The Phantom's Opera

AN: This is a story basically about the last night of Gaston Leroux's life. In theory, how the novel The Phantom of the Opera came about. His own little "correspondences" with Erik. There are going to be a few things that you might not understand for those who aren't familiar with French culture or language.

Oui- pronounced like "wee" means yes.

Monsieur- Mr. or Sir – abbreviation: M

Madame- Mrs. or ma'am – abbreviation: Mme

Mademoiselle- Miss. Or Ms – abbreviation: mlle

Foyer- pronounced "foy (sounds like boy) -yay" an entrance hall to the home.

Mon-my

Ange-Angel. sounds like "ANGela"

That is all you need to know for this current chapter. This is told from a mixture of the original Gaston Leroux novel, the 2004 motion picture, and a small hint at Susan Kay's PHANTOM in a few places.

I am using a bit of a "Titanic" way of narration. This tale is being told from the perspective a made in Leroux's home obviously. This woman is now old and on her death bed.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the phantom of the opera, the rights to the novel, screen play, Andrew Lloyd Webber's lyrics or musical.

Prologue

April 15th, 1987

London, England

The Last Words of Mme Suzette le Charon

To be delivered to: Mlle Alexandria le Charon and M Erik le Charon

It was 1927. I was a maid serving a rather famous author in my native France. Most have heard of him; however, I'm sure there are plenty that haven't. I was only 20 years old and supporting my sick mother and over-worked father on a servant's salary. In the middle of a large storm in the city of Nice, not far from Paris, I was working for whom we shall refer to as "The Employer" until a later time. He was very ill, dieing in fact, the doctors has said it was due an acute urinary infection. He would not last the week and he knew it just as well as I. The night of his death was the night of one of the strongest spring storms to hit Nice in a long time. It was late, the rain was pouring, the thunder rolling, and the clouds dangerously shaped in the sky. I was the only servant who dared, much less cared enough to brave leaving for work that night. He lie in his bed, weak and pale, yet his eyes held a flame brighter than the sun. The previous night's events were involved, I knew for certain. Yet I wouldn't find the accurate reason behind it, not until later that night.

The night before, at approximately half past nine, the doorbell rang through the large foyer of the Parisian style home. There were two older, American gentlemen at the entrance asking to speak to The Employer. I told them politely that the man was very ill and not in any condition to see guests. They explained rather persistently that it was an important matter concerning one of his numerous works. I allowed them in wearily, announced their presence to Monsieur, and after allowing them entrance into his bedroom I closed the door quietly. A few words reached my ears, for I was vaguely listening, and I smiled, and I knew the man would be delighted.

The men were coming from California, in the United States, asking The Employer's permission to base a silent movie on one of his books. The publication in question he had been printed about 16 years before this coming winter. Wasn't specifically popular, but I had noticed in the short time I worked for him, it was his own personal favorite. That is when I noticed that, though the man's voice was full of excitement, it was also hinting, more so laced with a strong reminiscence of fear. The fright in the gravely Parisian accent was heavy, almost to the point it sounded as though he was weighted down by it. It struck me as vaguely odd, however I dismissed it, thankfully. For what happened next beat down the boundaries of "vaguely odd".

As the men left the room, satisfied smirks lingering on their faces, I saw them to the door. Instinctively, I went back to check on my employer. He looked almost unconscious, yet his eyes wide and glazed over, as he stared off into nothingness. He had a sense of contentment about him, yet he still looked stiffened by an unseen force of tension. Sweat trickled barely noticed from his forehead to his rounded cheeks. He suddenly spoke, no, almost sang out the words to me, "Go now child. . . Go now and leave me!" The voice was not his own. It was unfamiliar, gruff, frightened, entranced, and obliviously musical all at once. He then looked towards me, seeing my almost glazed stare towards him, and sighed, continuing to look at me, yet with something that vaguely hinted at pity. That is when he asked me.

He looked yet again spaced off and asked me, "Get your coat, mademoiselle, will you run an errand?" I looked almost stunned, with no good reason mind you, and said, "But monsieur, you're ill. You should not be here alone. And with the storm it would surely take me all night". He looked at me fiercely, the intensity in his eyes weakening as he repeated, his voice stronger and almost commanding, "Will you run an errand?" I let out a sigh of defeat, and answered, "Oui, monsieur. Where shall I go?" The old Frenchman coughed as he began lifting himself off his pillows, raising his hand in defiance as I began moving to help him. Leaning towards his bedside table, poorly attempting to hide his difficulty in doing so, he opened a nearly invisible hinged cabinet. Within it, I only slightly glimpsed at the many papers and discarded quills, pens, ink wells, and many other writing necessities. However, he reached behind the jumble, for a small wooden box. He opened it and clasped the contents in his trembling fist.

He began coughing again as he beckoned me to his bedside. I leaned in towards him, but he stopped me with a single finger in the air, elegantly tilting his head side to side in refusal. He took my hand gently in his own, opening it, palm up with articulate precision, and placed a plain gold ring, seemingly a wedding band, in the center of it, before delicately closing my fingers over it in a fist. "I want you to take this, mon ange. Take it to the cemetery. Walk to the far north gates, and there you will find a plain grave, with nothing upon it but the engraving of a mask and the name ERIK. Bury this ring in the earth beside the grave, one or two inches down. You do this child and I will double this week's pay." With every word he said his eyes grew distressed, and he looked frightened still, his voice by the end of it had once again taken the eerie tone that he had used earlier. I didn't hinder on the thought, for the only thing that I had in my mind was the doubling of my wages. I did have to support my entire family, for I was the only thing keeping them from starvation. The strangeness of the task was no longer an issue within my mind…for I when I finally thought to consider I was already at the cemetery. Yet even then, the purpose didn't register. I finally found out the truth the next night I was one of the only 3 people to ever know it and by the morning the only left living. For the next night was the last night of The Employer's life.