Summary: Inspired by Susan Kay's novel and Gaston Leroux's, what really happens when Raoul bursts in on the Phantom's lair at the end:) Just a little thought. Oh! AU by the way. And Fop-bashing! Kind of...sort of... err...
Raoul felt the heavy weight of the sledgehammer in his hands--the stout wood shaft solid and the weight of the head sure.
No one would recognize the fashionable Vicomte Raoul deChagny--his handsome face careworn and barely hiding a secret agony, threads of grey hiding in his blonde locks, his once-white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his normally spotless dark pants sporting several large dust patches and a huge clump of cobwebs he had brushed against while wandering the dark passages. Of course, it was so dark that his own brother could pass by an arm's length away and the two not know each other.
He was ready to tear the opera house down with his bare hands. That thing had Christine again. Somehow he had enticed her to come back down in these underpits of this hellish place. A place fit for neither man nor beast.
He amended that. It was fit for a man who was a beast. A monster.
He marched down through the rabbit warren that was the backstage of the Opera house--dingy corridors and tiny rooms only fitfully lit. The myriad inhabitants of the Opera--the scene shifters, painters, firemen, singers, composers, messenger boys, and more--parted in front of him and glanced away from his fanatical eyes.
Christine had been a diva--a miraculous talent like a brilliant diamond amongst dust--but she had maintained the tiny chorus girl's dressing room until the end. Raoul felt himself start to tremble with rage as he approached the room. The door was cracked open, as though someone was waiting for her to return.
He slipped inside and shut the door. Christine's little ring of spare keys (she claimed she was hopeless with keys) was jammed in his pocket and her little door key still slipped in the lock and locked it. Perfect. The little room was eternally musty like all tiny back rooms but largely as he remembered it. The little couch bed was still jammed against one wall with the blue blanket folded at the foot. The rickety dressing table was the same--lounging lazily against a wall with the same scratched and worn stool under it.
And a large, framed mirror dominating it all.
Raoul's face twisted in anger. He hated that powder-dusted mirror. His reflection glared back at him--a strong, young man who was used to giving commands with a sledgehammer in his hand. Carefully, Raoul schooled himself--calmed himself and buried the anger until he was almost detached from it.His handsknew their business--going to the fifth hollow to the right of the discolored button of wood on the bottom and the ninth whirl of wood from the corner and pressing them together.
With a click, the mirror slightly and Raoul slid it open. For a dizzying second, a hundred or a thousand Vicomtes danced around him as he slid into the secret passage. When his boot hit the second step, the mirror closed behind him with a flash of reflected light.
Then darkness surrounded him.
Christine had told him--several times--about the passages under the Opera Populaire. They seemed like an eccentric oddity with a brushing of fantasy dust--a maze of secret passages going down to the lake beneath the Opera house. Until he started stumbling through them with the Persian daroga, he didn't even really think about them. Now, he walked through them confidentally--his anger distilling to fury--with his sledgehammer at the ready.
Christine had told him once how to go through the entire way to the lake and boat. It was unfortunate that Raoul had no particular head for direction in dark passages, so he took the first way through he had found--through the trap door and into the mirrored torture chamber.
Dim reflections danced around him again and for a moment, he was spinning, trying to find his way around in the deep shades and shadows. That hated ironwork tree mocked him--it's silk noose standing innocently and slyly by. Raoul closed his eyes for a moment--blocking his fanatical reflections.
Now was not the time to lose control. He was rescuing his beloved from the clutches of a deformed monster. A beast had lured her hear for God only knows what purpose and it was up to him to save her like a knight of old.
Raoul's eyes opened once more. A legion of calm Vicomtes stood at the ready with dozens of sledgehammers ready for business.
Taking careful stock of his surroundings, he felt around for the iron tree. The branch pointed towards what he thought was the doorway. In the dizzying array of Raouls, he stretched his hand forward to gauge the distance--
--and felt nothing.
Going further and further, he swept his arm looking for the accursed mirrored door. His boot suddenly crunched down on broken glass that he glanced down. Scattered around his feet were thousands of sparkling glass shards. Nudging the head of the sledgehammer forward, he inched forward into the wreckage.
The mirrored glass door was shattered into thousands of pieces. Beyond it around a shady twist of hallway, a candlabra was twisted and two branches were missing in the tangle of shreds of sheet music and the twisted tube of a flute. Raoul looked in amazement--no corner had been spared. Draperies were hanging in tatters, glass lay shattered in crystalline pools on the floor, and furniture was lying in heaps like broken cords of wood. Music was everywhere in half-burned shreds.
Picking carefully through the wreckage, Raoul stepped gingerly into a pool of light. There the Persian perched on a ripped ottoman, shoulders hunched and face long, staring into the distance without seeing anything. For a moment, Raoul felt a bit sorry for him--this tragedy had taken its toll on him too--but he had known of this beast. He had known of this lair and the monster within.
Stepping into the ruined music salon, Raoul approached the Persian.
"Where is she?" he hissed. This had to be a trap. After the fantastic tortures and exhilarating journey of before, this was entirely too ordinary not to be a trap.
The Persian let bits and pieces of shredded paper fall from his hands. "A lifetime, m'sieur. It was his masterpiece." With a fluttery, hopeless gesture, he tried to jam two pieces together like a small child trying to fit together a picture puzzle. "It's all gone."
"Where is she?" Raoul demanded, hefting the sledge.
"He assumed you would--rightly--not allow her to return here. He..." The darker man paused for a shuddering sigh. "...he destroyed everything. A lifetime of work--gone! When he had another seizure, I came and..." The Persian paused for a moment with an elegant shrug. "...He's dying, m'sieur."
Raoul sat down heavily on a ripped chair. Dying? How was he supposed to be the knight in shining armour if his enemy was already dying? This had to be a trick.
"Christine kept her promise, though." The daroga mused thoughtfully. "She brought him an invitation to her wedding. He was resting on the bed in her room--the only room he could not bring himself to destroy. She took off his mask and began kissing him, sir. I left them alone, then, and came here, hoping to save something of the masterpiece."
"So she's in there?" Raoul felt a flicker of something inside.
"Yes and Allah help me, for I will not let you go in there." Dark eyes slid up and down his form. "It will not be long now."
Raoul felt his knees grow rubbery. The sledge fell out of his hands as he contemplated this. Christine--his innocent, precious Christine!--dirtying herself by touching that monster. And then he felt dirty himself--he was no knight in shining armor. He was just a foolish boy chasing after a loose singer. His brother, the Comte Phillipe, told him that all of them were the same--loose, lacivious chits with eyes on purses rather than hearts. Now his sweet, innocent little friend was proving Phillipe right.
Time passed by on some kind of wings--Raoul couldn't bring himself to see how much time passed. Then, with a soft click, the door opened and Christine stepped out, holding a creamy colored cat and crying softly.
Raoulreached for his handkerchief, then remembered where they were. With a scowling frown, he dropped his hand.
Standing, he swung the sledgehammer over his shoulder, aping the way he had seen a laborer on his estate do it while the watching women sighed. "Let's go Christine..." he said.
"Wait," the Persian whispered softly. "It will only be a moment or two more."
Raoul spun around to face the smaller man. "What! What do you--! ..." Raoul felt a tightness in his throat. Then, with a curious music he didn't know he possessed, his voice changed. Deepening, it acquired a curious, haunting melody. "What do you mean?"
Christine stared at him, holding the cat close to her chest. Staring into her eyes, which seemed more amazed than shocked, he felt his entire body tingle. Then it began to burn. Crumpling on the carpet, he whispered to himself. "Raoul, pull yourself together. This is just shock... you'll be fine as soon as you are above ground again and you can burn the entire Opera Populaire to its foundations! Just get up--!" His gut clenched, as though it were rejecting some painfully acidic poison. A brief lurch of his stomach and he swore that he tasted blood.
Images crowded his brain. Like a horrific nightmare, he raced through unfamiliar landscapes and saw strange faces. Faces that looked at him in horror and terror. A little Arabian slave girl's image passed by in the filmy clothes of her land, only to reappear in tortured pain as she died. A woman's sultry, sadistic laughing filled him--a shade of a shadow appearing on the other side of a carved screen on a balcony. Faster and faster, the images came. He saw an old master mason holding his dearest daughter--a girl he somehow knew--in a mass of rubble fallen from the roof. He faced a terrifying vision of a gypsy standing over him with a whip in his hand. More faces. More places.
