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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 14/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2063
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: More of the same?
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
“Erik? Erik, wait!” Christine chased after him as he hurriedly donned hat and cloak and strode towards the front door. “How can we possibly hear what is happening above? We are five storeys below the theatre!”
He took down her own cloak from the stand in the hall and draped it around her shoulders. “There are many conduits from the surface through which sound can travel; were there not, we would be unable to breathe easily so deep underground. The tributary which feeds the lake is also an excellent carrier of air... and sound.” He tied off the strings which fastened the blue velvet and stepped back as if to admire his handiwork. “I take it you are coming?”
“Of course, but what if they are dangerous, whoever they are?”
Erik pulled back his jacket and gave her a glimpse of the Punjab lasso coiled beneath. “I have been carrying this ever since that journalist – “ he invested the word with so much contempt Christine swore she could feel the air freeze around her “ – came on the scene. It is better to be safe than sorry.”
Waiting while he locked the door, she did not feel entirely comfortable to know that he had in his experienced hands a weapon that could dispatch a man in moments, but she had to admit that she would rather know that they had some means of defending themselves should it be needed. Revulsion made her shudder anew as she remembered the heat of Béringer’s foul breath upon her cheek; thinking that she was trembling from the cold of the cellar, Erik swept an arm around her, ushering her down to the little dock and the gondola which bobbed there on the inky water.
It could have been that first night again as they punted across the underground lake, through the mist which hovered over a surface that was as still as a mill pond. A faint greenish glow, natural phosphorescence according to Erik, gave an eerie tinge to the light from the lantern on the bow of the tiny craft, shadows dancing around them and flitting across the cavern roof like spirits. Erik steered the boat with unerring confidence; Christine glanced back to see him standing straight and tall behind her, the motion of his arms strong and steady as he brought the pole from the water before thrusting it down once more to propel them further into the darkness. He looked down and gave her a reassuring smile, but she did not miss the slight wince which passed over his face as he strained his shoulder a little further than it was ready to bear.
She was almost sorry when the gondola bumped against the opposite shore. In moments Erik had helped her alight from the boat and taken her hand, leading her once again through the maze of stairways and tunnels which led to the surface. Much to her surprise, they did not emerge from the mirror in her old dressing room; instead their path brought them out behind one of the statues in the Opera foyer, through a concealed door in the marble base. Sunlight was streaming through the tall windows, glancing from the multicoloured tiles that made up the decorative mosaics and picking out the dust motes which danced in its beams as though caught in a spotlight.
Four gentlemen stood amidst the gold and marble at the top of the grand escallier. The youngest of the group, wringing his hands in a familiar nervous gesture, Christine recognised as Monsieur Remy, the managers’ secretary. The others, however, were unknown to her. One was impeccably-dressed, sporting a waxed moustache and an extravagant jewelled watch chain; so tall and thin that he appeared almost to wave back and forth as he stood there like corn in the wind, she mentally dubbed him ‘Beanpole’. His companions looked around them at the beautiful decor, the shorter of the two craning his neck to be able to see the murals which graced the ceiling. They appeared to be men of means, for both wore expensively-tailored suits and carried Malacca canes, perfectly-brushed top hats and pearl grey gloves in their hands; their shoes were so highly polished that they reflected the light with an almost blinding intensity. It was quite clear that they had walked no more than a few yards from their carriage before they entered the building.
“Well, Messieurs? What do you think?” Beanpole enquired. “Have you seen enough?”
Christine looked at Erik and mouthed, ‘Prospective managers?’ He gave a terse nod in reply.
The two strangers exchanged a glance. Remy’s eyes, magnified by the spectacles he wore, blinked almost convulsively. “ I think,” the taller said, chewing on his bushy, greying moustache for a moment, “I think that, pending an agreement upon the price, which we will discuss further at a later date, we would be willing to take the Populaire on.” He looked towards his colleague for confirmation, and the smaller man nodded, more light bouncing from the top of his bald head.
