![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 10/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1711
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Don't disobey the OG. He really doesn't like it.
MONEY FOR NOTHING
Antoinette was tired.
It had been a long day, trying to keep the flibbertigibbet girls with whom she was charged in line and walking gracefully to the beat of her cane; they were worse than even the most brainless of her ballet rats, for at least those girls had a career in their sights and eventually learnt to buckle down and apply themselves. These young misses cared little beyond finding a rich husband, and the contempt in which they held the women attempting to instil in them some poise and elegance was palpable. More than once she had been forced to bite hard on her lip and restrain the reprimand which came immediately to mind; Meg threatened to walk out three times before the lunch break, declaring that she wouldn’t spend another moment with the ‘ungrateful bunch of snobs’.
The walk home from Madame d’Herblay’s establishment was far longer when one had been on their feet for hours; Antoinette knew that she could have taken a cab for Erik would not mind the expense, but she was determined to stop relying upon him. Independence was, after all, the reason she had taken on the job that was really beneath her in the first place. Dragging her weary, creaking bones up the front steps she was longing for a hot bath and trying not to think about the effort it would take to boil enough water to fill the tub when she saw the tall, lean shadow crossing her window. She waited and it moved again, this time in the opposite direction.
Madame Giry groaned. Erik was pacing the floor, and that did not bode well for anyone disturbing him. He had done so much for them over the weeks since the loss of their employment, but that did not make dealing with his moods any easier. It would take a long time for him to become used to the social niceties taken for granted by the rest of the world, to learn the courtesies which should have been taught in early life; he could be charm itself, his manners impeccable, but only until something stirred that formidable temper.
________________________________________
It took her a while to climb to the third floor, the prospect of an encounter with an enraged Opera Ghost making her dawdle. By the time she unlocked the front door he was waiting in the hall for her, an envelope in one long white hand. She deliberately didn’t look at his face for she knew that both flesh and porcelain would be glowering at her; instead she threw her keys on the table and unwound the wrap from her shoulders.
“Good evening, Erik,” she said levelly, carefully unpinning and removing her hat. “I trust you had a pleasant day?”
He ignored the question, thrusting the envelope beneath her nose. “Perhaps, Madame, you would care to explain the meaning of this?”
“It would appear to be a letter.” Taking it, she knew that he was furious; he only used her title when in the grip of annoyance or anger. The stationery looked official: the envelope was creamy white, the paper heavy, and the directions were typed on one of the new-fangled machines. It was addressed to Monsieur Erik Claudin, care of Madame Antoinette Giry at Apartment 27, Rue Bernadotte. Antoinette suddenly had a feeling that she might know what the letter was about.
“That is patently obvious,” Erik snapped, whirling around and stalking into the sitting room, coat tails flying behind him. “Precisely how is it that I am receiving missives when no one knows yet of my existence?”
Madame Giry opened the envelope, which had already been sliced with the paper knife, and withdrew the two sheets of notepaper within. The first was headed with lavishly designed scrolls proclaiming Langé and St Just, Music Publishers, thanking Monsieur Claudin for the pieces he had submitted for their approval and informing him that they wished to include three of his compositions within a compilation entitled Tunes for Drawing Room Recital. Enclosed was a cheque for – Antoinette inspected the other sheet – fifty francs, with their compliments and hopes that they would be allowed first refusal upon any further work.
“Erik, this is wonderful!” she said without thinking, and missed the deepening of the scowl on his face until it was too late. “Just think of it: your first published music!”
“It may well be that I had no intention of publishing any of my music!” he shouted, the nose of his mask quite suddenly inches from her own. He snatched the letter and cheque from her grip and flung both into the empty fireplace. “What do I want with their money? To have my work alongside those of lesser musicians with their trite, meaningless tunes - ”
“Have you stopped to think that if you wish to remain above ground you must do something with your life?” Antoinette interrupted. “You are supposed to be a composer; what will people think if you have nothing to show for it? There is nothing wrong in profiting from your talent; take the moral high ground when you have made a name for yourself and can afford to devote your time to that grand symphony or five act opera.”