Then, just as quickly as they came, they stopped. Raoul panted and knelt on the floor, staring at the only steady points that he could see--his two suddenly slender hands buried in the deep pile of carpet.
"Raoul?" Christine's soft voice whispered behind him. "Raoul, are you all right?"
A bitter taste rose to his mouth and he sensed more than saw another man walking up to them. Two shiny, fashionable shoes fell into his vision as he struggled to right himself.
"I am well, mon ange," a voice whispered.
Raoul froze for a moment. Wait. It couldn't be!
"We will depart and find somewhere of our own," the light tenor assured her. "Somewhere where we can be together."
Yes. His own voice was answering her. But he didn't say anything! Struggling up, he glanced at the newcomer in awe.
Staring back at him with a boyish, wry smile was his own face. His own eyes twinkled as Christine stroked his shoulder. The face he shaved every day smiled softly and the hands he had folded in prayer each Sunday offered him help up.
Taking one, he stood uncertainly. "What has happened? What is going on?"
Christine smiled softly--perhaps sadly--and whispered, "I'll be waiting in the boat." Then, with a graceful swish of her skirts, she glided out of the room, leaving the three men. An eery howl of protest from the cat at the apparent sight of water echoed uncertainly around them.
"You've done this to me!" Raoul raged at the Persian. "You've tricked me! Poisoned me!"
"I've done nothing that you hadn't done yourself," the man replied quietly. For a moment, Raoul thought that his voice, too, had attained a hitherto unnoticed melody.
"But he is NOT me! I am me and Christine and I will be going above ground and if I never see this place again it will be too soon!" He stomped around, glaring at his own countenance who watched in silent sympathy.
"Perhaps if you looked in a mirror, M'sieur," his double said softly.
Raoul whirled around, looking for a clear mirror. Then, he saw it. In the single room the beast hadn't destroyed, a large mirror overlooked the room.
He was taller--massively wide in the shoulders and yet thin. His hands were longer, slender and tapered with horrific scars on his wrists. His blonde locks were slicked back now--dark and oily looking in the uncertain candlelight. His eyes were golden and flashing, like a cat's--rather than the stormy blue of every other day.
But it was his face that he couldn't stop staring at. His face was--hideous. Scarred by birth, blows and fire--he had a vague ill-placed memory of his face being thrust too close to a torch when he wanted to huddle back in the back of his cage--his face was monstrous.
He felt his knees crumple again. His vision clouded--darkening around the edges.
"What happened to me?" he whispered.
His doppleganger strolled elegantly in. Gently, the other one patted his shoulders. "The same thing that happened to me, mon ami. The same thing that happened to me."
"You cannot take my life!"
"Who will stop me? I am you!" For a moment, a puzzled look went over the blue-eyed blonde's features. "The diaries I kept--they might help you..."
"No, please. For the love of God, NO!" His hands went in front of his face.
The other one picked up the sledgehammer and an elegant walking stick. Through golden eyes, he watched as that one shook the Persian's hand. "For everything, thank you."
"I am but a messenger," the Persian whispered, softly, in reply.
Then, the blonde was gone. With a sickening trick of acoustics, he heard Christine's laughter and his own in reply.
It wasn't a real trick, though. He knew it was the peculiar shape of the underground lake--the ceiling above it arched in the Gothic style in order to prevent so much structural stress on the midpoint--which was directly above the lake--and to put the structural stress on the columns in along the walls which were built directly into the casements of the basement--
What was that! He neither knew nor cared about such details, yet there they were printing out in his mind--exact height, weight, and volume calculations, along with concepts of arches, styles and architectural details.
"You must, rise, M'sieur," the Persian said. A name he remembered as "Nadir Mahammet bin Malik Khan" filtered through his mind. Yet there were other names--other faces. "You must start again."
"Nadir, what is going on? How is this possible?" He felt his voice crack into a soft whine--like an animal in pain.
"You must start again. The diaries are in here--" Nadir pulled open a drawer. "--as well as your bank passbooks and statements of your properties." Wrapping the books and a stack of papers into a blanket, he presented the bundle. "Erik--it is time to leave this place."
"But I am the Vicomte Raoul deChagny! Not this...this monster!"
"No--Raoul left with the young lady Christine Daae." A thoughtful--almost wistful--look crossed his face. "I imagine they will have long and happy lives together."
'Erik' took the bundle and stood up. "Do you know what has happened?"
"The same thing that has happened every time, my friend," Nadir replied evenly. "We go through this every time." With a shrug he added pithily, "But who am I but a messenger?"
Turning, midnight black eyes focused on his. "You are now Erik--the deformed genius. You have a mastery of music--indeed most of the arts, magical tricks, mathematics, sciences, and many other talents contained within you. Raoul de Chagney is likely even now across the lake with his young love--to return to his Paris apartments before vanishing into obscurity."
"Phillipe thinks Christine is a tramp. That she will steal me--him--something--blind." He was at a loss for words.
Nadir shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps he just doesn't know her." He shrugged elegantly again. "Or he perhaps doesn't wish to know. I dare say that they will disappear and Phillipe will not care... That is perhaps his curse--to not care for his family."
"Why did this happen to me?"
"'Erik' --in an ancient tongue best left forgotten--means 'cursed son'. It is a curse, that passes down from one to another--from monster without to monster within--"
"Stop talking in riddles!" the scarred one roared, his voice echoing and filling each room.
"The one who is a monster outside passes it on to the one who is a monster within," Nadir answered with an air of weary patience, apparently unconcerned by the outburst.
"I was hardly a monster!" the other man replied dryly. "Most people thought me quite charming."
Nadir's lips curved upward, though he could not be said to be smiling. "There is quite more to being a gentleman than making old matrons giggle with flattery and knowing which fork to use." He gestured down the hallway that his companion instinctively knew led out of the underground lair. "You couldn't even defend the one you claimed as your love to your brother!"
Newly golden eyes flinched away. He remembered Phillippe's discussion over brandies after dinner one night some weeks ago--a lifetime ago.
"She doesn't love you, you know," Phillippe had remarked. "She loves your money and your title--your entree into society."
"Perhaps, dear brother," he had replied uncertainly, sipping his brandy. He was sure that Christine loved him for himself, but his brother held to the rigid rules of Society and in those rules the classes didn't mix. Too, it would be a shame to argue over such a small point after such a lovely evening.
"The eldest daughter of the Marquis is a much more suitable match--her dowry could finance the new pasture lands and the sugar processing plant." Phillippe looked at his younger brother. "Why not simply have the chit moved into an apartment and keep her on the side? There is no sense in throwing away a good match going after her when she'll be happy with much less. Otherwise, she'll steal you blind and laugh when she leaves."
Raoul took another sip of his brandy, nettled by Phillippe's assumptions that Christine would steal from him and he'd be foolish enough to fall for it. "I doubt that she could have fooled me so long, if that was her plan. Besides, she knows nothing of the holdings I have--"
"--You mean, that we hold together, brother," the elder comte bit in.
"Yes, that we hold," Raoul corrected irritably. The boon of primogeniture still favored the eldest son to inherit, but Comte Marcus deChagny had carefully set up joint trusts so that his younger son would be provided for. "I do not want to argue with you, brother."
"Then don't," Phillippe remarked indulgently.
"Why are you doing this?" Raoul snapped, his brandy suddenly distasteful.
"She is not one of us, Raoul," Phillippe remarked gently, but distantly. He could have been talking about the weather in China for all the personal emotion he put into his voice. "She never will be--she'll only be the orphaned daughter of a tradesman violin maker." Phillippe sighed softly, shaking his head in vague amusement. "Though, I suppose it is the fashion to have an artist for a lover."
"She is in danger," Raoul whispered softly. Phillippe was irritatingly stubborn once he had made up his mind, and Raoul hated it when they quarrelled. Phillippe would turn icy cold--as though his own brother was a stranger to him and a slightly idiotic one at that--and for weeks Raoul would be unable to speak to him. Christine was a sore point with Phillippe, who dutifully lined up heiresses and properly eligible daughters for him to escort to events in Society in the hopes of swaying Raoul.
