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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 16/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2115
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Joseph Buquet
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: The death of Joseph Buquet.
Author's Note: As the Phantom doesn't have much motivation for killing Buquet (in the musical at least), I felt some explanation was warranted.
CAT AND MOUSE
Joseph Buquet had always been a thorn in Erik’s side.
From the minute the man arrived at the Opera House he had been always watching, always listening; poking his nose in where it was not wanted in an apparent quest for something with which to blackmail the managers when it became clear that his work was not up to standard. Erik had known from the first that Buquet would be trouble – the chief of the flies was careless, over-fond of strong drink and attracted to the ballerinas. From above, on the highest catwalks, Erik saw the drunken leering to which he subjected the girls; he had done his best to keep Buquet from forcing his attentions upon any of them, actions which resulted in the renewed rumours about the Phantom, rumours fuelled by the outlandish stories of Buquet himself.
At first Erik found it amusing that the tales were so far from the mark, but over time his suspicions grew as Buquet began to elaborate and get closer and closer to the truth. Though he knew himself to be concealed as he made his way around the building, creeping through passages and climbing into the furthest reaches like a cat, there were times when he felt eyes following him, sharp and covetous eyes which searched only for one thing: a way to improve the lot of their owner. Somehow, despite his claims to the contrary as he blamed his shoddy work upon the Opera Ghost, Buquet knew that he was dealing with flesh and blood rather than a flight of the imagination. Buquet had seen something, and he was waiting for the right moment at which to use his knowledge.
It appeared that the time had come. In between hurried last minute rehearsals for Il Muto, Madame Giry had managed to pass on the paper now clenched in Erik’s hand. She found it pushed under her office door that morning, and the implication was obvious. He did not need to look at it again to recall the words, scrawled untidily on the dirty scrap:
Phantom’s whore!
No doubt the vicomte would be very interested in your dealings with the Opera Ghost.
How many more will he kill for you, to keep you in his bed? Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!
Antoinette had been shaken, though she insisted it meant nothing. The fact that she delivered his notes had always made her subject to gossip; over the years she cultivated and maintained her fearsome reputation amongst the cast. It allowed her to remain aloof, untouchable. However, should anyone discover their arrangement it also meant that she was extremely vulnerable. No one would believe that she was not implicated in the extortion (the word of others; Erik preferred to consider it compensation for the ceaseless work he put in to make the Populaire what it was) he practised upon the managers. When she agreed to help him, he promised that no harm would ever come to her or to Meg; if he were exposed, they would be out on the streets, as he would be in no position to protect them from a prison cell.
Somehow, Buquet knew the circumstances of their meeting. But he had not been employed at the Opera until six months after the attack on Antoinette... how could he possibly know what had transpired that night? The events were a secret to all but the two of them and... and the man who escaped. Did Buquet know that disgusting individual? Perhaps he was related him, or to one of the roughs to whom Erik had introduced the loving embrace of the Punjab lasso...
Long fingers crushed the paper into a ball. The whole of Erik’s body tensed like a tightened bow-string.
The lasso. He had wondered more than once how Buquet knew of it, introducing the weapon into his lurid tales to scare the ballet rats. There could only be one way he could possibly have encountered it: Buquet had been there, in that alley, it had been his punch which knocked Erik’s mask to the ground, his knife which caused the injury that ultimately saved his worthless life. Unconsciously, Erik’s hand stole to the left side of his ribcage where the scar rested, a souvenir in his skin amongst so many others.
Below, the orchestra was finishing tuning up. The hum of chatter from the audience began to die away as the lights in the auditorium gradually lowered. Erik peered into the wings but he could not see Christine; Carlotta stood there, resplendent in her rococo frills and flounces, a wig of the most immense Marie Antoinette style wobbling on her head and a smug, self-satisfied smile on her fleshy face. The sight made it obvious that those two fools in charge had disobeyed him; they must be fools indeed to court disaster so recklessly! Anger flowing through his veins, Erik grasped a rope and climbed higher, away from the threat of discovery by the stagehands and away from Buquet’s prying eyes. He would deal with Andre and Firmin and their ageing Prima Donna; the fly-chief could wait.
