Note from Author: Thanks, in advance, to all lovers of Phan Fiction and stories inspired by the Phantom of the Opera. This is for you!

As I have published book one and two of the Master of Illusion series on Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Noble and Apple iBooks (amongst other places), I have put up 10 chapters (20%) of the book for you here. If it is something you like, please check out my website to purchase book one or book two for a very reasonable price on your favourite platform. Just search for Anne Rouen.

Please note: As I am an Australian author, this story is edited to Australian Style standards. Meaning spelling, grammar and punctuation will vary from some US and UK style guides.

Master of Illusion — Book One

Anne Rouen

Prologue

1 December 1929

'Who is making that infernal racket? And at such an ungodly hour, too.' The publisher pulled the pillow over his head, but the hideous cacophony on the doorknocker finally galvanised him into action. 'If it's an author with a manuscript, I'll ram it down his throat,' he swore, bounding down the stairs in his dressing-gown to stare at the brown envelope slowly working its way under the door―in sudden, jarring silence. He snatched at the bolts, dragging it open, running out to glance up and down the street― empty, the street lamps glowing eerily in the mist. He shivered, turning back to pick up the anonymous delivery. Some people had just no thought for others ...

Angrily re-bolting, he grabbed a paper knife from his desk, retreating to the warmth of his bedchamber. Before the fire, he slit open the envelope, gasping in astonishment as he drew out a yellowed newspaper clipping.

A little frisson chilled his spine. He recognised the title of an article his late father had written on the tenth anniversary of a certain tragedy for his 'Historical Recollections' series. With an exclamation, he picked up the piece written almost thirty years ago, about an old mystery that still kept readers fascinated. Intrigued himself, he began to read:

Historical Recollection: The Unsolved Mystery of the Opéra Français

On the twenty-fourth of August 1891, the news of the previous night's great catastrophe was trumpeted all over Paris. 'Return of the Phantom?' blared the headlines. 'Dark Angel: A Copycat Crime?', 'Opéra Français Destroyed in Blaze: Crime or Accident?', 'Angel: Murderer or Hero?'.

These headlines were the talk of Paris that fateful day, and everyone had an opinion, particularly on the question posed in the above last. It was a nine-days wonder—and so scandalous some of the claims and stories that many were inclined to shrug their shoulders and disbelieve it completely. Especially since two of the main subjects of this salacious gossip were seen to be enjoying the sponsorship in society of the comtesse de la Roche-Carillac: one affianced to her nephew, the other as chaperone.

But what really happened at the Opéra Français that fateful night? And afterwards, too? Was there, as some suggested, a dark spectre, driven by a mad lust for power to destroy his world, the theatre, in one final, terrible act of vengeance?

Or again, some whispered a story of an eccentric genius who, supposedly modelling his life on the frightening despot of the Opéra Paris of some twenty-one years earlier, had, like his hero, held a great opera house to ransom.

There were certain similarities; it is true. But, it must be stated, there were also important differences: the chief of which being the essence of his character. For buried deeply beneath the dark exterior, the dreadful scarring of mind and body, there was a power and gentleness waiting to emerge, to add a piquant dimension to the personality of this extraordinary man.

Like his hero, driven by dark demons and uncontrollable passions, he fell in love with a beautiful music student: hardly surprising for a young man growing up in an opera house, would not one think?

Like his hero, a facial disfigurement led him to hide himself in darkness, away from the cruel ridicule of his fellows.

But, unlike his hero, through the agency of one who truly loved him, he was given a second chance at life.

What would he do with that life? Was there any formula he would follow now? And, more importantly, where was he?

Speculation was rife at first, careering wildly between the ridiculous and the fantastic. But then, over time, much was forgotten. However, all agreed on one thing: that his voice, having once been heard, could never be forgotten. Its compelling power and exciting timbre relived over and over with ecstasy—especially his final performance.

And here was another point of conjecture: had he really murdered the tenor, as was popularly supposed, in order to sing in his place? 'Rubbish', declared the sceptics. Dolenti, grossly overweight, had succumbed to a heart attack at the most inconvenient of moments. This man, Angel, had stepped in at the last second in order to save the day, there being no understudy. Could he be blamed if, through the appalling negligence of a corrupt management, the theatre was so badly maintained that a shocking accident had occurred?