"You think she is in danger--based on some gossip from some ballet rats, a few accidents that could happen anywhere, and the fact--dear brother!--that the management that you helped install is getting blackmailed and thus robbing you blind," Phillippe smiled unpleasantly. "And a cat with golden eyes on your balcony." His sniffed his brandy a moment more. "I'm not sure who is more mad--the girl who spun this fantasy or you for believing it."
"I'm going to need the carriage on the fifteenth," Raoul said. Hopefully, just the plain announcement would end this before it turned nasty. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, he thought."We plan to leave then."
"Very well, I shall tell Jacques to make it ready, if you wish it." Phillippe refilled his snifter with a splash. "But you will not bring her here with the idea of marrying her or I'll cut you off without a centime! I'll not have the deChagny name drug through the dirt because of some infatuation with a mere singer."
"Where--exactly--am I supposed to take her then?" Raoul cried, at wit's end.
Phillippe raised an eyebrow just so. "I don't really care as long as it is not here." He thought for a moment, then drew some keys from his pocket and tossed them to Raoul. "Why don't you use the Paris apartment?"
"I thought that your Michelle was in the apartment?"
Phillippe smiled softly. "Until yesterday. While you were chasing after your chorus girl, Michelle was harping about 'happy ever after' and 'relationships' and all that rubbish despite the papers publishing the banns and our engagement announcements. She insisted on making a scene--but it was worth every franc to have an end to her prattling." His voice whipped up to a ridiculous falsetto. " 'But Phillippe I love you and I need another hundred francs for a new hat'." Phillippe finished his brandy. "I had her move out after that. So take your little mistress there."
Christine had been becomingly confused as she was taken to the elegant apartment. Raoul calmed her -- this address was more comfortable than the remote estates in the country. It would only be a few months before Phillippe would come around and they could wed. And so, for three months, Christine had drilled herself in proper etiquette and the various duties of the wife of a Vicomte. Phillippe indulgently wandered in to visit once a month to watch Christine's progress. She studied wines, cooking, the arts of entertaining and studiously avoided the least hint of scandal or her connection with the now infamous Opera Populaire.
After another three months and numerous requests to wed, Phillippe steadfastly refused to allow them to marry. Christine was simply not suitable to be the next Vicomtess, even though Raoul was determined to have her. Even the suggestion of eloping was met with three weeks of stony silence. However, since Raoul was apparently not done yet, they could stay together in the apartment for another six months. Perhaps then he would allow them to wed--but he made no promises. But if anything happened--the slightest whiff of impropriety--and Phillippe would carry out his threats and Raoul and Christine would be thrown out without a centime.
Raoul was speechless. "This is wonderful, Christine," he enthused as they collected stemware from around the apartment. "I told you that he would come around."
Christine looked at him distantly. Her demeanor had changed slightly, Raoul belatedly noticed. Instead of the simplistic braids and plain dresses, she was carefully coiffed and laced into a beautiful gown. Instead of the wide-eyed adoration and simple love, she now was carefully choosing every word as though she paid dearly for each one, her eyes blankly and cooly blue. "If you say it is a good thing..."
"It is, Christine," he repeated. "Why, as soon as he sees what a fine lady you make, then he'll have no choice but to allow you to become Vicomtess. All will be well."
Christine nodded gracefully but gravely. "Then we shall plan to show him."
After his wedding two months later, Phillippe's pithy comments were augmented by the stiff smirks and bitter pith of his wife. You really can't attend the gathering with us that that weekend, dear, since everyone is going to the city for the season. No, dear, that dress is really too dressy for such a small tea--after all you are not going to be next Vicomtess, you know and it's just us here. Dear, you know that you will not be attending the masquerade with the family. Didn't Raoul tell you that he would be escorting Isabelle deLoncre? And don't use the good stemware at dinner next time--you're not the next Vicomtess, after all--and it would be a fortune to replace if you broke it. Now, dear, you really must learn how things are done.
Christine stuggled to fill the time as Phillippe and Violante drug Raoul through the social scene, escorting various of Paris Society's beautiful ladies. Many evenings she spent trying to read various novels and doing embroidery and needlework, but it always came back to Raoul's absence. Lonely, she even tried to fill the apartment with music and singing, but her voice sounded hollow in the empty corridors.
Six months passed--six months of waiting to receive Phillippe's permission to marry, six months of seperate bedrooms waiting for the marriage night. Christine scowled softly at that. Six months of Raoul dining on fine wine and delectable foodsand escorting beautifully eligible girls while she waited at home for him with a bitterly scowling cookmaid as company. Six months of Raoul dancing with the glittering beauties of Paris instead of her.
"Why cannot we marry?" she finally asked Raoul.
"We cannot unless Phillippe gives permission. Otherwise, he will indeed bankrupt us," Raoul replied mechanically without glancing up from the intricate factory reports Phillippe had given him. For a moment, Phillippe's voice chided him in his mind: She can't stop harping on the love and marriage and happily ever after..."What is it mon ange? You are lonely? Perhaps a new hat or some other frippery will content you. Why don't you go shopping?"
"Raoul!" Christine snorted. "I didn't come here to go shopping." She sighed softly. "I came here for us to get married."
"Well, we can't just yet," Raoul replied shortly, not looking up from the sheet of costs. Phillippe had just started contacting him again regarding problems at this factory--after another 2 weeks of icy silence and cuts at social functions. Another request to marry would set him off again and he would throw them out.
"Just ask him," she pleaded. "Just one more time. If he throws us out, then we will survive. Our love is strong. We are young." She took a steadying breath and Raoul's head continued to bow over reports. "Please ask him one more time."
"I can't Christine." Raoul remained bent over the reports. "And you know why. He's just started to speak to me again." Raoul turned the page restlessly. "I need him to be cooperative and need to make sure that he is pleased with me."
"Why?" Her voice turned firm. "Why do you so desperately need for him to be pleased with you?"
"Because he controls the purse strings of deChagny estates and businesses. Without that goodwill, we'd be on the streets!" Raoul slammed his fist down on the table.
"But your father gave you investments and set up trusts to avoid this kind of situation," Christine reminded him. "And Phillippe cannot touch them."
"You don't understand," Raoul spat, glaring at her. "You have no idea what it's like to lose your own brother! You have no idea what it's like to go out and to have people whisper behind your back because he's cut you yet again." He drew in a deep breath. "And he may yet relent." He pasted a smile on his face. "Continue to be your usual charming self and I am sure that he will in time."
"Ask him one more time," she begged. Some tiny bit of steel settled in her spine as silent moments passed. "Or I will."
"Fine! Ask him and see if it gets you anywhere!" Raoul snapped, slapping his papers down on the table.
Phillippe and his wife were frowning before they arrived at the apartment for his next visit and Christine's gentle, insistent question fouled his temper even more.
"Raoul, control her," he growled angrily.
"Dear, perhaps we should let this be," Raoul whispered, gently clasping her arm.
"No," she cried out. "We cannot 'let this be'. It has been more than a year already and I have done all that was asked of me."
"I will show you to the gutter, you trash!" Phillippe bellowed as his wraith-like wife smiled into her teacup. "Both of you leave this apartment at ONCE!"
"Nothing could please me more," Christine said icily. "However, you might want to consider a few things before we leave!"
"Such as?" Phillippe's voice dripped with acid.
"First, it is already whispered that your wife is barren, m'sieur." The other woman shot a snarl at her and Raoul blanched openly. No one spoke openly of Violante's ...little problem. "You have been ..shall we say 'attached' some ten years since your betrothal and have not yet produced a legitimate heir, though you have--" Here, her voice dripped with poison. "--you have produced several bastards, including my maid's little girl who has seen you often visit Violante's bedchambers with no success..." Her voice dripped in sacchrine false sympathy. Without an heir, the law would give all of his properties to his younger brother and any family he had when he died.
"That is SLANDER, tramp," Phillippe snarled. "You have no proof--only endless gossip and wagging tongues that should be cut out." He slung back his brandy. "I suggest that you leave while you have a reputation."