Slowly, he turned, pivoting on his heel so that they were face to face once more. “I might ask, before you dare to lecture me, exactly how my work came into the hands of Messrs...” He frowned, trying to remember the names.
“Langé and St Just,” she supplied, adding, “I took them there. I should have thought that was patently obvious to a genius such as yourself. And before you lambast me for going through your things, I found those tunes in the waste paper basket and assumed that you had no more use for them. They were the kind of pretty piece that sells well to young ladies learning the piano and so I decided to take them along to the publishers and see what came of it. You must admit that I was right to do so, given the outcome; fifty francs for a couple of hours’ work is not to be sniffed at, after all.”
Despite himself, Erik blinked in surprise. “You took those tunes from the rubbish? I was doing no more than doodling, putting down an irritating refrain which was there in my head when I awoke. Are you seriously telling me that professional men would actually pay for such trifles?”
Madame Giry walked over to the fireplace and retrieved the letter, waving it at him. “This would appear to say as much.”
“I would never have believed it.” He sat down on the sofa, and she dropped the cheque into his lap. “I suppose I should be thanking you, though I am not sure that I wish my name to be associated with such insignificant work; I have no desire to be thought of as a hack, churning out tunes to order.”
Crossing the room to go and put the kettle on, Antoinette dropped a sarcastic curtsy as she passed him. His hand shot out and clasped her arm, and the next thing she knew he was pushing the cheque at her, refusing to take it when she tried to give it back. “Erik, this is yours; you have earned it!”
“And it is high time I paid you for my board and lodging,” he replied stubbornly.
“Board and lodging!” She laughed. “It is only because of you that we have managed to remain afloat all these weeks. I hardly need a contribution towards expenses.”
“You do now that you are insisting upon squandering your talents teaching the empty-headed girls of Madame d’Herblay’s academy,” Erik told her, grabbing her hand and closing her fingers over the cheque. “Take it.”
“Erik - ”
“God damn it, woman, just accept it!” he roared, frustrated. “Go and buy yourself a new hat or something and don’t make me any angrier with you than I am already.”
It was obvious that there would be no arguing with him, and so Antoinette tucked the cheque into her bodice. “Does this mean I am forgiven, then?” she enquired.
Erik grunted, picking up the evening newspaper. “Don’t push your luck.”
Knowing from long experience that those four words were all the apology she was going to get, Madame went into the kitchen. Meg would be home shortly, and though she still longed for that bath her enthusiasm for boiling the water had dwindled. She filled the kettle from the faucet and was just setting it on the stove, reaching for the matches to light the gas, when she heard Erik’s voice again. She glanced through the doorway and saw that he was at the window, staring down at the street below with consternation written on the visible side of his face.
“What in the world... who the devil is that?” he demanded, beckoning frantically, and she hurried to his side, peering through the glass to see what had got him so worked up.
Christine stood there on the pavement, turning towards the entrance to the building, and she was talking to someone, an unfamiliar young man in a rather loud checked suit and soft brown hat. Though Antoinette could neither hear their conversation nor make out their expressions, the man was leaning towards Christine in a rather familiar manner, and as she watched he grabbed the little soprano’s arm, trying to pull her round to face him. She resisted, attempting to free herself from his grip, her free hand raised as though she were about to slap him for his effrontery. Madame’s motherly instincts were immediately on alert; respectable gentlemen did not accost lone women in the street.
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen him before,” she said in answer to Erik’s question, but there was no reply; when she looked around she discovered that she was alone in the room and the front door was slamming, the impact as it hit the frame reverberating around the apartment. She was concerned that the plaster in the hall might be damaged, but that worry was soon exchanged for a much more pressing one when she realised that it was still broad daylight and Erik had just gone outside.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1711
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Don't disobey the OG. He really doesn't like it.
