Well, folks, here it is, as promised, though I admit 11:00 p.m. is a bit past "afternoon." Sorry. Had some unexpected guests. In the meantime, do I need a disclaimer here? Okay... I don't own any of this--except the parts are distinctly mine--which at this point means nothing but the word choice so far. I should also mention that I'm basing everything--at least so far--entirely on the Gaston Leroux version. I'm not rejecting other versions, this is just the one I wanted to work with for right now. May incorporate details from other versions later, if the urge hits, but you know... one never can tell. Hope you enjoy it at least a little. Thanks for reading!!
This chapter was revised/edited on 4/13/2008 and again on 5/26/2008, but does not differ noticeably from the original. Typos have been corrected and a few small details have been added.
For in the time since he had taken his leave of the daroga, a great many things had happened. Christine and Raoul had indeed run off to get married, but circumstances and necessity required that they return rather abruptly. In the wake of the news of the death of Count Philippe numerous investigations had been done, first by the police, and later by snooping busybodies who purported themselves as "concerned citizens of the city." A great many people believed that the count's death was an accident, and a few believed it was the result of an ill-fated argument over Mlle. Daaé; a great many more, however, continued to believe in the opera ghost, while still others believed none of it fully and wished to inspect the place themselves. The daroga, mostly to set matters straight in his own mind writ down all he knew regarding all that had occurred, and though he did not publish it, somehow word got out and people were aware that the once-dreaded ghost was, at least according to the crazy Persian, merely a brilliant but terribly deformed man. The people of Paris, fickle as they often were, gossiped readily about Mlle. Daaé's disappearance but ceased coming to the opera house, except those few who invented some pretense in order to attempt to explore the area beneath it. Those who kept away gave various reasons—some still believed in a ghost of sorts and declared it "trop dangeroux" while others—those who believed the writings of the strange Persian daroga thought the ghost stories a lot of nonsense and were greatly incensed with the management for not having found out the man and prosecuted him to the fullest extent of the law. And though some believed the man was dead (after all, the Persian fellow claimed it!) those who believed in an actual ghost pointed out that ghosts could not die therefore the danger still existed. Those who did not believe wanted proof of his death before they dared return. They pointed out that claiming his own death would keep the gendarmes from searching for him, and they demanded another more thorough search be conducted. And those few who did believe him dead speculated that he might return now as an actual ghost. Considering how powerful he had been alive, this would be much, much worse, they cautioned.
As a result, the opera did little business. Those who held the lead roles quit and made plans to leave for Italy, for performing to an empty house could hardly be called performing at all. Those with minor roles suffered through the embarrassment to take home their meager wages upon which they had come to depend. Many had nowhere else to go, and some hung around in the hopes that larger roles would now be open to them, but their hopes soon fell to pieces as patrons withdrew their support and the government failed to assist the failed operation. The managers soon discovered that even without paying the ghost exorbitant amounts of money, there was not enough money left in the treasury from which to take their draw, and that was the final straw. They announced that the Opera simply had to be shut down. They could not afford to keep it open without taking a loss, which no businessman in his right mind—or even just slightly out of him mind (as these two likely were after having been the brunt of not only the ghost's practical jokes but also the full brunt of his anger)—would be willing to do. Performances ceased and this resulted in a great number of performers and an even greater number of other staff being displaced from both employ and residence. Ironically, the no-longer-haunted hall was now thought to be too dangerous to enter after the events of that fatal night. No one else wanted in. The people of the city itself and the government who acted on their behalf wanted nothing to do with it any longer.
The position of manager was offered up to anyone willing to take it on with instead of a mere salary, complete financial control with the reward of being able to reap potential profits was offered but as everyone knew there were no profits, no one expressed and interest. Nevertheless, M. Richard and M. Moncharmin wanted out and became more desperate.
And though the third Republic had commissioned the completion of the building begun two governments earlier and taken great pride in calling it the Académie Nationale de Musique, amidst political upheaval and ministerial reshuffles it had no real commitment to the building, which had come to be considered ostentatious, or to the art itself, which was merely a pastime for the noble and bourgeois. The city, likewise, declined to aide the failing enterprise with the tragic result that the great landmark which would someday come to be regarded as one of the architectural masterpieces of its time was pitiably en vente—for sale.
Into the midst of all this disappointment, anger, blame and confusion, stepped a well dressed and moderately attractive—though not entirely beautiful—woman arrived from abroad to inquire into the matter of the sale of the opera house. It was because of this woman that Erik was not able to simply die in peace.
Author's note: Perhaps a bit outlandish, but then, isn't the whole idea of Erik having built it and lived beneath it outlandish as well? Let's just use our imaginations and have fun with this!