***
“Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!”
Carlotta ran from the stage in tears, her hand clutching at her traitorous throat. Erik could not contain his laughter, allowing the sound of it to boom across the theatre as the chandelier shook and swayed to his command. On the stage, Christine glanced up fearfully, her eyes meeting his for a second before she was hustled into the wings by Firmin as his partner hastily announced the bringing forward of the Act III ballet. Erik ground his teeth; the idiot even managed to get tangled up with the ballerinas as they entered from stage right!
Worry not, Christine, this will be another triumph... have I not taught you well?
There was a sound behind him. Even over the music, the irritating Dance of the Country Nymphs, he could hear the footstep. He slid into the deepest shadows, wrapping his cloak around him. Up here there were only narrow walkways, a precarious position for one not used to moving upon such flimsy supports. Erik was as sure-footed as any mountain goat, and he was in his own domain. Buquet might be chief of the flies, but there were places even he would not normally dare to go.
“I smell you, Monsieur le Phantom.” The man’s gruff, guttural voice was full of the same stomach churning triumph that had been displayed upon the face of La Carlotta. Well, the diva had been humbled and soon the attacker of Antoinette Giry would also learn that one did not cross the Opera Ghost. Erik climbed again, silent as the spectre he claimed to be; Buquet was directly below him, illuminated by the dark lantern he carried. “I know you are here. Come out and perhaps I will not turn you in if we can come to some... arrangement.” The smile that stretched his lips was invisible, but Erik knew it was there. “Surely you can spare some of those twenty thousand francs you demand from the managers? I am not an unreasonable man...”
Erik’s fingers flexed on the thin noose coiled beneath his cloak. He said nothing, barely even breathing lest the noise should give him away. Quickly he pulled the brim of his hat lower to hide his mask as the beam of the lantern flashed in his direction.
“Come, come, Monsieur,” Buquet said, his tone mocking. “What price my silence? Do you really want everyone in this theatre to know that you are a monster, a deformed creature who kills without mercy? A man that they can catch and hand over to the authorities with ease? I’m sure the patrons would be very interested to know about you and Madame Giry...”
“And what of you and Madame Giry?” Erik enquired, his voice low and deadly. He threw it far, behind Buquet’s head; the man spun, hand going to the knife in his belt. “What of you and the woman you tried to defile? Do you think they would like to hear about that?”
“You have no proof.” Buquet suddenly sounded worried; Erik smiled in the darkness. His satisfaction was short-lived, however, as the fly-chief regained some of his confidence with his next words. “Who would believe either of you: a fraudster and his whore? Did you enjoy her, by the way? She’s got spirit in her, that one! Maybe she wouldn’t have minded your face, if you were good enough to - ”
The Punjab lasso was in Erik’s hands. In one swift movement he leapt from the catwalk, landing lightly just behind his prey. The wooden boards swung and shuddered beneath their combined weight; Buquet staggered, losing his grip on the lantern. It plummeted downward, the candle thankfully extinguished by the updraft long before it hit the stage behind the backdrop, unnoticed by the dancers.
“Or maybe you prefer our little Mademoiselle Daae?” the wretch asked, with a sly smile, steadying himself on the handrail. “Are pretty young virgins more your style, monster? How exciting it would be to - ”
His words were choked off. It was the work of a moment to have the noose around Buquet’s neck; Erik pulled it tight, dragging the smaller man into a reluctant embrace. Buquet squirmed, gasping for breath, his hands clutching reflexively at the rope.
“You escaped me once before, Monsieur, but I will not allow it a second time,” Erik whispered. “Remember what became of your friends.”
“...mercy... please...”
He cocked his head, pretending to consider the words Buquet forced through his constricted throat. “Ah, would that I could offer you such, but did you not claim correctly just moments ago that I am a creature without mercy?”