MONEY FOR NOTHING
Antoinette was tired.
It had been a long day, trying to keep the flibbertigibbet girls with whom she was charged in line and walking gracefully to the beat of her cane; they were worse than even the most brainless of her ballet rats, for at least those girls had a career in their sights and eventually learnt to buckle down and apply themselves. These young misses cared little beyond finding a rich husband, and the contempt in which they held the women attempting to instil in them some poise and elegance was palpable. More than once she had been forced to bite hard on her lip and restrain the reprimand which came immediately to mind; Meg threatened to walk out three times before the lunch break, declaring that she wouldn’t spend another moment with the ‘ungrateful bunch of snobs’.
The walk home from Madame d’Herblay’s establishment was far longer when one had been on their feet for hours; Antoinette knew that she could have taken a cab for Erik would not mind the expense, but she was determined to stop relying upon him. Independence was, after all, the reason she had taken on the job that was really beneath her in the first place. Dragging her weary, creaking bones up the front steps she was longing for a hot bath and trying not to think about the effort it would take to boil enough water to fill the tub when she saw the tall, lean shadow crossing her window. She waited and it moved again, this time in the opposite direction.
Madame Giry groaned. Erik was pacing the floor, and that did not bode well for anyone disturbing him. He had done so much for them over the weeks since the loss of their employment, but that did not make dealing with his moods any easier. It would take a long time for him to become used to the social niceties taken for granted by the rest of the world, to learn the courtesies which should have been taught in early life; he could be charm itself, his manners impeccable, but only until something stirred that formidable temper.
________________________________________
It took her a while to climb to the third floor, the prospect of an encounter with an enraged Opera Ghost making her dawdle. By the time she unlocked the front door he was waiting in the hall for her, an envelope in one long white hand. She deliberately didn’t look at his face for she knew that both flesh and porcelain would be glowering at her; instead she threw her keys on the table and unwound the wrap from her shoulders.
“Good evening, Erik,” she said levelly, carefully unpinning and removing her hat. “I trust you had a pleasant day?”
He ignored the question, thrusting the envelope beneath her nose. “Perhaps, Madame, you would care to explain the meaning of this?”
“It would appear to be a letter.” Taking it, she knew that he was furious; he only used her title when in the grip of annoyance or anger. The stationery looked official: the envelope was creamy white, the paper heavy, and the directions were typed on one of the new-fangled machines. It was addressed to Monsieur Erik Claudin, care of Madame Antoinette Giry at Apartment 27, Rue Bernadotte. Antoinette suddenly had a feeling that she might know what the letter was about.
“That is patently obvious,” Erik snapped, whirling around and stalking into the sitting room, coat tails flying behind him. “Precisely how is it that I am receiving missives when no one knows yet of my existence?”
Madame Giry opened the envelope, which had already been sliced with the paper knife, and withdrew the two sheets of notepaper within. The first was headed with lavishly designed scrolls proclaiming Langé and St Just, Music Publishers, thanking Monsieur Claudin for the pieces he had submitted for their approval and informing him that they wished to include three of his compositions within a compilation entitled Tunes for Drawing Room Recital. Enclosed was a cheque for – Antoinette inspected the other sheet – fifty francs, with their compliments and hopes that they would be allowed first refusal upon any further work.
“Erik, this is wonderful!” she said without thinking, and missed the deepening of the scowl on his face until it was too late. “Just think of it: your first published music!”
“It may well be that I had no intention of publishing any of my music!” he shouted, the nose of his mask quite suddenly inches from her own. He snatched the letter and cheque from her grip and flung both into the empty fireplace. “What do I want with their money? To have my work alongside those of lesser musicians with their trite, meaningless tunes - ”
“Have you stopped to think that if you wish to remain above ground you must do something with your life?” Antoinette interrupted. “You are supposed to be a composer; what will people think if you have nothing to show for it? There is nothing wrong in profiting from your talent; take the moral high ground when you have made a name for yourself and can afford to devote your time to that grand symphony or five act opera.”
