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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 34/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1851
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: 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: Poor Andre has finally reached the end of his tether...
END OF THE LINE
“Oh, this is a nightmare, a nightmare!”
Andre turned away from the sight of the grand foyer full of angry patrons all demanding their money back, unable to watch any longer. The firemen who had been drafted in to assist with the capture of the Phantom were attempting to keep order, forming a line which prevented anyone from getting close to the box office, but they were buckling under the press of people and something would have to be done soon in order to prevent a riot. Normally those who attended performances at the Populaire were sedate, cultured people, or the kind who came not for the music but to see and be seen; the tension in the air and the emotions running high had had an effect on more than just the cast, that much was obvious.
“Get me the Chief Commissioner of Police on the telephone,” Andre told Remy, who was hovering at his elbow, in an undertone. “Perhaps he can stop them tearing the place apart.”
The secretary nodded, and hurried off; Andre followed at a slower pace, still unable to believe the madness that had descended on the theatre that evening. He had wanted to put a stop to the Phantom’s tricks and threats, yes, and the vicomte’s plan seemed like a good idea at the time, but where had it left them? In an even bigger mess than they had been before! In his heart of hearts, Andre knew that he was not cut out for this sort of thing; he had agreed to take on the Opera only after a great deal of persuasion from Firmin and his cousin, a junior minister of the Arts. It seemed like a good investment, as the Populaire had been riding high for many years – after such a triumph as the previous season’s, when Carlotta brought the house down as Marguerite in Faust, he believed he could not lose. The truth, however, was hard to swallow: in taking over the management they were offered a deal with the Devil, and not accepting had brought disaster upon the whole company. Andre realised now that the Opera’s success had been due to Phantom, not to Lefevre or any of the men who came before him. In disregarding his commands, ignoring his obvious expertise, they floundered like the amateurs they were, as Piangi had recognised on the very morning of their arrival.
How could they go on? Christine Daae was gone, spirited below and out of reach. The dressing rooms of La Carlotta and the Signor had been checked, and one of the runners found a letter addressed to the managers in which the diva announced her intention to return to Italy immediately. She was breaking the terms of her contract, but she felt sure that such behaviour would be overlooked given the trials she had been forced to suffer over the past year. Added in a hasty postscript was a declaration that she would make sure that their names were muddied forever in the world of opera, that everyone would be aware of their ineptitude so that they might never again be given such a great responsibility as they were quite obviously unable to cope; she wished them well of their ‘skinny, wide-eyed little tart’ and expected her outstanding salary to be paid by the end of the month. It was quite clear that she would never again be darkening their door.
Andre felt a headache coming on. He rubbed his temples furiously as he passed the entrance to the Royal Circle, but stopped as the sound of breaking wood assaulted his ears. Opening the door, he walked to the front of the balcony to see that the Don Juan set had been pushed aside and Pierre and two of the other stagehands were attacking the boards with axes and saws. His heart nearly leapt out of his mouth at the sight of the damage they had already wreaked and he waved his arms desperately, trying to attract their attention.
“Good God, man, what are you doing?” he demanded, his voice emerging two octaves higher than he intended. “Stop! Stop it at once!”
They halted in their work, and looked up in surprise. “It’s the vicomte’s orders, Monsieur,” Pierre said, face creasing in confusion. “He wanted us to - ”
Andre remembered the command being given, moments before he chased Firmin and Remy from the stage; there had been no time to countermand it. “Where is the vicomte?”
One of the men shrugged. Pierre glanced at the other, who shook his head. “Last time we saw him, he was with Little Meg,” Pierre replied. “Neither of ‘em has been back here. Shall we carry on, sir? The Phantom - ”
“I don’t give a damn about the Phantom!” It was a petulant outburst, but Andre didn’t care. “All I’ve heard since I first arrived in this godforsaken place is that man’s name. Everything has been the fault of the Phantom! Well, I will tell you now that your precious Opera Ghost has signed this theatre’s death warrant. Come tomorrow you’ll all be out of a job; the Populaire can continue no longer!”
The men stared at each other in astonishment. Pierre put down his axe and moved to the front of the stage, where he could clearly see the quivering manager.
“Allow me to tell you something, Monsieur,” he said, his voice carrying across the empty auditorium, “When the management cooperated with the Phantom, we played to packed houses every night. Say what you will about his methods, no one can deny that he knows opera and he always wanted us to be the best. Whenever he made a suggestion, the managers acted upon it and they were never wrong to do so. They may have been a little frightened of him, but he made them rich. He would have done the same for you, too, if you’d listened to him.”
