![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 35/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2323
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Madame Giry, Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Hurrying below with Christine, Madame Giry finds Erik in a bad way.
DESPERATE MEASURES
“Oh, dear God.”
Madame Giry covered her mouth with her hand, stifling the gasp which escaped her as she beheld the wounded Phantom. Christine had prepared her for the sight on their journey back to the house, but still the blood which soaked the entire left shoulder and sleeve of his shirt could not fail to shock her. There was so much of it, far, far more than on the night they had first met; then his injuries had been within her power to patch up, but this... this was something else altogether. He was breathing fitfully, his face so white that from a distance it was impossible to distinguish flesh from porcelain.
“I didn’t know how to help him,” Christine said from behind, her voice high and strained. “I didn’t want to leave him alone, but - ”
Antoinette turned slightly and reached for the worried girl’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You made the right decision,” she told her.
“How could they do this to him, Madame? How could they? Is he not a man like them?”
“They were angry and scared. We all make bad choices under such circumstances,” Antoinette said. “There was fault on both sides; no one will emerge from tonight’s events with any triumph.”
Christine looked at the floor, and muttered something which sounded like “I shall never forgive Raoul for this.” Before Madame Giry could correct her assumption, she raised her head once more and fixed the ballet mistress with a surprisingly steady gaze. “What should we do now, Madame?”
Glancing once more towards the bed, Antoinette felt dread settle in the pit of her stomach. If Erik needed professional attention, and it appeared even from where she stood now that such a situation would be more likely than not, she had no idea how such assistance was to be obtained. No doctor with any care for his reputation would treat a man who lived alone and in secret five stories below the opera house; alarm bells would immediately start to ring and they would all be handed over to the police in the blink of an eye, if the managers had not already summoned the authorities. She cursed them for a pair of fools. If only they had taken her advice right at the start, none of them would be in such a mess!
The man on the bed coughed and stirred, shaking her out of her thoughts. Sending Christine to the bathroom for bandages and iodine, Antoinette sat down beside Erik, taking his hand. For a moment he did not move, but then she felt a slight pressure against her fingers as he attempted to return the gesture. To find him grown so weak in such a short time appalled her. “Oh, Erik, what have they done to you?” she whispered, brushing his hair back from his forehead. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch; the atmosphere in the cellars could only be doing him more harm than good.
“Nothing... that I didn’t... deserve, Annie.” His reply was scarcely more than a breath, but his eyes opened a fraction and the left side of his mouth quirked in a rueful smile. “...you were right... my opera was... doomed from the start.”
“I take no pleasure in my predictions coming true.”
“You... surprise me. I thought that... you would delight in knowing better... than me.” With a low chuckle, Erik shifted his unfocussed gaze away from her face, into the shadows beyond the pool of light which surrounded the bed. “Is Christine...?”
“She is here,” Madame Giry assured him, starting to rise. “Do you want me to - ?”
He shook his head, and with an effort raised his good arm to point towards the table at the side of the bed. “Would you pass me that... little Japanned box? The one... the one with the gilt decorations.”
Intrigued, she did as he asked, and helped him to sit up slightly when he requested it. Erik’s visible features contorted in pain, but he made no sound. He became, though, even paler than before, if such a thing were possible. Settling the box in his lap, he flicked open the lid, revealing a jumble of odds and ends. Antoinette did not think she had ever before seen him wear the expression which now swept across his face; as he lifted the trinkets one by one from the box he looked almost wistful, a tear forming in the one eye she could see. “These are hers,” he said in a fading voice, laying out a tortoiseshell comb, a single earring, the ribbon from a dancer’s shoe. “I collected... them; picked them up when she...when she lost or... discarded them. They are my... my treasures.”
Antoinette felt her throat constrict at the image of a lonely man keeping the detritus of his protégée’s life, just to feel close to her. If only she had known! At the bottom of the box, beneath a carefully-folded linen handkerchief with the initials CD embroidered in one corner, was a delicate gold band set with six multifaceted diamonds. She recognised it immediately as the engagement ring Christine had been wearing around her neck, the one Erik so publicly stole the night of the masquerade. Holding it between finger and thumb, he stared at it for a long time before replacing it and all the other bits and pieces, closing the lid of the box.
“Take it,” he said, pressing it into her hands. He was breathing more heavily now, and she knew that they would have to act quickly if they were to save him. “Give it... give it to Christine. Tell her... tell her that I release her... from any duty or... loyalty she may feel to her... to her Angel of Music.”