"Then consider your own reputation, sir. Imagine if Raoul and I were left bankrupt. He would have to work and I would return to the stage to support ourselves." Christine laughed cruelly. "Imagine what your reputation would be that you turned your own brother out without a franc to our names and we did marry. My name would then be Christine deChagny--and at the top of every Opera poster in France. Or, when our children were born, sir, and went on to other areas of employment." She winked saucily. "Perhaps even a bordello, sir. 'Twas your idea, I believe, since you have labeled me a tramp."
Raoul blanched inwardly. He couldn't see himself in amongst the teaming masses--trudging through dreary days at a factory to support Christine at a tiny apartment miles away. Even worse--being among the crowds at the Opera--any opera house!--and slaving away at some dull job. His fine features might land him a stage job--some sort of eye candy being casually inspected by peers would sneer at him--but most likely he'd be just one more back to be worked backstage cleaning, hosing and moving scenery around while a prop mast ordered him about and divas shrieked around him. The bordello--while it might be interesting--would put him beyond the pale of polite Society and wasn't worth considering.
Phillippe and Christine didn't even notice as the rest of the room fell silent. "You wouldn't dare," he whispered.
"I would," she said, proudly.
"I could crush you and your pathetic Opera career with scarcely a thought," he replied. His voice was less steady and tiny ripples formed in the drops of brandy left in his snifter.
"You could," she admitted. "But I can travel elsewhere. And, as you constantly remind me, deChagny intrests are all over Europe. You would be hard pressed to stop your own name from joining mine in the gutter wherever I traveled!"
Phillippe and his wife excused themselves stonily. For a moment, Raoul was afraid to breathe as they walked into the study and closed the heavy oak door. As the moments ticked by, Raoul felt his palms sweating. Christine stared at the study door icily, and Raoul braced himself. How could he support himself without the deChagny estates? Would he really be required to do common work to procure food and shelter? He shuddered--wondering if Christine had gone too far this time. The thought of him--Raoul deChagny--having to drive a taxi or work in some dingy hole drove him to gulp down the last of the fine brandy in his snifter.
Finally, Phillippe emerged again. "You may marry then--shrew," he said.
Christine smiled softly, ice and acid dripping off her words. "Thank you."
"But, it will be on a few conditions," Phillippe snarled. If Christine was shocked or frightened, she didn't so much as flicker an eyelash. "You will marry in name only. You will never become the Vicomtess. You and your children will never inherit so much as a franc. You will never darken the door of any deChagny property where I or anyone of my family reside. Raoul will continue through this season and the next--and simply 'retire' to the country to prevent scandal." He paused for a moment. "And you will never dare to sully my family's name."
Christine glanced at Raoul. Raoul nodded and smiled. "Agreed."
Christine secured the services of a priest--one of the faithful who tended the spiritual needs of the cast at the Opera--after the fourth consultation. Even the cardinal who had married Raoul's parents, christened Phillippe and Raoul, and had listened to their confessions for their lifetimes suddenly had a conflict with another affair and couldn't make it. They did not even try to arrange for the cathedral that had held weddings of deChagny's for 7 generations, but instead made arrangements at a small chapel. When that was suddenly unavailable, Christine reluctantly made plans to be married in the parlor of the apartment. It took her three tries to find a modiste to make her wedding gown. The name "Christine Daae" was suddenly enough to slam doors in their faces across Paris.
When the one box of invitations--only one box was needed for the entire wedding since Phillippe had forbidden Raoul to invite any of his peers--Christine took them to the study to begin addressing them. The creamy white paper was smooth and cool with crisp engraving on each one. The matching envelopes were unblemished and awaiting her delicate handwriting. After a thoughtful moment, she dipped her pen and began to address the first one.
"Erik, The Opera Ghost, Care of The Opera Populaire..."
Nadir cleared his throat. "So the great love of your life was going to be banished from your home and your life without any word from you? And when she persevered, you were content to allow your family to bully her?"
'Erik' came back to the present. With no good answer, he growled, "Why are you even here?" His arms gesturing madly to the door, he snapped, "He won. It's over. She's gone with him--me..." He growled again. "She's gone. Why can't you let me grieve in peace?"
"You will have to leave soon," the Persian said softly. "We don't have much time before a mob comes down here to ransack these caverns."
Without truly coherent or conscious thought, his hands found the little latch to another trap door. Not even Garnier had known of this little trick. This little natural cave had been drained dry when the underground lake had been created and ultimately ran into a non-descript alleyway.
Nadir followed swiftly and silently behind. Darting around the silent shadow, he hailed a cab and bundled in. With only a moment's indecision, 'Erik' followed.
"Monster!" the half-drunk driver croaked. "This cab is hired..." He grabbed up his whip and cracked it over the horses. Reacting on instinct, Erik grabbed the open doorway and swung inside as the carriage took off.
He was slammed against the thinly padded seat and then slammed forward as the driver yanked on the brake. The horse stumbled and began whinnying and rearing. "I don't drive for monsters!" the coachman bellowed, stumbling down.
Nadir muttered some curse in an unknown language and hopped out of the cab. With lithe footsteps, he caught up with the sloshed driver and spun him around. His voice dropped and he waved his hand in a graceful gesture over the cabby's face. The other man slumped and Nadir helped him to the pavement, against a lamppost. With a weary sigh, he walked back to the cab.
"I'll take you to the docks," he muttered.
"What happened to the cabby?"
Nadir glared up. "You happened you silly sot! You didn't wear your mask! Did you not look at your reflection in the mirror?" With a swipe, he picked the long handled whip off the street pavement. Following the golden gaze, he grunted. "He will wake up with a massive hangover and wondering--and not for the first time, I might add--where he left his cab." Nadir climbed up into the coachman's seat. "Why don't you read the diaries while you wait? And draw the bloody curtains!"
Erik sat back in the cab and drew the curtains. The little lanterns in the cab were already lit in anticipation of wealthy travelers. In a randomly scooped up shirt was a hodgepodge collection of worn books and a stack of bank books and lists of properties and investments. Picking up a red, leatherbound book out of the stack, he began reading the first page.
"May 19, 1764 -- I was formerly an influential member of the English colonies. As my father's heir, I was careful and methodical in my ways. Yet, now, because of this curse, I must abandon my very name to the one before me in this curse. I am fleeing to my Grandmere's countryside in France in order to hide my affliction. I can only hope that with the growing unrest in the Colonies that the eyes of the world will be on the New World and not one lone traveler.
"May 20, 1764 -- Would that I had been struck blind at birth! This curse--this face--which causes all who view it to draw back in terror--forbids me regular passage aboard the Spirited Lady. It forbids me a decent meal in peace in the common room! I have secured passage with the Dauntless along what I've been told is the northern route to the Olde Country. Moon--the first mate--has drunkenly seen me to my cabin where I will be trapped for the remainer of the voyage--some six months. I am haunted with images of terror and horror and nightmarish visions, yet none are as terrifying as the terrible weight of facts that presses down upon my brain. I, who have never stirred beyond the boundaries of Williamsburg, am filled to the brim with memories of travels not my own. Indeed, it is as though I know every thought and idea of a score of men--philosophers, poets, musicians, artists--all within my own head.
"I had thought to entertain my lovely fiancee with a visiting carnival. Woe is the day that I set foot inside the tent to mock the 'geek' and to watch him bite the heads off of chickens! My fiancee was unnaturally moved to pity him--the unspeakable monster with the Hell-born face. I could not persuade her otherwise--even when the ringmaster pulled the wretch forward to the torchlight to show us the horrors of his face. She would not allow me to hold her and fled in tears.
"That night, in front of a score of influential families gathered to witness our engagement, she refused my suit, declaring that she would not stand beside a man who would allow others to suffer so. In a fury, I ran back to the carnival and slipped to the freak's cage with a musket at the ready. The cage stood open and my lovely fiancee stood inside, nuturing his wounds like a mother would nurse a child's scrapes.
"I pulled her away and fired--my aim true. Then, in a haze of pain, my life changed forever into an animal behind a wounded mask."
The leather cover closed in his hands. He had a memory of that night--of the swarthy snake charmer known as "Midee" who had opened the cage and the lovely blonde girl who had comforted him. Like a dream, it did not feel like his own mind, but was familiar. He could summon up the exact scent of the stinking cage and fresh mown hay. He could remember the girl and her rose water perfume and that she liked candied violets. He could recall the beggar's bundle of books and junk that Midee had snatched up as they hurried out of the city, fleeing to the coast.