“How dare you - ” Andre began, but the other two stagehands made noises of agreement.
“If anyone’s brought disaster upon this theatre, Monsieur, it’s you,” Pierre added. He folded his arms, steadily meeting Andre’s gaze. “It’s only since you arrived that things began to go wrong. Madame Giry warned you!”
“Madame Giry is a madwoman in the Phantom’s pay. There is no place for her here any longer; neither will I accept the return of her daughter or Mademoiselle Daae to their positions. And you may all leave now; you will find your cards waiting for you in the office tomorrow morning.” Andre’s hands clenched into fists and his fragile self-control snapped as they just stood there looking at him. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on! Get out! And take everyone else with you!”
Wordlessly, the three men put aside their tools and walked from the stage, leaving the big hole in the boards behind them. Andre turned and fled the auditorium, heading upstairs to the office and hopefully sanity. To his surprise the door was ajar; he entered the room to find the safe wide open and a Gladstone bag on the desk, Firmin transferring neat bundles of francs from one to the other. He glanced up, startled by the sudden appearance of his partner, and froze.
Andre stood on the threshold for a long moment, speechless at the sight before his eyes. Firmin was wearing his coat and hat, and it was quite clear where his intentions lay. If he looked out of the window Andre was sure that he would see a hansom cab waiting on the Rue Scribe.
“When were you going to tell me?” he asked, somehow managing to keep his tone level. “Should I have expected a postcard from America, or Australia perhaps? The latter would be appropriate; the British have been sending their criminals south for generations.”
“Now, Gilles, there’s no need for that,” Firmin said, attempting a laugh. He snapped the bag shut, leaving the safe empty but for a handful of bills and that dreadful memorandum book with its additions in red ink. Andre never wished to see the thing again. “I’m only trying to salvage something from this debacle.”
“Something for you, I see,” Andre replied bitterly. “What of everyone who depends upon this building? Are we to turn them off without a sou?”
“Let the Phantom pay them,” his partner retorted. “He has more than enough to spare from the thousands he has been stealing from us. Good luck, my dear fellow. Maybe our paths will cross again at some point.” Hefting the bag, Firmin rounded the desk, heading for the door. Andre stepped back, blocking his way. He pointed to the bag.
“Half of that is mine, I believe. We had an agreement.”
Slowly, Firmin reached into his coat and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He held them up so that Andre could clearly see his own signature at the foot of the last page, and carefully ripped them down the middle before tearing them twice more and scattering the pieces on the floor. “Our partnership is dissolved,” he said. “I suggest you leave too before those animals downstairs find their way here and rend you limb from limb. They are seeking someone to blame, and I do not intend it to be me!”
“You bastard.” Andre glared at his erstwhile friend. “How can you do this to me after everything we’ve been through?”
Firmin shrugged. “Self-preservation. I have a family to think of.”
“And I am expendable, I suppose.”
“It’s nothing personal, old man. The game is up; the Comte de Chagny has withdrawn his patronage – you will find the note on the desk there. I’m not sticking around to watch the ship go down.” Resting a companionable hand on Andre’s shoulder, Firmin gently but forcefully moved him aside. Andre had no more fight left and allowed him to brush past without even a half-hearted attempt to stop him. At the end of the landing, his traitorous ‘partner’ tipped his hat before vanishing into the shadows of the stairwell.
The connecting door by the fireplace opened and Remy appeared. Andre did not even turn to look at the young man as he approached; no doubt Remy would notice the empty safe, but he did not feel equal to explaining. The secretary cleared his throat.
“Monsieur Andre? I have your telephone call waiting.”
Suddenly, Andre found he did not care a jot for the people in the foyer. They could more than afford the loss of one evening’s ticket price; most of them were able to buy the theatre outright ten times over. “Cancel it,” he snapped, stalking over to the desk and rummaging in the drawer for the half-measure of brandy Firmin had left there. Not even bothering with a glass, he took a long swig from the bottle. “Get me the editor of L’Epoque instead. And the Minister of Arts.”
Remy looked bewildered. “Monsieur?”
Andre slammed the brandy bottle down, slopping some over the blotter. “The management of the Opera Populaire is going up for sale, with immediate effect.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1851
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: 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: Poor Andre has finally reached the end of his tether...