“Erik,” Antoinette began, but he was determined to finish, holding up a long finger in that commanding manner she knew so well.
“Send her back... to her boy.” With a grimace, he sank back against the pillows. “I... I don’t want her to see this. I would... rather she remembered... her Angel as he... as he was...” A smile touched his misshapen lips, and he looked at her wonderingly. “Christine is a... is a good girl. She... she kissed me, Annie. She kissed me! No one... no one has ever kissed Erik... before... not even... not even his own mother. Now Erik can die... a happy man...”
“Erik!” She gripped his right hand, and said urgently, “Erik, you are not going to die. You can give this to Christine yourself.”
“Oh, Annie.” The Phantom’s eyes had become slits as the loss of blood took its effect upon him, but he managed a brief laugh, this one lacking any humour. “They... shot me in the shoulder... the bullet is still... still there. Can you... can you think of anyone... even a quack... who would treat... me?”
Madame Giry was silent, and he nodded, eyelids fluttering shut. She thought that he had succumbed to unconsciousness, but before his hand became completely limp in hers she caught some mumbled words which nearly broke her heart.
“...bury me deep, Annie... promise me that... you won’t let them... stare at the freak...”
The tears that were welling in her own eyes spilled over; she leaned forwards and pressed a gentle kiss to his mask. “Oh, my dear. If only you had let me be a better friend.”
“Madame?”
The voice made her jump. Christine had returned, awkwardly balancing a tray which held, amongst other things, a bowl of water, antiseptic, towels and bandages. It looked almost as though she had brought the entire contents of Erik’s bathroom just in case it might be needed, and Antoinette had to stop herself smiling involuntarily at the sight. Wiping at her eyes, she rose to take the tray, setting it down on the chest at the foot of the bed, and then reached for the little Japanned box which lay upon the bedclothes.
“Madame?” The little soprano’s gaze was anxious, darting every few seconds towards her wounded maestro. “How is he?”
“He... he needs a doctor, and quickly,” Antoinette said, swallowing hard. “I fear that we will not be able to fetch one in time.”
“No.” Christine clapped a hand over her mouth to cover the wail of anguish which burst forth at the blunt words. “No! No, there must be someone - ”
Madame Giry held out the box. “Erik asked me to give you this.”
“I don’t... I don’t understand.” Christine, looking utterly bewildered, took it, opening the lid. At the sight of the box’s contents she collapsed with a cry, knees hitting the opulent Persian rug, her chest heaving with barely-suppressed sobs. She hunched there for some moments, before, gently but firmly, Antoinette took her arm, coaxing her back to her feet and leading her to the armchair which stood by the fireplace. The back was covered with Erik’s bloodstained clothes, but Christine appeared not to notice. “My ring,” she kept saying, staring at the diamonds, “He returned my ring!”
Antoinette reluctantly left her there, taking up a pair of scissors to cut away Erik’s ruined shirt. Beneath Christine’s haphazard dressings his shoulder was a mess, an acrid hole marking the bullet’s entry point. Carefully she turned him slightly to check his back; there was no exit wound, which meant that the lead shot was indeed embedded somewhere in his flesh. It would have to be removed if he was to escape blood-poisoning, but she was not a surgeon and even had she the necessary tools she doubted she would find the courage to attempt such a procedure. He did not wake as she cleaned the injury, not even when the iodine made contact with damaged nerve-endings, which concerned her even more.
Listening to the constant ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as she worked, she realised that more than an hour had passed since the ignominious end of Don Juan Triumphant. Ideas, solutions, chased each other across her mind’s eye. It was late; someone could slip from the theatre into the night quite easily and not be observed, as Erik had proved on more than one occasion. Antoinette hoped that she had learned something from him over the years; many were the times she had caused consternation amongst her charges by creeping up unnoticed to break up a gossip session, light on her feet and keeping to the shadows. Perhaps there was a chance after all, if she could make it as far as Montmartre and back in time...
Tying off the last bandage and settling Erik more comfortably in the bed, she straightened, stretching to ease the kink in her back. Christine still sat beside the empty grate, her tangled hair hiding her face. Madame Giry rested a hand lightly on her shoulder and the startled girl glanced up, cheeks streaked with tears.