Selecting another book at random, he began thumbing through it, though it was as familiar as his own thoughts. He had been a poor man--a breath away from the streets--who had stormed a reclusive nobleman's darkened house and found a monster. Throwing whatever he could at him, he had called for his friends to join him in killing "The Beast" and siezing his treasure. His own young wife had shouted for him to stop--begged him to leave off tormenting the eccentric man before he was killed--and the curse had passed on to him. The Beast's swarthy butler had become his own and he fled to the west.
The next he diary he remembered well for not having seen it before this night. He had been a priest who had preached fire and brimstone to his congregation for years and selling indulgences while lining his own pockets. One of the older estates had been purchased by a mysterious foreigner--probably a heathen, he had thought with a certain superior air--on behalf of a reclusive hermit. He had administered the sacraments to the darkened halls to the deformed man who lived in the shadows with a hand out for his fee each time. The recluse refused to show his face until his life was drawing to a close--and called for final rites.
"I seek forgiveness for all that I have done, Father," his musical voice had whispered.
The Father twisted his lips. "I have a price, milord."
Two full purses appeared beside him. And the recluse had begun whispering his final confession--a litany of deeds wrought more of desperation and dire need than anything else. At last falling silent, he sighed softly.
The priest pocketed the heavy leather purses and stood to leave.
"Are you not going to forgive me, Father?" the musical voice whispered plaintively.
The priest snarled with sadistic glee. "No, I'm not."
"What? Why?" the man on the heavily canopied bed begged.
"Because you are a monster--an abomination! Your sins show on your very face!" He cackled. "You've never had a chance of salvation!" He patted his heavy pockets. "You have, however, been a nice fat sheep for my shearing!"
The man had tried to stand then--tried to reach out for him. He had stumbled and fallen against the edge of a piece of furniture. When he had awakened, his own hands were tending him and his own eyes were compassionate. "He" had already given the contents of the purse to a widow with three children, a beggar, and towards restoring a town well. It shamed him that this other one had tried to stave off the growing mob who was curious to see the Monster of Dovecote Hall with threats of brimstone and hellfire while he escaped out the back pantries into the forest.
The carriage rolled on towards the coast and the man inside gazed at the diaries of lives past. Each one was as familiar as his own breath and as strange as his new face--each one a stranger wrapped in deja vu. The carriage rumbled through towns and countryside towards some unknown destination through the night and into the next day in a cocoon of shade and shadow.
They stopped twice to exchange horses. The Persian--for that is how he considered the unfamiliar man--went inside an inn once to fetch a meal of hard cheese, two apples, stale bread, a cup of ale, and a bit of some kind of stew. He hurriedly slid a trencher of stale bread on a board in front of the occupant and thrust the cup of ale at him. So, in silence, Erik picked at the food. The cheese was old, the bread stale, the apples overripe and the ale rank, but he ate them each, unable to force his stomach to contemplate the greasy, salty lump of stew that sat congealing in the hollowed-out middle of the slice of bread.
The Persian returned and he readily handed out the board and trencher with the lump of stew untouched in the middle, along with the miscellaneous bits of trash that had accumulated in the coach. He pulled his face--then realized that he didn't have a nose to wrinkle. It was unnerving--to not even be granted the small mercy of flaring his nostrils or wrinkling his nose. Yet, with a nose he probably would have been ill from the aroma that seemed to hang around the coach.
The Persian entered, smiling. "I've hired us a driver who will take us the rest of the way." He settled on the opposite seat with a gratified sigh.
"Couldn't you have at least found somewhere with palatable food? Or the small mercy of a decent wine?"
His companion frowned. "We were fortunate to have found this on such short notice."
"I think that I would have rather starved than to have patronized the worst inn this side of of Russia!"
The Persian laughed richly. "You only show your inexperience with traveling in this lifetime. There are considerably worse establishments on this side of Russia that would make you long for the cleanliness and sophistication of this one." He chuckled again at the mournful golden eyes gazing at him with an obvious pout. "You remember The Boar's Head, don't you?"
Ahh...that memory returned. The Boar's Head was a tiny, seedy lump of rooms that boasted being an inn only because there were no other buildings in the area to rest their horses before traveling on to Persia. The hostess--eternally bleary eyed and nursing a mug of vodka--openly snarled at them when they asked about a room to change clothes. The room they were given--"the best in the house"--was the barely large enough for the tiny bed and a stool beside it. Rats crawled around unabashed--openly staring at the procession of gentlemen changing clothes and attending to necessary needs. The sheets, filthy and torn, were riddled with vermin. The small pitcher of water was rank enough to persuade even Erik to forego touching it. The hostess offered up three debatably cleanbowls of some form of tepid cabbage soup and a chunk of bread that Erik would have sworn she had driven nails with the day before. None of them had trusted the room and left as soon as the horses were rested.
The carriage jolted and soon they were underway.
Mournfully, he asked, "So I am 'Erik' now?"
"Yes, although you may choose to tell anyone any name you wish."
"How did this happen?" Erik gestured angrily at his face. "Christine said that he was born this way."
The Persian nodded. "The one that you knew as 'Erik' or 'The Phantom of the Opera' was born with a defect--a rather regretable birthmark covering the right half of his face. Originally, it was a large, wrinkled birthmark that might have faded in time. His mother, in her confinement, did not tend to it properly and it festered and finally scarred terribly. So, in a way, he was born deformed."
Erik nodded. It felt odd, talking about himself as though it were a previous life.
"His mother, a vain creature, hid him from everyone and neglected him terribly. The birthmark faded after a few months, though the scars remained. She hid him in a mask when she wasn't trying to apply face paint to cover the mark which ultimately caused it to scar more as she ground the makeup into his skin.
"Of course, he was not idle in this time. He delighted in infuriating his mother, in taunting her and manipulating her. Ultimately, she had been going quietly mad for years." Nadir shrugged nonchalantly. "But this was more from the lead face powders she used religiously than by the irresponsible cruelty of an impossibly uncontrolled boy with a gift for tricks and sleight of hand.
"The young boy did not receive the curse until a beggar came to the door, pleading for a scrap of bread. He hid his face and tried to flee when the little boy began ripping at his cloak and tripping him, but the boy was too quick and finally ripped off the stranger's cloak. The mother shrieked and the boy began crying 'Monster, Monster, come beat the monster'. The boy snatched up a heavy cane and began beating the man and calling for his neighbors to come out to beat the monster.
"The beggar collapsed and the boy began beating his body, still screeching and cheering himself. The beggar's body curled up into a tight knot. The neighbors wandered out, alarmed at the screaming and shrieking and brought out a lantern--"
"They saw the face of the monster," Erik interrupted, softly. Somehow he remembered that unutterably dark feeling of joy that there was a worse monster than the one his mother accused him of being. And with a small boy's reckless and bitter anger, he attacked the begger--feeling some measure of morbid glee at punishing a monster.
The Persian nodded.
"And the beggar escaped--a youth with a scar on one cheek vanishing into the night--while he left behind his curse," Erik spat bitterly.
The Persian nodded again. "He had finally learned what he needed to, so he was free. Ultimately, he found a farmhouse where he was raised by an elderly couple who cared little for the scar that faded with time." He folded his hands. "So, he was born deformed, from a certain point of view."
Erik remained silent for a moment. "Since you seem to know all about this, what do I need to do in order to break this curse?"
"You must find that out on your own," the Persian counseled. "You must conquer your monster within."
Erik cursed under his breath. "What do you mean? What monster?" he demanded.
"I am only a messenger. That is all--" the Persian replied softly.
"You keep saying that!" Erik spat. "But what do you mean you are 'only a messenger'? You seem to know it all, so why won't you tell me?"
The Persian's eyes glittered alarmingly for a moment. "I mean that I am only a messenger. I do not know the path that you will travel nor what you will do to get there. The Most High alone knows that."
"'Most High'?" Erik echoed. "You mean God? Are you telling me that God cursed me? Or your heathenish Allah?"
"Allah is God. God is Allah. Do you really think that the Most High has only one name, one form and only one way to love Him?" The Persian gestured widely, even slipping the curtains back to expose a slice of the rambling countryside. "No, there are many paths, many ways, and many names." He waved his arms and closed the curtain again. "The Most High guides us all to where we are needed to be. Apparently, He thought that you could learn from this."