“This theatre has suffered from bad management of late,” he added gruffly, “but it was once great and I believe it can be so again with the right hand to guide it.”
“Along with astute choices of works, the best cast and crew that can be found and judicious advertising, naturally,” the other put in with an ingratiating smile. “We do have some experience in such matters.”
Beanpole directed a pointed glance at Remy, and the secretary said, voice wobbling slightly, “Both cast and crew are currently resting upon full pay, and can be recalled at a moment’s notice. Of course, replacements will be required to fill the shoes of La Carlotta and Signor Piangi – a Prima Donna and Primo Uomo are vital to the company, but it will not be easy to find such experienced performers at such short not - ”
“The source of the funding while the Populaire has been closed is currently unknown,” Beanpole said quickly, cutting the secretary off. “The outgoing managers, Messieurs Firmin and Andre, would appear to have left enough money in the accounts to cover the salaries of all staff for an unspecified time.” He looked extremely sceptical, as though he did not believe it for a moment. “I am sure, gentlemen, that you have read the rumours circulating in the popular press upon the subject.”
“Everyone has,” Grey Moustache said, adding with a chuckle, “Some even claim the Opera Ghost is paying for it!”
Beanpole’s left eyelid flickered at the mention of the Phantom; Christine turned her attention to Erik and saw that he was standing as still as a statue, jaw clenched and a frown wrinkling the visible side of his brow. “The newspapers will insist upon printing such nonsense. I will get to the bottom of it, I assure you. Monsieur Remy here has a theory that the money was advanced by a patron who wishes to remain anonymous.”
Remy nodded. “I have been forced to make a record of the sum in the theatre accounts as such. It has been difficult to piece them together since the disappearance of the original books, but I am hopeful that all will soon be in order.”
“We will be bringing our own patron with us,” Bald Head announced. “You are aware of the love that the Marquis de Bourges holds for the Opera?”
“Indeed.” Beanpole bobbed his head. “Did he not make a donation of a hundred thousand francs to the Nationale only two years ago?”
“He did. We have high hopes that his involvement will do wonders for the Populaire. Of course, we do not wish the Marquis’s name to be linked with the theatre until we decide to make a public announcement. I hope we can rely upon your discretion and that of the Ministry?”
Once again, Beanpole nodded. There was a moment of silence, and then he clapped his hands together, the sound ricocheting from the marble like a gunshot. “Well, then, Messieurs, I think that the affair is settled. May I welcome you both on behalf of the Ministry of Arts as the new managers of the Opera Populaire? I will instruct the lawyers to draw up the necessary contracts, but I think that we have made enough - ”
“The lawyers can wait a little,” Grey Moustache said, waving a dismissive hand. “I suggest we go and celebrate with a bottle of wine or two at that delightful little cafe I saw as we arrived. What do you think, Marigny?”
“An excellent idea, Fontaine,” agreed his colleague. “Monsieur Patenaude?”
“It is hardly appropriate for me to be drinking when ‘on duty’ for the Ministry,” Beanpole protested, but Fontaine clapped him companionably on the back.
“Nonsense! What Frenchman can refuse a glass of claret?” he asked. “I expect they have good cheese there, too. Is it a little early for lunch?”
Marigny patted his ample stomach. “Never too early, my dear fellow!”
“Excellent! We can discuss the replacement for Signora Guidicelli over a bottle,” Fontaine declared as they started to make their way down the stairs. “Tell me, Patenaude, have you ever heard of an American contralto called Irene Adler...?”
Christine heard no more as Erik’s arm was suddenly about her shoulders and she was being ushered back into the passage. The hidden door closing behind them cut off the sound of conversation from the foyer, and it was so dark after the glittering majesty outside that it almost seemed as though the world had just been switched off like an electric lamp. He did not speak until they were back in the fifth cellar, shut away in the warmth and gaslight of his home.
“We will return to Antoinette’s so that I can pack my belongings,” he said, pacing the hearthrug with long, fluid strides as Christine stood by the door watching him. “The sooner I am here to keep an eye on things, the better.”