“He’s sending me away, isn’t he?” she asked hoarsely. Antoinette nodded and Christine’s face set, chin jutting in determination. The ballet mistress had never seen her look so fierce. “I won’t go, Madame, I’m not leaving him.”
“Christine, maybe it is for the best - ”
“Everyone always thinks they know what is best for me!”Christine exclaimed, jumping from the chair, her eyes flashing in anger. “You, Erik, Raoul... none of you ever ask me what I want! Well, I want to stay here, and here I shall stay. If Erik wants me to leave, he will have to throw me out himself!”
Madame Giry was taken aback by the force of her former pupil’s words, though she did not show it. Christine had been forced to endure so much over the past few months, and in that time she had grown up. It seemed that she had found fire in her belly, something no one would ever have expected of her. Gone was the hesitant, nervous girl who had come to the opera in the wake of her father’s death; a young woman stood before her, spine straight and head held high.
“We have to help him, Madame. We can’t just let him die,” she said. “I lost Papa, but I can’t, I won’t lose my Angel like this, not when I have finally realised how much he means to me.”
There was a pause, and then Antoinette made a decision. “There is a chance,” she told Christine, “a doctor who helped me with an awkward situation a few years ago. He is a man of discretion, and I trust him to keep his own counsel. If I can persuade him to come - ”
Christine caught hold of her hand, squeezing it between her own. “Oh, Madame! Do anything, whatever it takes to get him here. Tell him that I will pay him - ”
“We will worry about payment later. Now, I will be as quick as I can but the doctor lives in the Rue Feydeau and I may not be able to find a cab. Look after Erik, keep him warm and calm, and if he wakes try and get him to drink something.” Antoinette found Erik’s waistcoat amongst the discarded clothes and removed the bunch of keys from his watch chain. Even if he had blocked most of the other entrances to his labyrinth she felt sure that the gate on the Rue Scribe would still be accessible, for how else would he have managed to obtain those necessities which had kept him alive for the last six months? “Lock the door behind me and do not answer it to anyone, do you understand?”
Christine nodded. “You can trust me. I - ” She broke off abruptly, listening intently for a moment.
“Whatever is it, child?” Antoinette asked, frowning.
The little soprano looked at her, and the fear had returned to her face. “I heard the front door,” she said. “There is someone else down here with us.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2323
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Madame Giry, Christine Daae, Erik the Phantom
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Hurrying below with Christine, Madame Giry finds Erik in a bad way.
DESPERATE MEASURES
“Oh, dear God.”
Madame Giry covered her mouth with her hand, stifling the gasp which escaped her as she beheld the wounded Phantom. Christine had prepared her for the sight on their journey back to the house, but still the blood which soaked the entire left shoulder and sleeve of his shirt could not fail to shock her. There was so much of it, far, far more than on the night they had first met; then his injuries had been within her power to patch up, but this... this was something else altogether. He was breathing fitfully, his face so white that from a distance it was impossible to distinguish flesh from porcelain.
“I didn’t know how to help him,” Christine said from behind, her voice high and strained. “I didn’t want to leave him alone, but - ”
Antoinette turned slightly and reached for the worried girl’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “You made the right decision,” she told her.
“How could they do this to him, Madame? How could they? Is he not a man like them?”
“They were angry and scared. We all make bad choices under such circumstances,” Antoinette said. “There was fault on both sides; no one will emerge from tonight’s events with any triumph.”
Christine looked at the floor, and muttered something which sounded like “I shall never forgive Raoul for this.” Before Madame Giry could correct her assumption, she raised her head once more and fixed the ballet mistress with a surprisingly steady gaze. “What should we do now, Madame?”
Glancing once more towards the bed, Antoinette felt dread settle in the pit of her stomach. If Erik needed professional attention, and it appeared even from where she stood now that such a situation would be more likely than not, she had no idea how such assistance was to be obtained. No doctor with any care for his reputation would treat a man who lived alone and in secret five stories below the opera house; alarm bells would immediately start to ring and they would all be handed over to the police in the blink of an eye, if the managers had not already summoned the authorities. She cursed them for a pair of fools. If only they had taken her advice right at the start, none of them would be in such a mess!
The man on the bed coughed and stirred, shaking her out of her thoughts. Sending Christine to the bathroom for bandages and iodine, Antoinette sat down beside Erik, taking his hand. For a moment he did not move, but then she felt a slight pressure against her fingers as he attempted to return the gesture. To find him grown so weak in such a short time appalled her. “Oh, Erik, what have they done to you?” she whispered, brushing his hair back from his forehead. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch; the atmosphere in the cellars could only be doing him more harm than good.
