A/N: No questions about the pen name—there are only two of us writing this at present, though Amy will hopefully actually start WRITING fanfiction; although if you're a devoted Christian, you'll probably prefer that she doesn'tpost ANYTHING—and we both have our own accounts. Also, we based this on the movie and whatever we felt like pilfering from Leroux' novel. Apologies for the long disclaimer.
Summary: A detective/assassin is hired to investigate the 'Opera Ghost.' However, both ghost and sleuth get a huge surprise when they meet face-to-face… And it has nothing to do with Erik's disfigurement…
Disclaimer: We don't own Andrew Lloyd Webber or Gaston Leroux. Oh, that's not right, is it…? Fine, we don't own their respected works either. lightbulb tings We do own… "Marie Destler." 'rubs hands in glee' Excellent…
Disembodied voice: You most certainly do not!
The Flying Breadstick: B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-B-But—
Blood-Red White Rose: Illusione—Amy—sold her on eBay.
The Flying Breadstick: Again?
Illusione: Just like I sold you, Steph.
The Flying Breadstick: Du poisson mal!
Illusione: You don't speak French.
Rose: 'holds up French dictionary' She called you a bad fish.
Illusione: Did I say I don't speak French?
Breadstick: 'mutters something in French'
R: 'Translating for the benefit of the readers': 'Did Dracula teach you?'
I: Dracula's Transylvanian.
B: Et?
R: 'And?' He could still teach you French.
I: Shut up and continue.
B: Les dictionnaires doivent mourir. (Dictionaries must die.)
R: Well said.
Prologue
The managers' office was in a state of chaos, for lack of a better term. And in this case, the room reflected its owners; Monsieurs Firmin and André had been unable to attain a wink of sleep the night before—a fact confirmed by their dishevelled appearance. Monsieur Firmin had even forgotten to slick his hair back with his regular quantity of lard—enough to drown a small animal.
In any case, the fact remained that this unkempt appearance contrasted greatly with the fashionably-dressed lady in front of them. Their fatigued demeanour paled considerably with the redhead's exultant air; the grin wide enough to admit the entire cast and props of Hannibal—including the orchestra, lighting technicians, dressmakers, coiffeurs, and perhaps the entire audience—didn't help.
"Bon matin, monsieurs!" she greeted with enough zeal that would put rabbits in heat to shame. The sparkle in her turquoise eyes would have put the North Star to shame. Her blue dress set off the pale skin somewhat charmingly, and the golden thread embroidered on the black sleeves and collar accentuated the yellow in her hair.
The two men were irritated as soon as they set eyes upon her; their glares seemed to indicate as much in any case.
The enthusiasm evanesced immediately. The warmth of her open face turned to cold, guarded ice. "Are you always so belated in keeping your appointments, monsieurs?" she inquired indifferently. "Bon dieu, no wonder the press publishes so much gossip of the Opera Populaire."
"Mademoiselle Destler, I presume?" André addressed the woman courteously.
"Oui," she verified, though her eyes seemed fixed on the birds' nest that was Firmin's hair in an amused manner. He gazed back at her in a superior manner that she was now finding annoying. "Marie Destler, sirs. You wished to see me?"
"Ah yes… A… gentleman," she raised an eyebrow at the obvious hesitation, "… Well, a man of a high-standing repute… Firmin, you have met with him, why don't you…"
"I met—? You were there too!"
"Yes, but didn't you—"
"I most certainly did not—"
"I recall with certain clarity—"
"Might one of you gentlemen kindly inform me of the reasons behind your request to have me meet with you?" Marie Destler, or so she called herself, interrupted.
Immediately, explanations burst forth from the mouths of both the once hesitating managers.
"My colleague and I wish for you to investigate—"
"André came upon the inspiration—"
"Why must you lie so, Firmin?"
"Why must I waste my time listening to two imbeciles argue over who met whom?" Marie—or so she said—muttered under her breath, frowning when the two men showed no sign of ceasing their disagreement. Sighing, she leaned forward ever so slightly, reaching for a forlorn pen. Tapping the writing implement in annoyance on the wood of the desk, she attempted to regain the attention of her potential clients. "An explanation, Monsieur André?"