“Why?” she asked.
It took him a moment to process exactly what she had said. When he did, he stood still, his expression confused. “Pardon?”
“Why do you need to be here?” she clarified, but he did not lose the puzzled look.
“Why? Because I refuse to allow another pair of dolts to mismanage my theatre, that is why! How can you even ask such a question after what has gone before?” He whirled around, continuing on his way.
“Erik.” Christine crossed the room towards him, blocking his path. When he tried to step around her she moved with him. His mouth twitched in annoyance. “Have you ever seen those gentlemen before?”
His eyebrow flicked upwards. “Should I have done?”
“Have you any knowledge as to their character, or their ability to run an opera company?”
“Besides that which I gained just now?” he enquired, his tone laden with sarcasm.
“You cannot make a judgement from one overheard conversation,” she told him. “I thought that you were going to put the Phantom to rest?”
“The Phantom may be needed! If those idiots turn out to be as bad as the last - ”
“Just give them a chance.” Christine reached up and straightened his collar, smoothing down the nap of the velvet. She tried her best ‘soulful eyes’ look, the one that had always held the power to win over her father. “Please? For me?”
For a moment he glared down at her; once Christine would have felt intimidated, but now she simply stared back, holding his gaze. Eventually he sighed, shoulders slumping. “Oh, very well. You know I can deny you nothing.”
“Thank you.” She stood on tiptoes, kissing the nose of his mask. Her forehead bumped against the brim of his hat, knocking it to the floor, and she couldn’t help giggling.
“I am still moving back, though, as soon as possible,” Erik warned her, bending to retrieve the fedora. “I must know what is happening, and you will need to be perfect for your return to the stage. We’ll resume your daily lessons tomorrow.”
“That will mean a confrontation with Madame,” Christine said. “Would you like me to come with you, for moral support?”
Erik replaced his hat and exhaled slowly, a rueful smile touching his misshapen lips. “I thank you, but no. Something tells me that I should brave the coming storm alone.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2063
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: More of the same?
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
“Erik? Erik, wait!” Christine chased after him as he hurriedly donned hat and cloak and strode towards the front door. “How can we possibly hear what is happening above? We are five storeys below the theatre!”
He took down her own cloak from the stand in the hall and draped it around her shoulders. “There are many conduits from the surface through which sound can travel; were there not, we would be unable to breathe easily so deep underground. The tributary which feeds the lake is also an excellent carrier of air... and sound.” He tied off the strings which fastened the blue velvet and stepped back as if to admire his handiwork. “I take it you are coming?”
“Of course, but what if they are dangerous, whoever they are?”
Erik pulled back his jacket and gave her a glimpse of the Punjab lasso coiled beneath. “I have been carrying this ever since that journalist – “ he invested the word with so much contempt Christine swore she could feel the air freeze around her “ – came on the scene. It is better to be safe than sorry.”
Waiting while he locked the door, she did not feel entirely comfortable to know that he had in his experienced hands a weapon that could dispatch a man in moments, but she had to admit that she would rather know that they had some means of defending themselves should it be needed. Revulsion made her shudder anew as she remembered the heat of Béringer’s foul breath upon her cheek; thinking that she was trembling from the cold of the cellar, Erik swept an arm around her, ushering her down to the little dock and the gondola which bobbed there on the inky water.
It could have been that first night again as they punted across the underground lake, through the mist which hovered over a surface that was as still as a mill pond. A faint greenish glow, natural phosphorescence according to Erik, gave an eerie tinge to the light from the lantern on the bow of the tiny craft, shadows dancing around them and flitting across the cavern roof like spirits. Erik steered the boat with unerring confidence; Christine glanced back to see him standing straight and tall behind her, the motion of his arms strong and steady as he brought the pole from the water before thrusting it down once more to propel them further into the darkness. He looked down and gave her a reassuring smile, but she did not miss the slight wince which passed over his face as he strained his shoulder a little further than it was ready to bear.