The fly-chief’s eyes bulged; his fingers searched desperately for release, scrabbling at the lasso, at the cords and pulleys that surrounded them, at anything that might help him. His flailing hands caught one of the counterweights for the scenery, and he held on tight, jerking violently away from Erik. Though the Phantom was strong, Buquet’s physique was hard and muscular, and he weighed considerably more; the lasso was torn from Erik’s grasp as the man hung in empty space for several heart-stopping moments before he fell, plunging downwards with the noose still around his neck. Erik grabbed onto the ropes supporting the catwalk just in time before he too was pulled over the edge; before his partly horrified and partly fascinated eyes Buquet tumbled towards the stage, the trailing end of the lasso catching on a bracket and coiling itself around the metal, becoming taught. Brought up short in his descent, the weight of Buquet’s body snapped his neck like a dry twig and he stilled, suspended in mid-air. The painted sylvan glade flew upwards, balanced by the sandbags, revealing the body to all those below, hanging for all the world as though there was a gallows incorporated into the set.
The dancing stopped; the music dying as the orchestra registered the confusion above them. There was a scream of terror from one of the ballet rats, then a long, long moment of complete silence.
Erik didn’t dare to move as the theatre abruptly recovered from its paralysis and chaos took over. The stage was a throng of people, cast and crew rushing to get away as the managers shouted for calm, nearly being trampled in the crush. The audience joined the stampede, pushing and shoving each other as they hastened up the aisles, ignoring the shouts of Firmin as he desperately attempted to reassure them that it was merely an accident. There was Antoinette and little Meg, the ballet mistress’s eyes searching the darkness above, and behind them...
“Raoul! Raoul!” That was Christine, now in the Countess’s elaborate dress, looking around for her boy as he raced towards her from the wings against the press of people.
The vicomte took her hand. “Come with me.” He tried to lead her backstage, but she pulled away from him. Erik only just made out her words by reading the movement of her lips:
“No, to the roof. We’ll be safe there...”
His blood ran cold. Did she really think that... that he would... Did she truly believe that he would hurt her?
Buquet’s body and the madness below him immediately forgotten, Erik leapt to his feet, running and leaping along the catwalks without even looking where he was going, trusting to his instincts to keep him from following the fly-chief. His one thought was that he had to get to the roof, and he had to get there now.
“Christine!”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2115
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Joseph Buquet
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: The death of Joseph Buquet.
Author's Note: As the Phantom doesn't have much motivation for killing Buquet (in the musical at least), I felt some explanation was warranted.
CAT AND MOUSE
Joseph Buquet had always been a thorn in Erik’s side.
From the minute the man arrived at the Opera House he had been always watching, always listening; poking his nose in where it was not wanted in an apparent quest for something with which to blackmail the managers when it became clear that his work was not up to standard. Erik had known from the first that Buquet would be trouble – the chief of the flies was careless, over-fond of strong drink and attracted to the ballerinas. From above, on the highest catwalks, Erik saw the drunken leering to which he subjected the girls; he had done his best to keep Buquet from forcing his attentions upon any of them, actions which resulted in the renewed rumours about the Phantom, rumours fuelled by the outlandish stories of Buquet himself.
At first Erik found it amusing that the tales were so far from the mark, but over time his suspicions grew as Buquet began to elaborate and get closer and closer to the truth. Though he knew himself to be concealed as he made his way around the building, creeping through passages and climbing into the furthest reaches like a cat, there were times when he felt eyes following him, sharp and covetous eyes which searched only for one thing: a way to improve the lot of their owner. Somehow, despite his claims to the contrary as he blamed his shoddy work upon the Opera Ghost, Buquet knew that he was dealing with flesh and blood rather than a flight of the imagination. Buquet had seen something, and he was waiting for the right moment at which to use his knowledge.
It appeared that the time had come. In between hurried last minute rehearsals for Il Muto, Madame Giry had managed to pass on the paper now clenched in Erik’s hand. She found it pushed under her office door that morning, and the implication was obvious. He did not need to look at it again to recall the words, scrawled untidily on the dirty scrap:
No doubt the vicomte would be very interested in your dealings with the Opera Ghost.
How many more will he kill for you, to keep you in his bed? Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!