"As I was saying," André continued, with a minimal glare at Firmin, "we have been encountering difficulties concerning an…" Here he hesitated.
"An…" she prodded.
"An Opera Ghost!"
Marie stared from one to the other in amazement. Her mouth twitched ever so faintly, but the smirk was eventually, though difficultly, suppressed. "Explain, good monsieurs?" she asked in all sincerity.
"Well, as André so eloquently put it, ever since we have assumed management of the Opera Populaire, it has become a necessity for us to make regular visits to the bathroom—"
"Firmin! Please!"
"—Due, apparently, to a ghost of some sort."
"A…ghost." She paused, once again sweeping her gaze across both men in turn. "I assume you do not mean the literally dead, walking-through-walls variety?"
"Of course not!"
"But you believe us, Mam'selle?"
"It would be very difficult for me not to, Monsieurs," she replied after a moment. "I myself have been referred to as a 'ghost' on several occasions."
"Do you see, Firmin?" André exclaimed in triumph. "Miss Destler does agree that we are not ludicrous!"
"Did I say that? Monsieurs, I have reason to believe that perhaps you have aggravated this 'ghost' in some way… Any men you may have crossed during your procuring of management of this opera house?" Her eyes flickered from one blank face to another. "No, I suppose you had not thought of that."
"Madame!" bellowed Firmin, standing suddenly behind the mahogany desk, "This 'ghost' does not, in any way whatsoever, have any ties to either Monsieur André or myself! The fact that we have reported a 'ghost' to an acquaintance of ours soon after our purchase of the opera house is entirely coincidental!"
"I see…" she nodded. "So your 'spectre' is connected directly to the Opera Populaire?"
"Exactly!" Exhausted by his sudden show of temper, Firmin resumed his seat.
"Madame," André said, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial manner (which in her opinion was unnecessary, as the fact that the ghost was a mortal man had already been established), "Firmin and I would like to employ you to remove this… delinquent from our opera house."
"Ah, but Monsieurs," she said, "I would like to draw your attention to the minor dilemma concerning my grounds for lingering around this theatre of yours."
A moment passed before André hit upon a stroke of genius: "You could be a maid!"
"No," she stated flatly.
"A… Perhaps there is another activity you could use as a cover whilst you investigate our problematic 'ghost,' Mam'selle?" André trailed off hopefully.
Marie paused, deep in thought. "A…dancer, perhaps," she mused. Warming to her subject, a slight small tugged at her lips. "Yes, I can be a part of le ballet du corps… No one will notice another aspiring prima ballerina…"
"Why a dancer, Mademoiselle?"
"Do you wish for my detection before I even have a chance to investigate further into this case?" she spoke sharply. "There are girls joining and leaving dancing academies everyday; if your 'ghost' is a member of staff, as I suspect, then he shall not bat an eye when he sees yet another dancer. And it also explains my being in your office reasonably well, thus eliminating all possible suspicions."
"With all due respect, Mademoiselle, but can you actually—"
"André, relatively little natural talent is needed to dance," Firmin once again cut off.
"Monsieur André, I am not fool enough to request a position I am not able to fulfil. I would not request to become a dancer if I had not had previous experience in that field."
And with that settled, Mademoiselle Destler rose to her feet, gathering her weathered travelling cloak. "Expect to see me in the afternoon, gentlemen," she informed the managers. "And perhaps then we can organise the little matter of my pay."
A/N: We cannot be asked to type up a negotiation of her salary; it'll be boring anyway. Just assume she gets paid as much as any other dancer, with a little extra, and a huge payment when she hands over 'the ghost.'
We do not want a murderous mob of pitchfork-wielding phangirls after us: just note Mademoiselle means UNMARRIED. Oh, and review! Mask-shaped cookies for all! Oh, and Christine is BLONDE—it suits her personality. 'ducks overripe tomatoes'
