in the frame give beneath her touch. “To catch a Phantom, one must think like a Phantom.”
With a faint grating sound, the mirror began to move again, lifting as she could now see on almost invisible tracks and moving away from the wall. She stood well back, Raoul at her side, as it turned like one of the revolving doors which guarded the entrances to the most exclusive hotels, scattering shards of light from her candle about the room. Their images in the glass distorted as if caught in a fairground mirror, and then, with a blast of cold air and the faint smell of water, the passage stretched before them.
“Open Sesame!” Meg smiled triumphantly and waved a hand towards the tunnel. “Shall we?”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2004
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Meg Giry, Raoul de Chagny, Monsieur Andre, Monsieur Firmin
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: What happened after the gun went off...
THE ROAD TO HELL
(PART TWO)
Even amidst the commotion, the shot was loud.
Meg had never heard a real gun fired, not from such close quarters, and compared with the prop pistols used in the theatre it was deafening. She watched, helplessly, as the bullet flew across the stage; it seemed so incredibly slow, time running on the wrong speed, as it almost hit Christine, brushing through her hair. Behind her, in the act of reaching for one of the vicomte’s men who had strayed too close, his Punjab lasso in his hand, the Phantom stiffened, his eyes flickering momentarily in shock before he turned and grabbed Christine to him, pressing her cheek against his chest. Before Meg’s astonished eyes a trapdoor that had most certainly not been there before opened in the stage and the two of them vanished in a swirl of black.
“Christine!” Raoul was there, in the orchestra pit. He started forwards, but Christine was gone; whirling back to the marksman who Meg realised must have been there among the musicians all along, he snatched the revolver from the hapless youth’s hand. “You fool! You might have hit Mademoiselle Daae! I thought I told you to shoot only when the right moment came?”
“I’m sorry, Monsieur le Vicomte!” the poor man cried, quailing before Raoul’s anger. “But how was I to know which moment was the right one?”
Disgusted, the vicomte tossed the gun to one side. As the curtain belatedly fell, blocking out the sight of the audience buzzing like an overturned beehive, he hoisted himself up onto the stage, crossing to the spot from which the Phantom and Christine had disappeared. It was surrounded by some of the more senior stagehands, the managers hovering on the fringes and peering over their shoulders. Beyond them, the rest of the company stood around aimlessly in groups of two or three; the ballerinas had gathered together and were chattering loudly, peering up with exaggerated squeals of fear into the flies as though the Opera Ghost might suddenly return and snatch them away, too. Meg looked for her mother, but all she could see was a cane lying on the boards; of Madame Giry there was no sign.
“Well?” Raoul asked. “Can we get down there?”
Pierre, the head scenery-shifter, glanced up from his examination of the stage. “I can’t find any trace of an opening, Monsieur; it’s as if there was never a door here at all!”
“How is that possible?”
“It must be a mechanism of the Ghost’s own design.” Pierre shrugged. “I’ve no idea how it works, or where it leads.”
“Does it matter?” Andre enquired tremulously. “The Phantom has what he wanted – perhaps now he’ll leave us alone!”
The vicomte rounded on him, forcing the nervous manager to take a pace backwards. “So you think the loss of Mademoiselle Daae a worthy sacrifice for your peace of mind, do you?” he demanded. “Just to make life easier for yourself, you would leave her with him? That maniac has already killed one person in this theatre – who is to say that he won’t harm her now he has her in his clutches? And where are La Carlotta and Signor Piangi? Has the Phantom taken them, too?”
“He’d never be able to carry Carlotta off,” one of the men muttered with a grin, jabbing his fellow in the ribs with his elbow. He sobered immediately when Raoul shot him a glare.
Firmin stepped between his partner and de Chagny, puffing up like a red-faced peacock. “Now look here, Monsieur,” he blustered, “Don’t forget that this whole charade was your idea. You promised us that the Phantom would be dealt with, and now here we are with empty hands, three missing singers and the prospect of having to refund an entire house – again! The queues at the box office have already begun – we will be ruined, sir, ruined!”
“You agreed to the plan – both of you!” Raoul countered. “You wanted the Phantom caught!”
“Of course! But at the end of the show, Monsieur, at the end! After the curtain fell! Just think of the revenue - ”
“I don’t have time for this.” The vicomte walked away, but before he had taken two strides he seemed to change his mind and turned back to the managers. “May I remind you, Messieurs, whose patronage it was that kept this theatre in business despite your appalling mismanagement? Without the de Chagny name, not to mention our sizeable cheques, you would have been ruined months ago, despite the Phantom!”
Andre’s mouth fell open.
“Monsieur le Vicomte!” Firmin protested, but Raoul ignored him.
“Someone was hit by that bullet,” Pierre announced, cutting across the argument. “There’s blood on the boards.”
“Dear God.” All the colour drained from Raoul’s face and he bent down beside the stagehand to see for himself. There was a long pause, and then he said sharply, “Someone get an axe. We’ll cut our way through.”