Later, there were some libellous claims (doubtless by the same management) that he had arranged it all in order to kidnap the beautiful diva. 'No, no, not so!', shouted his supporters. 'No, he saved her. He used his great genius and strength to save her from certain, horrifying death. If he had kidnapped her, how can she be here now, stunning society with her beauty and demure charm?'

Now, ten years on, unearthed from obscurity in a dusty archive, this question, along with the others, remains unanswered: a mystery, living on in legend. And as with any such mystery, time dims its intensity but not its appeal. We have to wonder: will it ever be resolved?

Copycat crime? The publisher tugged at his lip. Le Fantôme de l'Opéra—Gaston Leroux had sworn it to be a true story, citing this piece by his father as corroborating evidence. He'd been the rankest copy boy when this monumental scandal had erupted. Although, heir to the distinguished publishing house of Delaine, he had been made to start at the bottom, working for a newspaper, to gain the vital experience that stood him in good stead now. He'd been about eleven at the time, but he still remembered those headlines quoted in his father's article and the excitement and speculation on the streets that day. He also remembered that the man, Angel, whilst having some serious detractors in the persons of the young comte de Villefontaine and the Police Chief, Captain Moreau, had a formidable ally in that outspoken old tartar, the marquise du Melande and another in the retired prima ballerina, Madame Aranova.

He looked again at the last question posed by his father. Not so long ago, he would have said, 'Not a chance'. But now it looked as though there may be a breakthrough, after all. Just the other day, he'd heard the tantalising rumour that the diaries of Madame Dupont, the Artistic Director of the Opéra Français at the time in question, had been discovered in an abandoned wing of the Hospital du Bois—a hospice for wounded soldiers from the Great War. There was also another rumour currently doing the rounds—that a previously uncrackable safe had been opened, at last, and found to contain certain revealing documents, including the secret files of the Master himself—or so he had been told ... But, above all, there loomed the question: 'Who had sent him this clipping? And, more importantly, why?'

At opening time, still with the question, 'Why?' in the back of his mind, he was hailed by a courier.

'Special delivery, Monsieur. Urgent, so they said. They said to be sure to tell you that.'

'They?'

'It was a group of performers from the Opéra Magique acting on behalf of the author, they said.'

'You did not ask the name of this author?'

'I did, Monsieur, and do you know, I think they were making game of me. They each said it was the other ...'

'Indeed?' The publisher did not smile. 'There is no accounting for some people ...'

'Will you sign for it?' asked the courier, holding out a package.

'But certainly, Monsieur. Un moment, s'il vous plaît, while I snib this door ... there. Put it on the shelf while I get my pen.'

'Oh, and there's one more. I'm sorry, I almost forgot.' Thrusting the package on the shelf, he went to rummage in the basket on his bicycle, returning with a second, which he placed with its fellow. 'They said this one's not urgent, Monsieur. They said you will know when it's time to open it.'

'Really?' The publisher gave him a narrow look.

'Vraiment, Monsieur. But you know what authors are.'

'I should, by now.'

'Indeed. Some of them are a little outré, non?' The courier chuckled. 'Sign here, Monsieur.'

'Many a true word ...' murmured the publisher, flourishing his pen.

At the end of a long and arduous day, the publisher closed the doors to the public, stoked up the fire and unwrapped the package. He took up the covering letter. 'The accompanying manuscript,' he read, 'is a faithful rendition of the diaries of Madame Dupont (with reference, where necessary, to other relevant sources), containing original excerpts (where appropriate) and set out in the form of a novel for the sake of continuity. Oh, yes? We will see ...'

But, as he acknowledged, there was yet another mystery—the letter had not been signed; the unknown author making an astonishing claim ...

'Mais, what is this?' He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. 'Obsessive love and jealousy at the bottom of a forty-year-old mystery? Scandalous secrets exposed? A respected member of the haut monde a Master of Illusion?'

The publisher began to appreciate the writer's need for anonymity. Brows raised, he put his hand to the manuscript, flipped it open and settled down to read.