“Nothing... that I didn’t... deserve, Annie.” His reply was scarcely more than a breath, but his eyes opened a fraction and the left side of his mouth quirked in a rueful smile. “...you were right... my opera was... doomed from the start.”
“I take no pleasure in my predictions coming true.”
“You... surprise me. I thought that... you would delight in knowing better... than me.” With a low chuckle, Erik shifted his unfocussed gaze away from her face, into the shadows beyond the pool of light which surrounded the bed. “Is Christine...?”
“She is here,” Madame Giry assured him, starting to rise. “Do you want me to - ?”
He shook his head, and with an effort raised his good arm to point towards the table at the side of the bed. “Would you pass me that... little Japanned box? The one... the one with the gilt decorations.”
Intrigued, she did as he asked, and helped him to sit up slightly when he requested it. Erik’s visible features contorted in pain, but he made no sound. He became, though, even paler than before, if such a thing were possible. Settling the box in his lap, he flicked open the lid, revealing a jumble of odds and ends. Antoinette did not think she had ever before seen him wear the expression which now swept across his face; as he lifted the trinkets one by one from the box he looked almost wistful, a tear forming in the one eye she could see. “These are hers,” he said in a fading voice, laying out a tortoiseshell comb, a single earring, the ribbon from a dancer’s shoe. “I collected... them; picked them up when she...when she lost or... discarded them. They are my... my treasures.”
Antoinette felt her throat constrict at the image of a lonely man keeping the detritus of his protégée’s life, just to feel close to her. If only she had known! At the bottom of the box, beneath a carefully-folded linen handkerchief with the initials CD embroidered in one corner, was a delicate gold band set with six multifaceted diamonds. She recognised it immediately as the engagement ring Christine had been wearing around her neck, the one Erik so publicly stole the night of the masquerade. Holding it between finger and thumb, he stared at it for a long time before replacing it and all the other bits and pieces, closing the lid of the box.
“Take it,” he said, pressing it into her hands. He was breathing more heavily now, and she knew that they would have to act quickly if they were to save him. “Give it... give it to Christine. Tell her... tell her that I release her... from any duty or... loyalty she may feel to her... to her Angel of Music.”
“Erik,” Antoinette began, but he was determined to finish, holding up a long finger in that commanding manner she knew so well.
“Send her back... to her boy.” With a grimace, he sank back against the pillows. “I... I don’t want her to see this. I would... rather she remembered... her Angel as he... as he was...” A smile touched his misshapen lips, and he looked at her wonderingly. “Christine is a... is a good girl. She... she kissed me, Annie. She kissed me! No one... no one has ever kissed Erik... before... not even... not even his own mother. Now Erik can die... a happy man...”
“Erik!” She gripped his right hand, and said urgently, “Erik, you are not going to die. You can give this to Christine yourself.”
“Oh, Annie.” The Phantom’s eyes had become slits as the loss of blood took its effect upon him, but he managed a brief laugh, this one lacking any humour. “They... shot me in the shoulder... the bullet is still... still there. Can you... can you think of anyone... even a quack... who would treat... me?”
Madame Giry was silent, and he nodded, eyelids fluttering shut. She thought that he had succumbed to unconsciousness, but before his hand became completely limp in hers she caught some mumbled words which nearly broke her heart.
“...bury me deep, Annie... promise me that... you won’t let them... stare at the freak...”
The tears that were welling in her own eyes spilled over; she leaned forwards and pressed a gentle kiss to his mask. “Oh, my dear. If only you had let me be a better friend.”
“Madame?”
The voice made her jump. Christine had returned, awkwardly balancing a tray which held, amongst other things, a bowl of water, antiseptic, towels and bandages. It looked almost as though she had brought the entire contents of Erik’s bathroom just in case it might be needed, and Antoinette had to stop herself smiling involuntarily at the sight. Wiping at her eyes, she rose to take the tray, setting it down on the chest at the foot of the bed, and then reached for the little Japanned box which lay upon the bedclothes.
“Madame?” The little soprano’s gaze was anxious, darting every few seconds towards her wounded maestro. “How is he?”
“He... he needs a doctor, and quickly,” Antoinette said, swallowing hard. “I fear that we will not be able to fetch one in time.”