"So where do you fit into this, O messenger?"
"I am a messenger," the Persian nodded. "I am sent by the Most High to be a companion and to help guide each time 'you' are ready. Otherwise, I am called away only to be guided back into my role. I can only interfere when you seem to be in great danger--and I see it pass on to the next over and over."
"Sounds just great," Erik snapped angrily. "You must really get your jollies watching us all fumble around."
"No, it is tragic."
"So God gets his jollies making us miserable." Erik hunkered down on his seat with a glower and pout.
"Not quite," the Persian said softly. "He watches over you as always. And when you finally slay the monster in your heart, then He rejoices as you shed the curse."
Erik thought for a moment. "It must be terrible--watching this over and over."
The Persian shrugged again. "It is wonderful to watch the end of the curse--to watch the beast become a man as the Most High knew he could be." He thought for a moment. "I see hands that others curse create great beauty."
"Terrible beauty," Erik muttered sleepily.
"Perhaps."
The coach wandered on. In time, two passengers disembarked and slipped aboard a ship that vanished into the night.
"I need to see a barber," Erik announced one night, running slender fingers through his hair.
Nadir finally found a barber who would come to him. Erik sat in stony silence in the darkened parlor as the man was let in.
"It will be 10 francs," the barber said.
"As you say," Nadir agreed from the hallway. 10 francs was probably an outrageous price for a simple trim on a gentleman, but needs must.
The barber walked over and turned up the gas lamp. "I cannot work in this darkness--!" He almost dropped his scissors, staring slack jawed at Erik's face.
"Well, sir," Erik drawled. "I have another appointment soon, if you wouldn't mind getting started."
"It will be 50 francs sir!" the man gabbled. "50 and not a franc less or I will leave."
"As you wish," Erik mumbled.
Erik inspected the room with a practiced eye. It was serviceable, but could do with some repairs here and there before he'd live in it. Nadir and the owner were talking downstairs and he had come up the back steps to do an inspection of his own. Slipping back downstairs to the car, he waited.
Nadir came out looking irritated. "She is willing to sell, but wishes to see you for herself to hand the deed to you." He shrugged. "I couldn't convince her otherwise."
"I see," Erik sighed. "We'll drive on to the next one."
"We can't stay at the hotel forever, Erik," Nadir stated. "The manager said that there were already complaints and has threatened to evict us next week."
"So?" Erik scoffed. "We'll give him a little bit extra again and he'll forget all about us."
"We're already giving him 100 francs 'extra' a week," Nadir replied. "Another tenant left this morning--complaining that his children were afraid of the monster in room 1001."
"How can they make that claim? We've been very careful to avoid the gardens and wherever the other guests are," Erik asked in shock.
"Apparently one of the maids started the rumor of a monster, and the children's nanny picked it up." Nadir leaned back in the comfortably padded seats. "She threatened to get the monster from room 1001 if they didn't eat their vegetables. Apparently it worked, but now the children are upset and when the children are upset, the parents are upset."
The pair arrived at the hotel and the driver stopped in front of the side door. "There you are, gents. Side door--just like...last night." He held out his hand expectantly.
Erik pulled his wide brimmed hat further down over his brow and hunched over. Dumping franc notes into the waiting palm, he put in an additional 100 francs. Just like last night.
Finally, the maid Nadir had employed wascoming through to clean up the townhouse. She warily strode through, dusting and noting where she still needed to sweep. She came to the heavy wooden doors of the study and stopped for a moment. Nadir had said that she needn't worry about the study while she was here--that it was private.
But then Nadine--the cook's cousin and assistant--had remarked that she must have been the last person to have not seen "the Beast". Curious, she asked Nadine what she meant.
"Oh he's horrible--eyes like flames and hideous!" Nadine clucked. "He'll turn a man to stone as soon as look at him." She continued chopping herbs in the kitchen. "He goes into that study and don't come out. We hardly even see him--only that butler or valet or whatever that heathen is sees him." She clucked again. "And he done scared two maids off already. One left in the middle of the night because of horrid noises all night long--she lived in. The other one found him in the music room, screamed and fainted." Her voice dropped to a gleefulwhisper. "Can you imagine a face so bad that you'd faint?"
So the maid was now here, in front of the study, hearing Nadine's low, husky voice in her head. Can you imagine a face so bad that you'd faint? She couldn't begin to imagine it, and boldly tried the door latch. Walking into the shadowed room, she stared around.
It was a normal enough room--a desk, a few chairs, a cabinet of drinks, a fireplace. One chair had it's back to the door. She snorted--Nadine must have been pulling her leg.
"Nadir? Is that you?" a musical voice called from the chair with it's back to the door.
Suddenly, he stood up. The maid glanced at him and began shrieking. Turning and running, she heard him calling after her, but she was soon out of the door.
She ran all the way home, where she curled in a knot--trying hard to forget the face of the Beast.
Gaston stood with his manuscript on the steps of Number 16. The house stood proudly, although remotely, on the outskirts of Paris proper. So now he was meeting with a publishing agent with his draft. He supposed that his somewhat notorious news writer career didn't hurt him in his quest to have his novels published. He grimaced--he'd probably never make a fortune, but c'est la vie.
Taking a steadying breath, he raised his hand to knock on the door. Just as his knuckles decended the door opened.
"Ahh, Monsieur Leroux, how nice to see you." An Arabic looking man stood in the doorway and ushered him inside, taking his coat and hat. "You are expected in the blue salon."
Gaston tried to shake the disturbing feeling of darkness that the deep shadows in this house invoked. Truthfully, this house had invoked a certain thrill that his pen had ached to try to capture--a sort of elemental shiver down the spine. So, hehad begun cobbling together silly tales from his ballet dancer lover--the type of stock standard ghost story that seems to haunt every stage whenever there are the slightest of mishaps.
Of course, it was a flat and tasteless story--like a wine becomes tasteless when too much water is added. It was full of stock standard ghostly appearances and cliche shadowy figures in the halls with a mild sprinkling of rumors of misplaced slippers and musical scores.
In a word, it was boring.
This particular publisher had agreed to meet him when most of his publishers hadfrowned at him and shoved the mess back at him. Truthfully, he had writer's block--he had been stuck for months and this story had kind of fallen flat. He managed to make a living, but not enough to cover even a single finger of the fine brandy the butler set on the carefully polished side table beside his comfortably stuffed chair.
His host--a curious fellow who claimed that his eyes were far too sensitive to bear more than the sparse light of a few candles--sat in a deep wing back chair as comfortably overstuffed as his own with the shadows of the wings falling over his features. Gaston sipped sparingly at the brandy, watching as his host read through his manuscript.
At last, he set the pile of shuffled papers on the side table. A pregnant silence filled the salon and Gaston gulped down the last swallow of brandy. The butler glided in with a whisper of movement, generously refilling his snifter .
The other man broke the silence, casually dropping the question in his lap. "What if your Phantom was real?"
Gaston, heavily sampling his host's fine brandy,shortled softly. "Real? I say, sir, what do you mean?"
"What if he were a man?"
Gaston sat up at little striaghter in his chair, as though listening to the wheels of inspiration churning for a brief moment. "That's an interesting thought," he mused for a moment, the snifter of brandy in his hand forgotten for a moment. "But surely such a man would be spotted coming and going and the management surely wouldn't allow just anyone to wander through backstage."
His host seemed thoughtful for a moment and continued in a serious vein. "But what if they didn't know he was there?"
"Didn't know?" Gaston blustered for a moment. "How could they not?" He giggled again and sipped more ofhis brandy. "Of course, it only makes sense that a man would decide to randomly become a ghost and haunt a stage--scaring little ballet girls." He laughed heartily. "I doubt even my readers would believe that."
His host only shrugged and refilled his snifter before nudging the bottle in Leroux's direction. "Perhaps he loved one of them and sought her affections in some way."
Gaston laughed heartily again. "Ahh, yes. Every girl dreams of a phantasmal husband who she can see right through! I suppose that she takes his shroud every morning and asks how his night was as well?"
His host could only shrug. Gaston grinned and stretched, relaxed in the golden warmth of fine brandy in his belly and a snapping and popping fire in front of him. Then, a sudden spark of inspiration occurred to him. "What if he was real?" The idea danced just out of his reach--almost formed, but not quite.
