What Happens in Perros Stays in Perros Chapter 1: The Arrival, a phantom of the opera fanfic

"What Happens in Perros Stays in Perros"
By MadLizzy

Based upon characters and incidents from Variations on a Theme of Leroux by HDKingsbury

This is a work of fiction, and is based upon characters in Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or other, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the authors.

Setting the Stage: This short romantic comedy is written by my very good friend and beta extraordinaire, MadLizzy. It is based upon characters and incidents found in my story, Variations on a Theme of Leroux, and takes place in Perros several days before the wedding of Erik duBois and Christine Daaé. Anatole Garron and La Carlotta have become quite friendly, and have come to Perros for the wedding. They have taken rooms at The Inn of the Setting Sun, and have decided to take this time to become "better acquainted." This is a humorous story with adult situations.

The Arrival

A few days before Erik and Christine were to be wed, Anatole watched in silent amazement as the porters at the Inn of the Setting Sun continued brining Carlotta's trunks and luggage into the suite. A seemingly endless procession of bearers cringed under La Carlotta's demands.

"That is fragile!" she snarled at one hapless young man. "You! You there, with the hatboxes. Señora Ura will take them," she directed, pointing to her maid.

"Señora Ura," Anatole muttered, rolling his eyes. "The she-bear." She'd have to be formidable, to put up with La Carlotta, he thought.

Carlotta saw him standing in the doorway, and her demeanor instantly changed. "Anatole!" she trilled, extending her hand as she glided towards him. "How delightful to see you! Have you been standing there a long time?"

"I'd wait an eternity for a moment of your time," he responded as he took her hand, drawing her closer to him. His eyes widened as he realized she was blushing.

"Oh, Anatole!" she cooed. "You say the sweetest things!" She led him to the divan, tossing aside her hand-warmer as she crossed the room. Sra. Ura caught it on the fly, and waited as the Spanish diva removed the stickpins from her hat. Ura knew it would be flung in her direction shortly, and La Carlotta did not disappoint.

"Ura!" Carlotta said harshly. "Order tea."

"Si, Señora," Ura replied quietly, giving Anatole the once-over before leaving. She knew he was a ladies' man, but she wondered if he had met his match with the man-eating diva.

"Carlotta," Anatole began nervously. "There's something you must know about the rooms."

"Yes?" she said, folding her hands daintily in her lap. She leaned forward as he spoke, and smiled attentively at him.

In spite of his better judgment, he found himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was lost in her dark brown eyes.

"You wanted to say something?" she prompted, delighted with the effect she was having on him.

He opened and closed his mouth, trying to remember what it was he wanted to say. "Oh! That," he said, swallowing. "I wanted you to know that I did not request this arrangement."

"Is there something wrong with the arrangement?" she asked, her face an unreadable mask of politeness.

"Um, well," he started. "The rooms. They adjoin."

She shook her head slightly, indicating that she did not understand.

"I would never presume," he stuttered. "I mean, it wouldn't be proper."

"My dear Anatole," she said liltingly. "We are both adults, yes?"

"We are," he acknowledged, unsure of where she was going with this new strategy of hers.

"And I assume you are no stranger to a lady's boudoir?"

"Well…" he said, loosening his cravat. He searched the room for the quickest exit. The window, he thought. I can jump out the window. This is only the third floor.

"I had Ura specify the arrangements," she said, handing him the key to the adjoining door. "She has her own room on the servants' floor."

He felt the blood rush to his ears, and other parts of his body as well. As if on cue, Ura ushered in a waiter with a teacart. Carlotta shooed them away and devoted her full attention to Anatole.

"Now, my dear, you must rest. We've had a long journey, and you haven't fully recovered from your wounds. Lie back on the cushions, and put up your feet," she told him, pushing on his shoulders when he did not immediately comply. Despite his protests, she removed his shoes and looked at them a moment before commenting. "My, what big feet you have!" she said seductively, holding up his size fourteens for show.

She held them out to Ura, who also looked at his shoes appreciatively. "Be sure you set these out tonight; they are scuffed. They will never do for the wedding."

"Please don't," Anatole said, having found his voice at last. As Carlotta covered his legs with a lap robe, he continued. "I brought other shoes. If you set them out, they will disappear."

"Nonsense!" Carlotta replied. "They will be polished during the night, and returned before dawn.

He scoffed. "Not in my experience."

"As you wish," she said, snapping her fingers at Ura. Ura took the shoes into Anatolia's room discreetly, and disappeared.

Anatole was certain that Ura remained within earshot, like a personal slave from Roman times, but at least she was out of sight. "Carlotta," he said. "I'm glad you came with me. Christine will be thrilled that you have come to her wedding."

"How could I not attend my best friend's wedding?" Carlotta replied sweetly. "I am very fond of her, you know."

Anatole choked on his tea. He well-remembered how jealous Carlotta had been of Christine, and how relieved she seemed when he explained that he was like a big brother to the sensational young singer as well as being a close friend of Christine's fiancé. When he could speak, he said, "You're constantly surprising me, Carlotta."

