His feet slapped the ground soundlessly as he raced toward the Opera House; something wasn't right, there was no doubt of it. With his enhanced and acute hearing, he had heard the panicked crowd rushing from the Opera. He had no idea what was going on, but it wasn't good and he had to find out what it was. He hurried to get there before the authorities did, sometimes using the street, sometimes leaping to the rooftops. Among the panicked throng he found his contact: the ballet mistress, Madame Giry. Putting a hand over her mouth to prevent her from screaming, he pulled her into a dark alley.
"Monsieur!" she gasped, when he released her.
"What is going on, Mme. Giry?" he demanded.
Fluent with the most romantic of tongues though he was, he could not hide his heavily accented French.
"The Opera Ghost!" she explained, looking worried, "He- he killed Signor Piangi and stole Christine Daae from the stage! A mob is hunting him down as we speak! I sent le vicomte de Chagny to save Christine, but the mob will kill the Ghost!"
She was worried, afraid for the Opera Ghost's life; she had known him from years previous and was his trusted friend and confidante.
He turned, ready to rush down to the Phantom's lair, but Mme. Giry grabbed hold of his arm.
"Please, monsieur," she pleaded, "Do not go down there! They would kill you too! And I am confident the Ghost will find an escape. Please…"
He turned to look toward the Opera, fearful for the life of the Phantom, but he knew she was half-right. They would try to kill him, but realize they couldn't; he couldn't risk them discovering the truth. He grasped her shoulders, pulling her close till their noses all but touched.
"Listen to me," he whispered, "You will keep me informed, keep me posted on all that occurs. Comprennez-vous?"
The ballet mistress nodded, and he took off at such a speed, he virtually disappeared. Once out of sight, he took to the rooftops and climbed to Apollo's Lyre, allowing him a view of the whole of Paris, and from there he watched, until the sky became an array of colors by the rising sun. He departed, taking to the air, and headed toward the townhouse he'd taken, landing on the balcony of his bedchamber. He then drew the curtains and prepared to spend the day in sleep.
Two weeks ticked by, the only news being the sudden disappearance of the Opera Ghost. The next fourteen days passed without incident, leaving La Carlotta to retake her reign of terror on the stage. The managers had half-expected to hear the Phantom's complaints, but there was nothing, much to their surprise. And so time passed without word or sign from their uninvited guest, and people ceased to expect any. All relaxed and returned to their lives, reveling in the discontinued haunts… all except the ballet mistress. Madame Giry remained alert, fretting over the Ghost's silence, sudden and inexplicable as it was. No one had found any trace of him that night, sending the managers in hysterics, however they had set up a 24-hour police watch. Yet the entire staff of the Opera was apprehensive of the ballet mistress's unease. There seemed no plausible cause of her agitation, but no one even thought that she was ally to the Ghost. None offered the continued silence and absence of the Phantom as a reason for her chagrin.
As the second week of the Ghost's absence came to a close and the third was dawning, Madame Giry delivered a note to her foreign contact. She knocked upon the door of his temporary residence; it was about noon, the sun shone bright. A butler, the only servant in the foreigner's employment, opened the door.
"Oui, Madame?" he queried.
"I wish to speak with His Excellency," Mme. Giry stated.
"I am afraid he is predisposed," he responded.
"S'il vous plait, monsieur," she begged, "It is urgent that I speak with him immediately!"
"Very well, Madame," the man sighed, stepping aside to allow her entrance, "Entrez-vous. I will show you in."
He led her to the study, then took his leave to fetch his master. The walls were lined with huge shelves, containing an immense number of books, a desk stood at the back of the room in front of a pair of French doors leading onto a large balcony. She was startled from her awe by the sound of the large double doors opening behind her. The master of the house entered in a dressing gown of deep blood red velvet, covering a yawn with the back of his hand.
"What is so urgent," he asked, sitting in a large armchair next to the fireplace off to one side of the room, "that you had to see me immediately?"
"Excellency," Mme. Giry made a curt bow in greeting, "I must speak with you."
"So I understand," he covered another yawn, and motioned to a chair facing his own.
"Merci," the older woman took the proffered seat, "Did you not wish for me to keep you informed of the Opera Ghost's activities?"
"Yes, of course," he affirmed, sitting up, his attention piqued.
"In this case, rather, the lack thereof."
"What do you mean?"
"All has been calm and silent the past two weeks."
"Since that night?"
"Yes, there has been nothing. No notes, no threats, no incidents, nothing but absolute silence. There has been neither sign nor word from the Ghost."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing at all. He has vanished… and I fear the worst."
The ballet mistress's contact sighed, covering his face with his hands, then ran them through his long disheveled hair.
"I will go to the opera tonight…" he began.
"Tonight?" she interrupted, "Can you come no sooner?"
"…Tonight… and I will descend to his labyrinth and see if I can't find any sign of him. Is that clear?"
"Oui, Excellency." Bowing, the ballet mistress saw herself out, quite confused by the Count's reluctance to go out in daylight.
The Transylvanian Count paced in his study, mystified; the Ghost was missing, hadn't been seen or heard from for nearing three weeks. Something was not right… he stopped, sighing; he would see to it tonight. He wished he could go now; sunlight would not kill him, as he had always believed. It was force of more than two hundred years' habit that kept him indoors, out of the sunlight. Old habits die hard, after all, and night was his world, his kingdom where he was master, while mortal man slept in ignorant bliss. He sat in the large armchair before the fire, as exhaustion set in, his eyes growing heavy. The day was not done, hours remained before he could reclaim his realm, and sleep was demanding his attention…