END OF THE LINE
“Oh, this is a nightmare, a nightmare!”
Andre turned away from the sight of the grand foyer full of angry patrons all demanding their money back, unable to watch any longer. The firemen who had been drafted in to assist with the capture of the Phantom were attempting to keep order, forming a line which prevented anyone from getting close to the box office, but they were buckling under the press of people and something would have to be done soon in order to prevent a riot. Normally those who attended performances at the Populaire were sedate, cultured people, or the kind who came not for the music but to see and be seen; the tension in the air and the emotions running high had had an effect on more than just the cast, that much was obvious.
“Get me the Chief Commissioner of Police on the telephone,” Andre told Remy, who was hovering at his elbow, in an undertone. “Perhaps he can stop them tearing the place apart.”
The secretary nodded, and hurried off; Andre followed at a slower pace, still unable to believe the madness that had descended on the theatre that evening. He had wanted to put a stop to the Phantom’s tricks and threats, yes, and the vicomte’s plan seemed like a good idea at the time, but where had it left them? In an even bigger mess than they had been before! In his heart of hearts, Andre knew that he was not cut out for this sort of thing; he had agreed to take on the Opera only after a great deal of persuasion from Firmin and his cousin, a junior minister of the Arts. It seemed like a good investment, as the Populaire had been riding high for many years – after such a triumph as the previous season’s, when Carlotta brought the house down as Marguerite in Faust, he believed he could not lose. The truth, however, was hard to swallow: in taking over the management they were offered a deal with the Devil, and not accepting had brought disaster upon the whole company. Andre realised now that the Opera’s success had been due to Phantom, not to Lefevre or any of the men who came before him. In disregarding his commands, ignoring his obvious expertise, they floundered like the amateurs they were, as Piangi had recognised on the very morning of their arrival.
How could they go on? Christine Daae was gone, spirited below and out of reach. The dressing rooms of La Carlotta and the Signor had been checked, and one of the runners found a letter addressed to the managers in which the diva announced her intention to return to Italy immediately. She was breaking the terms of her contract, but she felt sure that such behaviour would be overlooked given the trials she had been forced to suffer over the past year. Added in a hasty postscript was a declaration that she would make sure that their names were muddied forever in the world of opera, that everyone would be aware of their ineptitude so that they might never again be given such a great responsibility as they were quite obviously unable to cope; she wished them well of their ‘skinny, wide-eyed little tart’ and expected her outstanding salary to be paid by the end of the month. It was quite clear that she would never again be darkening their door.
Andre felt a headache coming on. He rubbed his temples furiously as he passed the entrance to the Royal Circle, but stopped as the sound of breaking wood assaulted his ears. Opening the door, he walked to the front of the balcony to see that the Don Juan set had been pushed aside and Pierre and two of the other stagehands were attacking the boards with axes and saws. His heart nearly leapt out of his mouth at the sight of the damage they had already wreaked and he waved his arms desperately, trying to attract their attention.
“Good God, man, what are you doing?” he demanded, his voice emerging two octaves higher than he intended. “Stop! Stop it at once!”
They halted in their work, and looked up in surprise. “It’s the vicomte’s orders, Monsieur,” Pierre said, face creasing in confusion. “He wanted us to - ”
Andre remembered the command being given, moments before he chased Firmin and Remy from the stage; there had been no time to countermand it. “Where is the vicomte?”
One of the men shrugged. Pierre glanced at the other, who shook his head. “Last time we saw him, he was with Little Meg,” Pierre replied. “Neither of ‘em has been back here. Shall we carry on, sir? The Phantom - ”
“I don’t give a damn about the Phantom!” It was a petulant outburst, but Andre didn’t care. “All I’ve heard since I first arrived in this godforsaken place is that man’s name. Everything has been the fault of the Phantom! Well, I will tell you now that your precious Opera Ghost has signed this theatre’s death warrant. Come tomorrow you’ll all be out of a job; the Populaire can continue no longer!”
The men stared at each other in astonishment. Pierre put down his axe and moved to the front of the stage, where he could clearly see the quivering manager.
“Allow me to tell you something, Monsieur,” he said, his voice carrying across the empty auditorium, “When the management cooperated with the Phantom, we played to packed houses every night. Say what you will about his methods, no one can deny that he knows opera and he always wanted us to be the best. Whenever he made a suggestion, the managers acted upon it and they were never wrong to do so. They may have been a little frightened of him, but he made them rich. He would have done the same for you, too, if you’d listened to him.”