His host shrugged for a moment, gesturing for his butler to refill Gaston's snifter again. "Perhaps you would care to hear a story?"
Gaston shrugged carelessly. "If you wish to tell one." He raised a drunken eyebrow. "Though no names! I find that adding names of places and people tends to detract from the action since too often it is unrealistic. How many Princes Charming can there be, after all? And putting in place names tends to become nostalgic--rather than factual enough to be believable."
His host nodded gravely. "Some years ago--a young boy fell in love with a girl as he rescued her scarf from the sea. She and her father--her mother was long passed--lived by the sea and the young man's older brother had taken him there as a treat. He was soaked to the skin and the girl and her father could do nothing else but invite them in where they entertained the boy with songs and violin music and hair curling stories. Of course, it was quickly time for the boy and his brother to leave, but they stayed somewhat in touch and soon after her father died, she traveled to Paris to join the Opera..."
Gaston sat enraptured by his host's soft cadence. Though he named no names--of either places or people--somehow, the impossible story of a man being forced to live down in the cellars of an opera house, unbeknownst to the managers seemed to come alive. For a moment, he imagined himself down there--another visitor to the dark cellars and lake.
After his host finished his wild tale, Gaston frowned. "It is too absurd, sir. A curse? In this day and age?" He chuckled. "You should stick to publishing, and allow authors to write the stories! But the ghost and the girl and the nobleman--there is an interesting story. Wasn't there an article not too long ago about a Vicomte who 'retired' to live in the country?" Gaston scratched his chin. "Yes, I remember. His brother Phillipe was none too happy about it, but says nothing officially.
"And I remember some wild speculation some years back that a builder had misjudged the weight of a chandelier and it had fallen during a performance. But nothing was ever proven." Gaston's eyes glazed over for a moment. It would take some research, but there might be enough facts to make the story seem plausible enough to thrill. "I think it would work..."
His host's voice seemed to smile. "Oh?"
"Yes, yes, I think it will. It's a trite plot--a love triangle between two men and a woman. But I think that we can spice it up a bit. Add a bit of flare to it." Gaston grinned cunningly as his host provided fine paper and a pen. He looked at the page for a moment. "However, I don't think that 'Opera Ghost' is really...well...really dramatic enough. Let's try this..." He scrawled a working title on the page:
"The Phantom of the Opera"
Gaston was oblivious to the golden eyes raising to meet the butler's gaze. With a shrug, they kept silent vigil as their guest scratched out a first draft. Gaston filled page after creamy page with the story, muttering softly to himself and scratching random drawings like a child draws in the margins of his school books to illustrate a point. In three days he finished the initial draft--a muddle of mispelled words and run on sentences with wildly curving arrows and mysterious symbols lingering in the margins. Yet, with another month's work, it morphed into a coherent whole--as though by magic.
That evening, Gaston wandered out on the town, celebrating. The Persian stared at the neat stack of pages, aware of the golden gaze staring from the shadows. Even so, the Persian started when a musical voice drifted--apparently from just over his shoulder.
"It isn't complete."
"I know," the Persian sighed. "I know it isn't, but perhaps it wasn't meant to be."
"Perhaps it wasn't meant to be," Erik agreed placidly. Somehow, he had carved a niche out for himself. He owned several townhomes and apartment blocks in relatively fashionable areas of town. He owned a small vineyard in Tuscany, as well as properties across the sea in America.The rents supported his tiny household in relative comfort--though not luxury. The sugar cane operation in the West Indies brought in more money, as well as small quarters near the factory. His latest acquisition, a small art gallery, was beginning to show signs of promise. He had even arranged for a silent partnership--voting by written proxies couriered by his butler--in a publishing house.
It wasn't the Opera house, but it was enough to fill the days.
Erik glanced around. His home was furnished for simplicity and comfort, rather than in the latest outrageous styles, and boasted 3 bedrooms (one of which housed his immense collection of books), two fully-plumbed baths, a blue parlor, a white parlor, a tiny dining room with servants quarters and kitchen on the bottom floor. It was not the grand suiteof the deChagny apartment in Paris, nor was it the magnificence of the deChagny estates, but it served him well.
Erik sipped from his delicate sherry glass. All in all--it was a good day. Gaston's manuscript was finished despite his failure to contact Raoul and Christine for their input. The sugar plant was operating smoothly again and his last unleased apartment had been rented to a young widow and her children. He had not scared anyone that day. He had carefully stayed away from the windows the day-maid had left open with the drapes pulled back wide. He carefully locked himself in his bedroom-library until the maid left, to avoid scaring the young woman unnecessarily. Cook had sent a message via the ever helpful butler asking what he would care to have for dinner and had produced a lovely coq au vin, which he ate from a tray in his private suite. Afterwards, he had listened to a recording of a set of violin concertos and casually sipped his sherry.
So, it was with some contentment that he sealed the packaged manuscript for delivery to the publishing house the next morning.
The next days passed quickly enough. Young Gaston had sent a brief missive thanking him for his hospitality and his help, but otherwise was on yet another wild chase for adventure and fodder for his writing. Neither Nadir nor Erik expected to see him again. The sugar plantation had suffered a mild setback from some unseasonable weather and needed a small infusion of funds. He paid a short visit to his Tuscan vineyard and was well pleased when Nadir reported the health and vitality of the crops.
On the way back from the radiant warmth of the Tuscan sun to Paris, Nadir dropped a book in his hands--a first printing of "The Phantom of the Opera". Uninterested, he shoved it in the large leather satchel he traveled with. Truthfully, even on the sea voyage home, he was a little scared to open the book--it still felt too real, although he had been in this body and cursed for several years now. It was better to forget that he ever had been anything but this--better to forget that he ever had been welcomed in society, played in the warm sunlit fields, danced with beautiful ladies until dawn.
So, the book remained buried in his leather satchel, along with his razor, a small hand mirror, a clothes brush, three or four odds and ends, a spare mask and a flask of particularly fine scotch.
It wasn't until the day after he had arrived back in Paris he even thought of it. He had no premonition--no forewarning--of what was coming. Breakfast and lunch arrived on time, his daily schedule passed with clockwork precision. Even dinner was uneventful--a rather delicate chicken with creamy white wine andtarragon sauce and rice. A pleasant, but unremarkable wine accompanied dinner, along with a sweet sherry with cheese and fruit for dessert. The cigars and brandy afterwards were their usual smooth selves.
So, when the doorbell chimed insistently just as he was about to finish his after dinner drink, it was a complete surprise. Nadir glanced around nervously and jerkily went to the door. Erik sighed softly--probably some poor starving artist seeking some patronage. Paris seemed to have more starving artists than rats in the streets and they all seemed to know who might be a patron willing to part with a handful of francs like ants know a picnic. It wasn't unusual for one or another of them to wander in, seeking an interview. So, perhaps he could find a new canvas--
"I want to see him for myself!" a slurred male voice shouted from the hall. "I d-d-demand to see him!"
Nadir's voice murmurred soothingly, but this visitor was not to be denied.
Erik switched chairs, settling in the deep wingback which shielded his face and sliding a dark grey mask on. It couldn't be...
"I demand satisfaction!" the voice shouted again, more clearly. Erik felt his ears burn, then his heart ache. This was a voice that he had not heard in years.
Comte Phillippe deChagny strode into the parlor angrily. Brandy and whiskey fumes wafted in his wake."Sir, am I ...(hic)...addressing the one who published this ...monstrosity?!" He threw a book at Erik.
Catching it, Erik stared at the familiar cover. "It appears to be one from a publishing house that I am...--acquainted with."
"Sir! I demand satisfaction from you, then!" Phillippe roared, his body swaying as though in a high wind. "This idiocy has defamed the name of deChagny and I will not tolerate it. Do you hear ME? I. Will. Not. Tolerate. It!"
Silent, Erik stared at the cover. Someone had placed a picture of a rose on the cover. This felt surreal, as though it were some bizarre dream. Finally, he whispered, "Sir, I think that perhaps you have had too much to drink. I did not write this." He glanced over at Nadir nervously. "I am only a minor partner--"
Suddenly, Phillippe's fist slammed into his face. Blood rushed from beneath his mashed mask. "Stop!" he cried. "Don't you know me?" His voice cracked softly. Brother...don't you know me? His heart broke--felt like it was shattering--that Phillippe could stare him in the face--speak to him--and not know him.