Antoinette had been shaken, though she insisted it meant nothing. The fact that she delivered his notes had always made her subject to gossip; over the years she cultivated and maintained her fearsome reputation amongst the cast. It allowed her to remain aloof, untouchable. However, should anyone discover their arrangement it also meant that she was extremely vulnerable. No one would believe that she was not implicated in the extortion (the word of others; Erik preferred to consider it compensation for the ceaseless work he put in to make the Populaire what it was) he practised upon the managers. When she agreed to help him, he promised that no harm would ever come to her or to Meg; if he were exposed, they would be out on the streets, as he would be in no position to protect them from a prison cell.
Somehow, Buquet knew the circumstances of their meeting. But he had not been employed at the Opera until six months after the attack on Antoinette... how could he possibly know what had transpired that night? The events were a secret to all but the two of them and... and the man who escaped. Did Buquet know that disgusting individual? Perhaps he was related him, or to one of the roughs to whom Erik had introduced the loving embrace of the Punjab lasso...
Long fingers crushed the paper into a ball. The whole of Erik’s body tensed like a tightened bow-string.
The lasso. He had wondered more than once how Buquet knew of it, introducing the weapon into his lurid tales to scare the ballet rats. There could only be one way he could possibly have encountered it: Buquet had been there, in that alley, it had been his punch which knocked Erik’s mask to the ground, his knife which caused the injury that ultimately saved his worthless life. Unconsciously, Erik’s hand stole to the left side of his ribcage where the scar rested, a souvenir in his skin amongst so many others.
Below, the orchestra was finishing tuning up. The hum of chatter from the audience began to die away as the lights in the auditorium gradually lowered. Erik peered into the wings but he could not see Christine; Carlotta stood there, resplendent in her rococo frills and flounces, a wig of the most immense Marie Antoinette style wobbling on her head and a smug, self-satisfied smile on her fleshy face. The sight made it obvious that those two fools in charge had disobeyed him; they must be fools indeed to court disaster so recklessly! Anger flowing through his veins, Erik grasped a rope and climbed higher, away from the threat of discovery by the stagehands and away from Buquet’s prying eyes. He would deal with Andre and Firmin and their ageing Prima Donna; the fly-chief could wait.
***
“Behold! She is singing to bring down the chandelier!”
Carlotta ran from the stage in tears, her hand clutching at her traitorous throat. Erik could not contain his laughter, allowing the sound of it to boom across the theatre as the chandelier shook and swayed to his command. On the stage, Christine glanced up fearfully, her eyes meeting his for a second before she was hustled into the wings by Firmin as his partner hastily announced the bringing forward of the Act III ballet. Erik ground his teeth; the idiot even managed to get tangled up with the ballerinas as they entered from stage right!
Worry not, Christine, this will be another triumph... have I not taught you well?
There was a sound behind him. Even over the music, the irritating Dance of the Country Nymphs, he could hear the footstep. He slid into the deepest shadows, wrapping his cloak around him. Up here there were only narrow walkways, a precarious position for one not used to moving upon such flimsy supports. Erik was as sure-footed as any mountain goat, and he was in his own domain. Buquet might be chief of the flies, but there were places even he would not normally dare to go.
“I smell you, Monsieur le Phantom.” The man’s gruff, guttural voice was full of the same stomach churning triumph that had been displayed upon the face of La Carlotta. Well, the diva had been humbled and soon the attacker of Antoinette Giry would also learn that one did not cross the Opera Ghost. Erik climbed again, silent as the spectre he claimed to be; Buquet was directly below him, illuminated by the dark lantern he carried. “I know you are here. Come out and perhaps I will not turn you in if we can come to some... arrangement.” The smile that stretched his lips was invisible, but Erik knew it was there. “Surely you can spare some of those twenty thousand francs you demand from the managers? I am not an unreasonable man...”
Erik’s fingers flexed on the thin noose coiled beneath his cloak. He said nothing, barely even breathing lest the noise should give him away. Quickly he pulled the brim of his hat lower to hide his mask as the beam of the lantern flashed in his direction.
“Come, come, Monsieur,” Buquet said, his tone mocking. “What price my silence? Do you really want everyone in this theatre to know that you are a monster, a deformed creature who kills without mercy? A man that they can catch and hand over to the authorities with ease? I’m sure the patrons would be very interested to know about you and Madame Giry...”