“How dare you - ” Andre began, but the other two stagehands made noises of agreement.
“If anyone’s brought disaster upon this theatre, Monsieur, it’s you,” Pierre added. He folded his arms, steadily meeting Andre’s gaze. “It’s only since you arrived that things began to go wrong. Madame Giry warned you!”
“Madame Giry is a madwoman in the Phantom’s pay. There is no place for her here any longer; neither will I accept the return of her daughter or Mademoiselle Daae to their positions. And you may all leave now; you will find your cards waiting for you in the office tomorrow morning.” Andre’s hands clenched into fists and his fragile self-control snapped as they just stood there looking at him. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on! Get out! And take everyone else with you!”
Wordlessly, the three men put aside their tools and walked from the stage, leaving the big hole in the boards behind them. Andre turned and fled the auditorium, heading upstairs to the office and hopefully sanity. To his surprise the door was ajar; he entered the room to find the safe wide open and a Gladstone bag on the desk, Firmin transferring neat bundles of francs from one to the other. He glanced up, startled by the sudden appearance of his partner, and froze.
Andre stood on the threshold for a long moment, speechless at the sight before his eyes. Firmin was wearing his coat and hat, and it was quite clear where his intentions lay. If he looked out of the window Andre was sure that he would see a hansom cab waiting on the Rue Scribe.
“When were you going to tell me?” he asked, somehow managing to keep his tone level. “Should I have expected a postcard from America, or Australia perhaps? The latter would be appropriate; the British have been sending their criminals south for generations.”
“Now, Gilles, there’s no need for that,” Firmin said, attempting a laugh. He snapped the bag shut, leaving the safe empty but for a handful of bills and that dreadful memorandum book with its additions in red ink. Andre never wished to see the thing again. “I’m only trying to salvage something from this debacle.”
“Something for you, I see,” Andre replied bitterly. “What of everyone who depends upon this building? Are we to turn them off without a sou?”
“Let the Phantom pay them,” his partner retorted. “He has more than enough to spare from the thousands he has been stealing from us. Good luck, my dear fellow. Maybe our paths will cross again at some point.” Hefting the bag, Firmin rounded the desk, heading for the door. Andre stepped back, blocking his way. He pointed to the bag.
“Half of that is mine, I believe. We had an agreement.”
Slowly, Firmin reached into his coat and withdrew a sheaf of papers. He held them up so that Andre could clearly see his own signature at the foot of the last page, and carefully ripped them down the middle before tearing them twice more and scattering the pieces on the floor. “Our partnership is dissolved,” he said. “I suggest you leave too before those animals downstairs find their way here and rend you limb from limb. They are seeking someone to blame, and I do not intend it to be me!”
“You bastard.” Andre glared at his erstwhile friend. “How can you do this to me after everything we’ve been through?”
Firmin shrugged. “Self-preservation. I have a family to think of.”
“And I am expendable, I suppose.”
“It’s nothing personal, old man. The game is up; the Comte de Chagny has withdrawn his patronage – you will find the note on the desk there. I’m not sticking around to watch the ship go down.” Resting a companionable hand on Andre’s shoulder, Firmin gently but forcefully moved him aside. Andre had no more fight left and allowed him to brush past without even a half-hearted attempt to stop him. At the end of the landing, his traitorous ‘partner’ tipped his hat before vanishing into the shadows of the stairwell.
The connecting door by the fireplace opened and Remy appeared. Andre did not even turn to look at the young man as he approached; no doubt Remy would notice the empty safe, but he did not feel equal to explaining. The secretary cleared his throat.
“Monsieur Andre? I have your telephone call waiting.”
Suddenly, Andre found he did not care a jot for the people in the foyer. They could more than afford the loss of one evening’s ticket price; most of them were able to buy the theatre outright ten times over. “Cancel it,” he snapped, stalking over to the desk and rummaging in the drawer for the half-measure of brandy Firmin had left there. Not even bothering with a glass, he took a long swig from the bottle. “Get me the editor of L’Epoque instead. And the Minister of Arts.”
Remy looked bewildered. “Monsieur?”
Andre slammed the brandy bottle down, slopping some over the blotter. “The management of the Opera Populaire is going up for sale, with immediate effect.”