The managers squawked at the prospect of yet more damage to the building but no one took any notice. Pierre and one of the firemen left to fetch the requested tool as Remy, Firmin’s secretary, ran out from the wings, crying desperately that the crowd in the foyer was becoming increasingly ugly and wanting to know whether he should call the police before someone was hurt. Andre and Firmin together turned their anger on the unfortunate young man, who had spent the performance in his office and consequently had no idea what was going on. As Firmin stalked into the wings declaring that, since two of the four acts had been played out when the opera came abruptly to an end, no one would be refunded more than half their entrance fee, Raoul was left momentarily alone and Meg took the opportunity to run quickly to his side.
“Monsieur le Vicomte?” she hissed in his ear.
He glanced up in surprise. “Mademoiselle Giry! What - ?”
Meg put a finger to her lips. “If you come with me, I may be able to take you to Christine. But we must be quick!”
“You can? But - ” Raoul stared at her, bewildered. “Do you know where they are?”
“Not exactly, no, but I think I know how to get down into the cellars. Follow me!” Boldly, she caught hold of his hand; startled, he allowed her to drag him to his feet and across the stage, behind the curtain and flats which made up the Don Juan set and through the wings, heading for the passages beyond. One or two members of the cast saw them and shouted ribald comments about the fickleness of love and how one ballerina was much like another; Meg paid them no heed, intent on reaching Christine’s dressing room before her mother could vanish below.
“Mademoiselle Giry – Meg – where are we going?” Raoul asked, having to half-walk, half-run to keep in time with her pace. “Meg, please, tell me - ”
“The Phantom has passageways all over the building; that’s how he comes and goes as he pleases without being seen. Christine told me that the Angel of Music was teaching her in her dressing room, that she heard his voice there,” Meg said, not slowing for even a moment. Past the dancers’ communal space, and the chorus rooms; on the left was Piangi’s, and next to that Carlotta’s chamber, the biggest in the building, the door standing open to reveal a half-open wardrobe with empty hangers and a dressing table cleared of bottles and potions. It seemed that, whatever the reason for her sudden departure, the diva had gone for good. Meg found it hard to feel sorry. “I saw him myself, on the night of the masquerade: I saw him there, in the mirror.”
“He was behind you, hiding in the room? The blackguard! Are there no lengths to which he will not go?”
Meg shook her head impatiently. “No, I saw him in the mirror. I don’t know how, but he was watching me through the glass. He held my gaze for a moment before he just vanished, and there was my own reflection looking back at me.”
“You think this man is a magician?” Raoul did not sound particularly convinced.
“I know he is. But it wasn’t magic that helped him to take Christine away after the gala.” Meg glanced over her shoulder to see that his expression matched his sceptical tone. She broke into a run, forcing him to increase his own pace. Ahead of them the door of Christine’s room was slightly ajar, a candle flame flickering within; Meg pushed it fully open, ready to rush inside.
She was brought up short on the threshold, Raoul running right into her back, when she saw her mother standing in front of the very mirror they had just been discussing, the light blossoming and becoming stronger, silhouetting Madame Giry’s dark figure against the glass. Raoul tried to move forwards, but Meg lifted a hand, holding him back, watching in fascination as the mirror seemed to suddenly and impossibly rise an inch or two into the air. Before their eyes it began to turn, pivoting around to reveal a brickwork tunnel beyond, illuminated by the lantern held by a shadowy form which stood within. A hand shot out, a hand whose wrist was encircled by bright painted bangles; it took hold of Madame Giry’s sleeve, and the two of them moved further into the tunnel as the mirror swung slowly shut. For a moment, by some clever trick of the light, they could be seen clearly through the glass as had the Phantom on New Year’s Eve, and Meg recognised the small figure with the lantern. Her dress was dirty and dishevelled, her white face drawn with anxiety, but she was alive.
“Christine!” Raoul exclaimed, all but shoving Meg aside in his haste as he leapt towards the mirror. He was too late; the light faded and the two women were gone, leaving nothing but reflections to mock those left behind. Frustrated, he slammed a hand against the glass, and swore vehemently. “Why did you not let me go to her?” he demanded.
“Because we don’t know what has happened,” Meg said calmly, moving the stool from Christine’s dressing table in front of the mirror and climbing onto it, taking the candle with her. “We could have made things worse by rushing in.”
Raoul watched her, his eyes wide and frantic, as she ran her hand across the gilded frame. “What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for the way through,” she told him, her fingers moving delicately over the moulding. “There must be a way to open it from this side.”
Behind her she could hear him pacing back and forth in frustration as she worked methodically around the mirror; every so often his reflection, ghostly in the dim light, passed across its surface. For someone used to having servants jump to his every command, the waiting must have been torture. Eventually, he stopped, one hand tangled in his hair. “This delay is insane!” he exclaimed. “Could we not just smash the glass?”
“Monsieur le Vicomte, you must learn something about stealth,” said Meg, her heart leaping as she felt something in the frame give beneath her touch. “To catch a Phantom, one must think like a Phantom.”
With a faint grating sound, the mirror began to move again, lifting as she could now see on almost invisible tracks and moving away from the wall. She stood well back, Raoul at her side, as it turned like one of the revolving doors which guarded the entrances to the most exclusive hotels, scattering shards of light from her candle about the room. Their images in the glass distorted as if caught in a fairground mirror, and then, with a blast of cold air and the faint smell of water, the passage stretched before them.
“Open Sesame!” Meg smiled triumphantly and waved a hand towards the tunnel. “Shall we?”