"I certainly do NOT know such a monster as you. Come out and give me satisfaction!" Phillippe growled, and, with a yank, hauled him out of the chair and slammed him to the floor.
Instinctively, he turned away from the burning light of the fire.
"You...," Phillippe whispered, his drunken haze clearing. "You are the one in the book. The monster...!" Phillippe snatched the mask away and shuddered in distaste. "You ARE a monster!" He laughed hysterically, and thenslammed his fists into Erik's face. "The world will congratulate me and everyone will know that you made this to shame me!" Phillippe continued, kicking Erik in the ribs.
"Don't do this, Phillippe!" the man on the carpet cried. "I am--"
Phillippe upended a side table, crashing it against Erik's shoulder. "I don't care who you are! You are going to be dead--monster! Beast!" He resumed kicking. "I'll have you stuffed and hung in my trophy room you--you animal!"
Erik gasped with painfully aching ribs, trying to rise as suddenly lights exploded behind his eyes and the room went dark.
When he awoke, he saw Nadir's sandaled feet and the bristles of a small straw broom brushing up bits of broken glass--a heavy crystal decanter his favorite scotch was in. Grimacing, he sat up and looked around.
Phillippe lay unconcious on the ground beside the fireplace, a large knot swelling just above the dip where his hairline was receeding. The poker lay on the ground beside the comte, and Nadir was curiously avoiding looking at the scene. Instead, he was studying the wreckage of the parlor.
"What was that about?" Erik gasped softly. His ears rang slightly and a bitter taste rested in his mouth. He shifted, and pulled a book out from underneath him. "This?"
"You would know better than I," Nadir whispered softly. "I am only a messenger."
Erik snorted and stood gingerly. "I think that I've heard that before..."
"I know."
Suddenly his stomach lurched sideways. A metallic taste filled his mouth and he groped for his tumbler of brandy. His hands--usually so delicate and precise--fumbled the crystal tumbler. God...mercy. Please, anything to get rid of this awful taste.
Phillippe moaned softly and rolled over to his side. Erik turned away, his fingers flying to his battered face. He had at least one open scrape and would sport a black eye in some wonderful shade of purple in a few hours. As if my face weren't bad enough, he thought with black, merciless humor. Fumbling around, he spotted his mask under the side table.
Reaching for it, he struggled to put it on. Every muscle in his body ached as though he had been bashed a thousand times with a thousand sticks. Phillippe was curling into a little ball, coming around with probably a monstrous headache, if Erik was to judge.
"Would you please get him something for his head and perhaps something to drink?"
Nadir started. "He just tried to kill you. Are you sure that you do not want me to call the gendarmes?"
Erik shrugged nonchalantly. "I doubt that it would do any good. Phillippe is well known to them and they would probably put this down to a drunken rage and it would be swept under away." Thinking for a moment, he added, "Perhaps we could send him to his wife?"
Nadir sighed mightily. "I doubt it. Since you have avoided the society pages of the newspapers like they were plagued, you probably haven't heard. He caught his wife with a lover. Apparently since she couldn't be with her lover, she..." Nadir paused for a moment, then continued. "...she was...avoiding having a child."
Erik shuddered, feeling a wave of agony go through him. It was against every good Catholic's belief to prevent conception. "Poor Phillippe. To be saddled with such a wife..." Nadir sighed dramatically and Erik's ears perked. "So there's more?"
Nadir nodded. "They argued mightily, but could not separate... He kept her locked in their bedroom for several months, according to the street gossip. She was let out when she conceived." Erik shuddered again. "She miscarried and died a week ago."
Erik stared at the man who had been his brother. Phillippe was a widower now--and had been shown the book that had revealed one of the dirty family secrets. No wonder he had been mad and attacked. He had probably been drinking this entire week.
"Poor Phillippe," Erik rasped again. "I had no idea." Thinking quickly, he said, "We will put him in the blue bedroom. I will find other accomodation tonight and when he awakens Cook can arrange a cab to the Paris apartments."
"So he is to be allowed to go on without you saying a word?" Nadir asked archly.
"I think that it is best," Erik whispered. "He's been through so much lately..." He sniggered. "Although I fully intend to send him a bill for all the damages."
Nadir smiled. "But he's your brother...or was..."
Erik smirked slightly. "He cannot go on forever doing whatever he wants with no consequences." Like I have let him run over me. He sniffed delicately--his shattered decanter lay in a dark amber puddle that was slowly seeping into the carpets. "And that was a fine brandy."
Phillippe moaned loudly, curling into a tighter ball on the carpet. For a moment, his breath seemed raspy and rattled in his throat. Erik crawled over, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Suddenly, he felt fire shoot through him. Curling over into a knot, he closed his eyes. Delicate stars of bright white danced in front of his closed eyes as pain lanced through him. From far away, he thought he heard Nadir's voice--"It will only be a moment or two more."--and the room went black again.
It could have been only a moment, or an hour later or a day later when he opened his eyes again. Phillippe lay in front of him, his shoulders shaking. Erik clamored to his knees and could go no farther for a moment. Exhaustion seeped from every pore.
But these weren't his hands.
He stared at the hands that weren't his for a moment, then gingerly reached up and touched his face. He touched the cool china of the mask. Disappointed, he closed his eyes, gathered his strength and stood up.
"Are you leaving so soon?" Nadir asked with a note of surprise.
Erik stood still for a moment. His muscles ached and for a second, all he wanted to do was stretch out and sleep for a year. Quietly, he replied, "I suppose I'd better before Phillippe wakes up fully..."
"Perhaps not quite yet, sir."
Nadir's voice held an unfamiliar undertone and Erik turned to look at him. Nadir stood quietly, as he always had, his back to a large antique cabinet with glass set into the doors. There--past Nadir--his eyes locked.
His green eyes.
A ghostly image of green eyes stared back at him--green eyes, not the golden cat's eyes that he stared at that morning shaving. A lock of rebelliously curling dirty blonde hair curled over his forehead--not the shiny black hair he had pulled sleekly back into a discreet ribbon that day at lunch. The mask--a chilly porcelain reminder--glared back at him, but slowly he pulled the satin ribbons and it fell away. Like a butterfly shedding the cocoon, it revealed no features of horror and deformity but instead the chiseled regularity of Phillippe.
Suddenly the figure on the floor moaned and then shrieked. Nadir knelt beside the man, murmuring soothingly. The figure moaned into the carpet, unaware of the changes in face and form he would quickly have to adapt to. The one who had been Raoul and who had been Erik stood quietly by, staring disbelievingly at the mask in his hands.
Nadir glanced up at him again and held his hand out for the mask. Taking it from the standing man, he tucked it under his arm. He murmurred unintelligibly, softly, and the figure on the floor seemed to slip into unconciousness. Quietly as a cat, he walked the other man to the front door.
"I don't understand. Why did this happen?"
"The Most High decided that you have learned what you were supposed to. He is now Erik." Nadir shrugged. "And you are now the recently widowed Comte Phillippe deChagny." He held out his hand. "May you live long and well, sir."
"Phillippe" took his hand gratefully. "Will I see you ever again?"
Nadir gazed at him thoughtfully. Then, for a moment, his gaze was remote as he seemed to consult some unseen speaker. "I do not know. You will live on as Phillippe deChagny and I must travel with Erik." Almost of one mind, they glanced out a narrow window by the door where a hired car sat in front of the house and waited.
"I see. Can I do anything to help you leave?"
"No, I do not think that we'll be needing anything just yet. There is not currently a mob chasing us down. It probably will happen, but not just yet." Nadir smiled and took in the newly confident, humbled demeanor of the new Comte deChangy.
"Thank you. Thank you for everything." Then, turning, he retrieved the elegantly cut cloak from the front closet, wrapped it around his shoulders, donned the hat and gloves waiting for him. Swirling around, he opened the door onto the street. The dozing driver snapped to attention when he tapped on the glass. Shuffling out, he opened the back door and ushered the Comte Phillippe into the comfortable interior. Walking smartly around the car, he climbed back in and drove on, disappearing into the foggy night.