Slowly, he turned, pivoting on his heel so that they were face to face once more. “I might ask, before you dare to lecture me, exactly how my work came into the hands of Messrs...” He frowned, trying to remember the names.
“Langé and St Just,” she supplied, adding, “I took them there. I should have thought that was patently obvious to a genius such as yourself. And before you lambast me for going through your things, I found those tunes in the waste paper basket and assumed that you had no more use for them. They were the kind of pretty piece that sells well to young ladies learning the piano and so I decided to take them along to the publishers and see what came of it. You must admit that I was right to do so, given the outcome; fifty francs for a couple of hours’ work is not to be sniffed at, after all.”
Despite himself, Erik blinked in surprise. “You took those tunes from the rubbish? I was doing no more than doodling, putting down an irritating refrain which was there in my head when I awoke. Are you seriously telling me that professional men would actually pay for such trifles?”
Madame Giry walked over to the fireplace and retrieved the letter, waving it at him. “This would appear to say as much.”
“I would never have believed it.” He sat down on the sofa, and she dropped the cheque into his lap. “I suppose I should be thanking you, though I am not sure that I wish my name to be associated with such insignificant work; I have no desire to be thought of as a hack, churning out tunes to order.”
Crossing the room to go and put the kettle on, Antoinette dropped a sarcastic curtsy as she passed him. His hand shot out and clasped her arm, and the next thing she knew he was pushing the cheque at her, refusing to take it when she tried to give it back. “Erik, this is yours; you have earned it!”
“And it is high time I paid you for my board and lodging,” he replied stubbornly.
“Board and lodging!” She laughed. “It is only because of you that we have managed to remain afloat all these weeks. I hardly need a contribution towards expenses.”
“You do now that you are insisting upon squandering your talents teaching the empty-headed girls of Madame d’Herblay’s academy,” Erik told her, grabbing her hand and closing her fingers over the cheque. “Take it.”
“Erik - ”
“God damn it, woman, just accept it!” he roared, frustrated. “Go and buy yourself a new hat or something and don’t make me any angrier with you than I am already.”
It was obvious that there would be no arguing with him, and so Antoinette tucked the cheque into her bodice. “Does this mean I am forgiven, then?” she enquired.
Erik grunted, picking up the evening newspaper. “Don’t push your luck.”
Knowing from long experience that those four words were all the apology she was going to get, Madame went into the kitchen. Meg would be home shortly, and though she still longed for that bath her enthusiasm for boiling the water had dwindled. She filled the kettle from the faucet and was just setting it on the stove, reaching for the matches to light the gas, when she heard Erik’s voice again. She glanced through the doorway and saw that he was at the window, staring down at the street below with consternation written on the visible side of his face.
“What in the world... who the devil is that?” he demanded, beckoning frantically, and she hurried to his side, peering through the glass to see what had got him so worked up.
Christine stood there on the pavement, turning towards the entrance to the building, and she was talking to someone, an unfamiliar young man in a rather loud checked suit and soft brown hat. Though Antoinette could neither hear their conversation nor make out their expressions, the man was leaning towards Christine in a rather familiar manner, and as she watched he grabbed the little soprano’s arm, trying to pull her round to face him. She resisted, attempting to free herself from his grip, her free hand raised as though she were about to slap him for his effrontery. Madame’s motherly instincts were immediately on alert; respectable gentlemen did not accost lone women in the street.
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen him before,” she said in answer to Erik’s question, but there was no reply; when she looked around she discovered that she was alone in the room and the front door was slamming, the impact as it hit the frame reverberating around the apartment. She was concerned that the plaster in the hall might be damaged, but that worry was soon exchanged for a much more pressing one when she realised that it was still broad daylight and Erik had just gone outside.