She put her hand on his thigh, a little too familiarly. He sat up straight at her touch. "I have not even begun to reveal my secrets to you, Anatole. I think that, before we return to Paris, you will be a very happy man."

-0-0-0-

Come into my Parlor

"Thank you," Anatole said to the chambermaid, who curtsied crisply and giggled like the teenager she was.

She finished turning down his bed and stoked the fire far longer than necessary, looking around to see if there was anything else that needed doing that would allow her to stay in the famous singer's suite a few more minutes. "Laundry!" she blurted. "I mean, have you any washing you'd like for me to take care of, sir?"

He was accustomed to this reaction, but it pleased him no end, seeing the way he affected women. Carlotta and Christine were among the few who hadn't acted giddy around him. Christine had already fallen in love with Erik by the time they met, so she never thought of him as anything more than a friend, but Carlotta was different. He wasn't sure what to make of her.

"I'm sorry," he said, when he realized the chambermaid was waiting for an answer. "What did you say?"

"Laundry, sir. I'd like to wash you--your…I mean, take you…that is, your laundry, sir." She twisted her apron anxiously with both hands.

He could tell she was flustered, so he spoke soothingly to calm her down. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary." He had learned the hard way that when he sent out his laundry, it never came back. After losing a dozen pairs of underclothes, the man finally realized that to some people, his laundry was memorabilia. Such was the price of fame.

He wondered if Carlotta had this problem, too, but that led to thoughts of Carlotta's unmentionables, and then to thoughts of Carlotta in her unmentionables – which led to thoughts of Carlotta out of her unmentionables, which could only lead to trouble. Of that, he was sure.

A light tap on the door caught his attention. "Dr. Bret! What a nice surprise," Anatole said, shaking the good doctor's hand. "Won't you come in? You're just in time to join me for a cognac." He crossed the room and raised a decanter questioningly.

"Another time, perhaps," the doctor replied warmly. "I am here professionally."

"I don't understand. I didn't call for you," Anatole responded, handing Bret a snifter of cognac in spite of his refusal.

"The summons was from La Carlotta. Her personal servant, Sra. Ura, told me it was most urgent that you be seen by a physician. Pulled me away from my supper, she did," he added with a snort.

"You must be the doctor," Carlotta said charmingly, as she floated through the adjoining door on a cloud of lavender silk – yards and yards of fabric that rustled when she moved.

They gulped down their cognac in one swallow as she advanced upon them.

"Carlotta," Anatole said. "Why did you send for Dr. Bret? I told you, I feel fine."

"Oh, do forgive me," she said coquettishly. "I have only your best interests at heart! After our long trip, I wanted to be certain you were…up to… the strenuous activities that the next few days will entail."

Anatole and Bret exchanged glances as Carlotta attached herself to Anatole's arm.

"Carlotta," Anatole said, his jaw set firmly. "This will never do. I can't have you calling doctors and…God knows who else on a whim! I'm fine, I tell you. You pulled Bret away from his supper for this."

"Forgive me," Carlotta said, pursing her lips and affecting what she hoped was a contrite look. "I must remember to beat Ura for disturbing you! I only meant for you to come at your earliest convenience. I didn't intend for her to imply it was a matter of life or death." She extended her hand to him, hoping the gesture of familiarity would appease him.

It worked. "Señora, I assure you, it is my privilege to answer the call of the great diva, La Carlotta herself," he said, lightly grasping her hand in friendship.

"Even for a fool's errand?" Anatole muttered.

"Call me an old fool, then," Bret said, standing tall. "It's not every day my poor supper is interrupted by the most famous singers in all of France."

"Only France, doctor?" Carlotta asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

"Italy…Spain…all of Europe!" he babbled.

Anatole folded his arms across his chest. "I believe you were here on business," he said flatly.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked, releasing Carlotta's hand and opening his little black bag.

"There is no prob—" Anatole said before he was interrupted.

"He would never complain," Carlotta explained, speaking directly to the doctor, "but he seems to be in pain."

"How do you know this?" the doctor said, gesturing for Anatole to sit.

Anatole rolled his eyes, but he sat. "There's nothing wrong with—"

"He tires easily," Carlotta said worriedly. "He holds his side, and he is short-tempered. And he barely eats enough to stay alive! He opens his mouth to speak, but there are no words! And when he sings…well, he doesn't have the volume he once had."

"That is to be expected, Señora. He had a few cracked ribs, but they should be nearly mended by now."

"If you ask me, I'm—"

"How soon can he return to his normal activities?" she asked Dr. Bret, ignoring Anatole.

"He knows his own limits. I'd say, he can do whatever he feels like doing," he said reassuringly.

"Anything he feels like…" she mused, her face lighting up as a myriad of ideas occurred to her.

"Yes, anything at all. Of course, I doubt he'll feel like following the hunt or chopping wood. Normal activities—using common sense, of course—should be fine."

"Normal activities…" she repeated. "Thank you, doctor. You may go now," she said, waving him away with the back of her hand.

"Carlotta!" Anatole exclaimed. "That is enough! You can't go around dismissing people as if they are beneath you! Dr. Bret is my friend. He saved my life!" Once he started, there was no stopping him. "And another thing! There will be no more talk about beating servants – or anyone else for that matter! People who perform a service for you are human beings, and will be treated with the same consideration you would give me."