“No.” Christine clapped a hand over her mouth to cover the wail of anguish which burst forth at the blunt words. “No! No, there must be someone - ”
Madame Giry held out the box. “Erik asked me to give you this.”
“I don’t... I don’t understand.” Christine, looking utterly bewildered, took it, opening the lid. At the sight of the box’s contents she collapsed with a cry, knees hitting the opulent Persian rug, her chest heaving with barely-suppressed sobs. She hunched there for some moments, before, gently but firmly, Antoinette took her arm, coaxing her back to her feet and leading her to the armchair which stood by the fireplace. The back was covered with Erik’s bloodstained clothes, but Christine appeared not to notice. “My ring,” she kept saying, staring at the diamonds, “He returned my ring!”
Antoinette reluctantly left her there, taking up a pair of scissors to cut away Erik’s ruined shirt. Beneath Christine’s haphazard dressings his shoulder was a mess, an acrid hole marking the bullet’s entry point. Carefully she turned him slightly to check his back; there was no exit wound, which meant that the lead shot was indeed embedded somewhere in his flesh. It would have to be removed if he was to escape blood-poisoning, but she was not a surgeon and even had she the necessary tools she doubted she would find the courage to attempt such a procedure. He did not wake as she cleaned the injury, not even when the iodine made contact with damaged nerve-endings, which concerned her even more.
Listening to the constant ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as she worked, she realised that more than an hour had passed since the ignominious end of Don Juan Triumphant. Ideas, solutions, chased each other across her mind’s eye. It was late; someone could slip from the theatre into the night quite easily and not be observed, as Erik had proved on more than one occasion. Antoinette hoped that she had learned something from him over the years; many were the times she had caused consternation amongst her charges by creeping up unnoticed to break up a gossip session, light on her feet and keeping to the shadows. Perhaps there was a chance after all, if she could make it as far as Montmartre and back in time...
Tying off the last bandage and settling Erik more comfortably in the bed, she straightened, stretching to ease the kink in her back. Christine still sat beside the empty grate, her tangled hair hiding her face. Madame Giry rested a hand lightly on her shoulder and the startled girl glanced up, cheeks streaked with tears.
“He’s sending me away, isn’t he?” she asked hoarsely. Antoinette nodded and Christine’s face set, chin jutting in determination. The ballet mistress had never seen her look so fierce. “I won’t go, Madame, I’m not leaving him.”
“Christine, maybe it is for the best - ”
“Everyone always thinks they know what is best for me!”Christine exclaimed, jumping from the chair, her eyes flashing in anger. “You, Erik, Raoul... none of you ever ask me what I want! Well, I want to stay here, and here I shall stay. If Erik wants me to leave, he will have to throw me out himself!”
Madame Giry was taken aback by the force of her former pupil’s words, though she did not show it. Christine had been forced to endure so much over the past few months, and in that time she had grown up. It seemed that she had found fire in her belly, something no one would ever have expected of her. Gone was the hesitant, nervous girl who had come to the opera in the wake of her father’s death; a young woman stood before her, spine straight and head held high.
“We have to help him, Madame. We can’t just let him die,” she said. “I lost Papa, but I can’t, I won’t lose my Angel like this, not when I have finally realised how much he means to me.”
There was a pause, and then Antoinette made a decision. “There is a chance,” she told Christine, “a doctor who helped me with an awkward situation a few years ago. He is a man of discretion, and I trust him to keep his own counsel. If I can persuade him to come - ”
Christine caught hold of her hand, squeezing it between her own. “Oh, Madame! Do anything, whatever it takes to get him here. Tell him that I will pay him - ”
“We will worry about payment later. Now, I will be as quick as I can but the doctor lives in the Rue Feydeau and I may not be able to find a cab. Look after Erik, keep him warm and calm, and if he wakes try and get him to drink something.” Antoinette found Erik’s waistcoat amongst the discarded clothes and removed the bunch of keys from his watch chain. Even if he had blocked most of the other entrances to his labyrinth she felt sure that the gate on the Rue Scribe would still be accessible, for how else would he have managed to obtain those necessities which had kept him alive for the last six months? “Lock the door behind me and do not answer it to anyone, do you understand?”
Christine nodded. “You can trust me. I - ” She broke off abruptly, listening intently for a moment.
“Whatever is it, child?” Antoinette asked, frowning.
The little soprano looked at her, and the fear had returned to her face. “I heard the front door,” she said. “There is someone else down here with us.”