She was almost sorry when the gondola bumped against the opposite shore. In moments Erik had helped her alight from the boat and taken her hand, leading her once again through the maze of stairways and tunnels which led to the surface. Much to her surprise, they did not emerge from the mirror in her old dressing room; instead their path brought them out behind one of the statues in the Opera foyer, through a concealed door in the marble base. Sunlight was streaming through the tall windows, glancing from the multicoloured tiles that made up the decorative mosaics and picking out the dust motes which danced in its beams as though caught in a spotlight.
Four gentlemen stood amidst the gold and marble at the top of the grand escallier. The youngest of the group, wringing his hands in a familiar nervous gesture, Christine recognised as Monsieur Remy, the managers’ secretary. The others, however, were unknown to her. One was impeccably-dressed, sporting a waxed moustache and an extravagant jewelled watch chain; so tall and thin that he appeared almost to wave back and forth as he stood there like corn in the wind, she mentally dubbed him ‘Beanpole’. His companions looked around them at the beautiful decor, the shorter of the two craning his neck to be able to see the murals which graced the ceiling. They appeared to be men of means, for both wore expensively-tailored suits and carried Malacca canes, perfectly-brushed top hats and pearl grey gloves in their hands; their shoes were so highly polished that they reflected the light with an almost blinding intensity. It was quite clear that they had walked no more than a few yards from their carriage before they entered the building.
“Well, Messieurs? What do you think?” Beanpole enquired. “Have you seen enough?”
Christine looked at Erik and mouthed, ‘Prospective managers?’ He gave a terse nod in reply.
The two strangers exchanged a glance. Remy’s eyes, magnified by the spectacles he wore, blinked almost convulsively. “ I think,” the taller said, chewing on his bushy, greying moustache for a moment, “I think that, pending an agreement upon the price, which we will discuss further at a later date, we would be willing to take the Populaire on.” He looked towards his colleague for confirmation, and the smaller man nodded, more light bouncing from the top of his bald head.
“This theatre has suffered from bad management of late,” he added gruffly, “but it was once great and I believe it can be so again with the right hand to guide it.”
“Along with astute choices of works, the best cast and crew that can be found and judicious advertising, naturally,” the other put in with an ingratiating smile. “We do have some experience in such matters.”
Beanpole directed a pointed glance at Remy, and the secretary said, voice wobbling slightly, “Both cast and crew are currently resting upon full pay, and can be recalled at a moment’s notice. Of course, replacements will be required to fill the shoes of La Carlotta and Signor Piangi – a Prima Donna and Primo Uomo are vital to the company, but it will not be easy to find such experienced performers at such short not - ”
“The source of the funding while the Populaire has been closed is currently unknown,” Beanpole said quickly, cutting the secretary off. “The outgoing managers, Messieurs Firmin and Andre, would appear to have left enough money in the accounts to cover the salaries of all staff for an unspecified time.” He looked extremely sceptical, as though he did not believe it for a moment. “I am sure, gentlemen, that you have read the rumours circulating in the popular press upon the subject.”
“Everyone has,” Grey Moustache said, adding with a chuckle, “Some even claim the Opera Ghost is paying for it!”
Beanpole’s left eyelid flickered at the mention of the Phantom; Christine turned her attention to Erik and saw that he was standing as still as a statue, jaw clenched and a frown wrinkling the visible side of his brow. “The newspapers will insist upon printing such nonsense. I will get to the bottom of it, I assure you. Monsieur Remy here has a theory that the money was advanced by a patron who wishes to remain anonymous.”
Remy nodded. “I have been forced to make a record of the sum in the theatre accounts as such. It has been difficult to piece them together since the disappearance of the original books, but I am hopeful that all will soon be in order.”
“We will be bringing our own patron with us,” Bald Head announced. “You are aware of the love that the Marquis de Bourges holds for the Opera?”
“Indeed.” Beanpole bobbed his head. “Did he not make a donation of a hundred thousand francs to the Nationale only two years ago?”