"There he goes again," she whimpered. "Forgive me, doctor. I don't know where my manners are. It's just that…just that…" she forced a tear from her eye, "I've been so worried about him."

"I wouldn't have gotten far as a doctor if I took offense easily, Señora," Bret said kindly. "I understand that this has been a hardship on all concerned." He glared at Anatole, silently castigating him for speaking harshly to La Carlotta.

"Thank you, thank you, you are most generous," she sniffled, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a lavender handkerchief. "Gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I will bother you no longer." She floated through the doorway, leaving it ajar.

"You cad!" Bret said, smacking Anatole on his good shoulder. "How could you speak to her that way?"

"I didn't do—"

"You reduced that lady to tears!" Bret stammered, slamming his bag closed. "You owe her an apology!" he huffed. "The sooner, the better."

"I'll do the very best I can," Anatole said with grim determination. "You'll be at the wedding, I assume?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Bret replied, sighing. "Will she be there?"

"Christine? Of course."

"No! I mean, La Carlotta," he said, a dazed look upon his face.

"Naturally," he said. Seeing that the doctor was awe-struck, he added, "I am escorting her."

"Then you'd better make amends, before someone else snatches her away from you…you brute."

"Thank you," Anatole said woodenly, as he showed the doctor to the door. "It was a pleasure seeing you again."

Once the doctor was gone, Anatole turned on his heel and dashed straight to Carlotta's room.

-0-0-0-

Said the Spider to the Fly

Carlotta was weeping on the fainting sofa when Anatole burst through the door. His steeled his resolve, and steamed across the room.

"Look here, Carlotta. That may work with other men, but it won't work with me. I know exactly what you're up to!"

She looked up at him innocently, questioningly.

"Stop that! You've got an onion in that handkerchief, don't you? You forget, I know all the tricks of the trade."

She turned her palms up and showed him her empty hands.

"Then, it was pepper!" he exclaimed, snatching away the handkerchief. He held it close to his nose, sniffing for the telltale aroma of hot peppers, but instead he was met with her usual perfume, a heady blend of spice and mimosa. He held it closer to his nose and closed his eyes as he inhaled. It was intoxicating.

She wept harder, and his resolve crumbled.

He dropped to his knees and held her waist, looking up into her eyes. "Oh, Carlotta! I'm so sorry! I…I misjudged you. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Of course I can," she whispered, crushing his face into her impressive bosom. "But you're right about me, Anatole. I am a manipulative harpy. I never think of anyone's feelings but my own. I am a vindictive, hateful, mean old crone!"

"Don't say that!" he gasped. "You are not an old crone!"

She wailed, pushing him away from her, and fell back against the couch's plush cushions, covering her face with the crook of her elbow.

He couldn't help noticing how her bosom heaved as she sobbed. He got up from the floor and sat beside her, patting her hand. Finally, he leaned down and kissed the side of her head, and then her cheek, and before he knew it, he was kissing her lips and she was doing the most marvelous things with her tongue that he'd ever felt.

She grasped his shoulders and pivoted, and they fell onto the floor with a thump. He clutched his side and grimaced as pain shot through his tender ribs.

"Anatole!" she gasped, pulling open his shirt frantically. She felt his rib cage, satisfying herself that he was none the worse for wear. Her manic movements slowed down as she realized he was laughing gently.

"Why are you laughing?" she chuckled. "Doesn't it hurt?"

"It hurts like all hell," he said, rubbing his side.

"I don't understand."

"I'm wondering if this will curtail your plans for the evening."

She looked at him with what she hoped was a blank stare, feigning ignorance. "I have no idea what you mean," she said brazenly.

"I believe the phrase was, 'normal activities,' wasn't it?"

She blushed. "I had to make sure you're…strong enough for me."

He opened his mouth to speak, but the implications of what she had confessed began to sink in and he lost his train of thought. "Oh," he managed, with considerable effort.

"I admit, I am a difficult woman – more than most men can handle," she said. She locked eyes with him, and continued. "I never thought of myself, until now, as mean…"

"You're not!"

"—or selfish…"

"Never!"

"—or manipulative…"

"Um…" he said, realizing he was sitting on the floor holding her in his arms, when only moments ago, he was prepared to ream her out and send her packing.

"Very well," she laughed. "I'll grant you that one." Her hand was in his lap, and she rubbed a small circle in the fabric of his pants. "But…a difficult woman can be the most rewarding," she said.

"So I have heard," he replied, with a gulp.

"Let me show you, Anatole," she said, reaching past him to the bowl of fruit that was sitting on the low table. She extracted two cherries, and in an excruciatingly slow motion, she sucked them one at a time into her mouth. A moment later, she delicately removed the two stems, now tied into a single lovers' knot, and placed it in the palm of his hand. She swallowed the pits and smiled, batting her eyelashes while waiting for him to catch his breath.

"Well," he said at last. "That is hard to top."

"Oh," she said, tracing a tented outline in his trousers, "I'm sure you have something comparable."

-0-0-0-

To be continued...