“And what of you and Madame Giry?” Erik enquired, his voice low and deadly. He threw it far, behind Buquet’s head; the man spun, hand going to the knife in his belt. “What of you and the woman you tried to defile? Do you think they would like to hear about that?”
“You have no proof.” Buquet suddenly sounded worried; Erik smiled in the darkness. His satisfaction was short-lived, however, as the fly-chief regained some of his confidence with his next words. “Who would believe either of you: a fraudster and his whore? Did you enjoy her, by the way? She’s got spirit in her, that one! Maybe she wouldn’t have minded your face, if you were good enough to - ”
The Punjab lasso was in Erik’s hands. In one swift movement he leapt from the catwalk, landing lightly just behind his prey. The wooden boards swung and shuddered beneath their combined weight; Buquet staggered, losing his grip on the lantern. It plummeted downward, the candle thankfully extinguished by the updraft long before it hit the stage behind the backdrop, unnoticed by the dancers.
“Or maybe you prefer our little Mademoiselle Daae?” the wretch asked, with a sly smile, steadying himself on the handrail. “Are pretty young virgins more your style, monster? How exciting it would be to - ”
His words were choked off. It was the work of a moment to have the noose around Buquet’s neck; Erik pulled it tight, dragging the smaller man into a reluctant embrace. Buquet squirmed, gasping for breath, his hands clutching reflexively at the rope.
“You escaped me once before, Monsieur, but I will not allow it a second time,” Erik whispered. “Remember what became of your friends.”
“...mercy... please...”
He cocked his head, pretending to consider the words Buquet forced through his constricted throat. “Ah, would that I could offer you such, but did you not claim correctly just moments ago that I am a creature without mercy?”
The fly-chief’s eyes bulged; his fingers searched desperately for release, scrabbling at the lasso, at the cords and pulleys that surrounded them, at anything that might help him. His flailing hands caught one of the counterweights for the scenery, and he held on tight, jerking violently away from Erik. Though the Phantom was strong, Buquet’s physique was hard and muscular, and he weighed considerably more; the lasso was torn from Erik’s grasp as the man hung in empty space for several heart-stopping moments before he fell, plunging downwards with the noose still around his neck. Erik grabbed onto the ropes supporting the catwalk just in time before he too was pulled over the edge; before his partly horrified and partly fascinated eyes Buquet tumbled towards the stage, the trailing end of the lasso catching on a bracket and coiling itself around the metal, becoming taught. Brought up short in his descent, the weight of Buquet’s body snapped his neck like a dry twig and he stilled, suspended in mid-air. The painted sylvan glade flew upwards, balanced by the sandbags, revealing the body to all those below, hanging for all the world as though there was a gallows incorporated into the set.
The dancing stopped; the music dying as the orchestra registered the confusion above them. There was a scream of terror from one of the ballet rats, then a long, long moment of complete silence.
Erik didn’t dare to move as the theatre abruptly recovered from its paralysis and chaos took over. The stage was a throng of people, cast and crew rushing to get away as the managers shouted for calm, nearly being trampled in the crush. The audience joined the stampede, pushing and shoving each other as they hastened up the aisles, ignoring the shouts of Firmin as he desperately attempted to reassure them that it was merely an accident. There was Antoinette and little Meg, the ballet mistress’s eyes searching the darkness above, and behind them...
“Raoul! Raoul!” That was Christine, now in the Countess’s elaborate dress, looking around for her boy as he raced towards her from the wings against the press of people.
The vicomte took her hand. “Come with me.” He tried to lead her backstage, but she pulled away from him. Erik only just made out her words by reading the movement of her lips:
“No, to the roof. We’ll be safe there...”
His blood ran cold. Did she really think that... that he would... Did she truly believe that he would hurt her?
Buquet’s body and the madness below him immediately forgotten, Erik leapt to his feet, running and leaping along the catwalks without even looking where he was going, trusting to his instincts to keep him from following the fly-chief. His one thought was that he had to get to the roof, and he had to get there now.
“Christine!”
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Date: 2011-12-03 12:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-12-03 01:09 pm (UTC)