“He did. We have high hopes that his involvement will do wonders for the Populaire. Of course, we do not wish the Marquis’s name to be linked with the theatre until we decide to make a public announcement. I hope we can rely upon your discretion and that of the Ministry?”
Once again, Beanpole nodded. There was a moment of silence, and then he clapped his hands together, the sound ricocheting from the marble like a gunshot. “Well, then, Messieurs, I think that the affair is settled. May I welcome you both on behalf of the Ministry of Arts as the new managers of the Opera Populaire? I will instruct the lawyers to draw up the necessary contracts, but I think that we have made enough - ”
“The lawyers can wait a little,” Grey Moustache said, waving a dismissive hand. “I suggest we go and celebrate with a bottle of wine or two at that delightful little cafe I saw as we arrived. What do you think, Marigny?”
“An excellent idea, Fontaine,” agreed his colleague. “Monsieur Patenaude?”
“It is hardly appropriate for me to be drinking when ‘on duty’ for the Ministry,” Beanpole protested, but Fontaine clapped him companionably on the back.
“Nonsense! What Frenchman can refuse a glass of claret?” he asked. “I expect they have good cheese there, too. Is it a little early for lunch?”
Marigny patted his ample stomach. “Never too early, my dear fellow!”
“Excellent! We can discuss the replacement for Signora Guidicelli over a bottle,” Fontaine declared as they started to make their way down the stairs. “Tell me, Patenaude, have you ever heard of an American contralto called Irene Adler...?”
Christine heard no more as Erik’s arm was suddenly about her shoulders and she was being ushered back into the passage. The hidden door closing behind them cut off the sound of conversation from the foyer, and it was so dark after the glittering majesty outside that it almost seemed as though the world had just been switched off like an electric lamp. He did not speak until they were back in the fifth cellar, shut away in the warmth and gaslight of his home.
“We will return to Antoinette’s so that I can pack my belongings,” he said, pacing the hearthrug with long, fluid strides as Christine stood by the door watching him. “The sooner I am here to keep an eye on things, the better.”
“Why?” she asked.
It took him a moment to process exactly what she had said. When he did, he stood still, his expression confused. “Pardon?”
“Why do you need to be here?” she clarified, but he did not lose the puzzled look.
“Why? Because I refuse to allow another pair of dolts to mismanage my theatre, that is why! How can you even ask such a question after what has gone before?” He whirled around, continuing on his way.
“Erik.” Christine crossed the room towards him, blocking his path. When he tried to step around her she moved with him. His mouth twitched in annoyance. “Have you ever seen those gentlemen before?”
His eyebrow flicked upwards. “Should I have done?”
“Have you any knowledge as to their character, or their ability to run an opera company?”
“Besides that which I gained just now?” he enquired, his tone laden with sarcasm.
“You cannot make a judgement from one overheard conversation,” she told him. “I thought that you were going to put the Phantom to rest?”
“The Phantom may be needed! If those idiots turn out to be as bad as the last - ”
“Just give them a chance.” Christine reached up and straightened his collar, smoothing down the nap of the velvet. She tried her best ‘soulful eyes’ look, the one that had always held the power to win over her father. “Please? For me?”
For a moment he glared down at her; once Christine would have felt intimidated, but now she simply stared back, holding his gaze. Eventually he sighed, shoulders slumping. “Oh, very well. You know I can deny you nothing.”
“Thank you.” She stood on tiptoes, kissing the nose of his mask. Her forehead bumped against the brim of his hat, knocking it to the floor, and she couldn’t help giggling.
“I am still moving back, though, as soon as possible,” Erik warned her, bending to retrieve the fedora. “I must know what is happening, and you will need to be perfect for your return to the stage. We’ll resume your daily lessons tomorrow.”
“That will mean a confrontation with Madame,” Christine said. “Would you like me to come with you, for moral support?”
Erik replaced his hat and exhaled slowly, a rueful smile touching his misshapen lips. “I thank you, but no. Something tells me that I should brave the coming storm alone.”
