A/N—Prologue can be read as set before my short novels Red Rose and A Second Chance, and to most extent, the ALW stage play Phantom of the Opera, but not the 2004 movie. The characters are of course from The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux, Phantom, by Susan Kay, and the musical by ALW and the Really Useful Group. The scenery and timeline are my own, as are the slightly different characterizations. Long time readers will no doubt recognize the origins of the underground home and other parts of that story having their roots in various scenes. I intend four chapters to this mini-series.
Thanks to FlickerintheDark, cotesgoat, EliseDAae, Syri Reed, Guest, ghostwritten2, LittleLongHairedOutlaw, Animekitty47, BadassSyd, VeroniqueClaire, Mominator124, and SpookyMormonHellDream for your wonderful comments on Chapter 1!
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, history, and French and Farsi languages are mine, and for that, I apologize.
Please read and review.
Prologue
2017 by Riene
Chapter 2-Changes
Two weeks later, he surveyed his efforts with no small amount of satisfaction. The paneled walls gleamed in the gaslights, the piano had been painstakingly tuned, a few books graced the shelves, jeweled tones glowed from a thick Persian carpet on the library-music room floor. Two tapestry-covered chairs faced the fireplace, a small table between them. A sideboard held several bottles of fine wine, cognac, sherry, and whiskey. A stack of creamy thick paper awaited inspiration, and his violin rested inside its case on the shelves.
New cushions would be arriving soon for the sofa in the entryway. A long carpet ran the length of the room, softening echoes and footsteps, and he'd acquired a stand for hat and stick. The kitchen larder was restocked and the gas ring was now functional. He'd been fortunate to find a cooperative grocer and baker, willing to fill written orders left with prepayment on an account, and an elderly Jewish tailor who did not mind meeting a stranger in the late evenings. The Rue Scribe passage was now his entrance and egress of choice after hours.
The days passed quickly, filled with projects to make this underground space more habitable. He was tinkering with a device to use gas flames to heat water for bathing, and thus far it appeared to be working, although at present it could heat only small amounts at a time. He needed a larger tank, but finding one was the issue. Failing that, perhaps he could find a way to tap the lines from the great boilers above, whose steam heated the vast building in the winter.
On his nightly trips to acquire coal for his fireplaces, he explored the building, marveling at the changes. Some were stunning, others gaudy. The mirrored hallways, gilding, carvings, ornate stonework, and fantastic décor made the building opulent, a stunning jewel rising among the reconstruction after the war. It seemed no one had discovered amongst the innumerable pillars, alcoves, mirrors, and panels the network of passageways, service tunnels, and hidden spaces. Perhaps no one now remembered them from construction time, and he had made certain they were not included on the final architectural renderings.
There were few familiar faces throughout the building. The new orchestral director was a M Reyer, a thin, acerbic, wiry man with a biting sarcastic tongue and flustered demeanor. Though the man gave the impression of being addlepated, he was sharply aware of every pulse within the Opera House.
One familiar face was that of Madame Giry. In the last few years she had risen from a mere instructor to the position of ballet mistress. Her imposing presence made itself felt throughout the backstage and she was one of the few members of the House whose word was Law and commanded respect.
He did not recognize a single member of the chorus, nor most of the corps de ballet. A few faces stood out—little Meg Giry was now a willowy young woman of twenty or so. Her soft blond curls had darkened into a dark honey but those huge hazel eyes were no different. Jammes, once a tiny impish sprite, had become a young girl with pansy-brown eyes and a heart-shaped face. Meg's awkward friend, the Swedish orphan, had grown taller and more graceful as well, with arresting midnight blue eyes and long coffee-brown curls. Sorelli, once the terror of the students due to her passionate temper and tantrums, had become the leading soloist. All long legs and dark liquid eyes a man could lose his soul in, she was a fiery spirit on the stage with no end of admirers.
Moncharmin, the manager, had already earned a withering contempt. A ladies' man, he spent far too much time in pursuit of his latest conquest and neglected affairs at the Opera. Shoddy workmanship, incompetent employees, disarray, and slipshod methods were rampant. There were constant complaints about a lack of funding, and he wondered if the man was siphoning off some of the profits for personal use. If so, there were lovely possibilities for blackmail.
Blast and damn, there was someone in the passage. He cursed himself for attempting this shortcut. At one point this upper corridor had been virtually unused, but in the years of his absence the alcove had been turned into a makeshift chapel where a wooden screen partially concealed the small area from the rest of the corridor. A roughly padded kneeler waited in front of a rack of votive candles, and above it hung scattered small crosses and prayer medallions. Artists of varying skill had painted angels, saints, martyrs, and the Holy Family on the walls above. While it made a peaceful place for prayer, it was at the moment most inconvenient.
Irritably he shifted from one leg to the other. Footsore and weary from a day's errands above ground, he was wet and cold clear through and wanted nothing more than to sit by his fireside and nurse a bottle of brandy until he was either warm or too numb to feel the chill and damp. Instead, little Giry's friend, Christine, knelt at the rough altar, seemingly lost in prayer. He could not risk passing her and thus became an unwilling recipient of her confidences.
The young woman finished her silent prayer, then sat back slightly, her shoulders slumping, and sighed, staring up at the shadowy paintings on the wall. Tears hung on her long dark lashes and she drew in a shuddering breath. He clenched his teeth; how he loathed crying women, but she merely began to whisper and the sound carried clearly to his sensitive ears.
"Father…I wish you were here to help me. I don't know what to do. It's been twelve years, Papa, since you left me alone. I know you are happy with Mama, but why could you not have stayed with me just a while longer?"
"She's lost the money, Papa, and it's taking all of my salary just for food and to pay the woman across the hall to sit with her. She's so sick, Papa, I can't leave her alone and I don't know how to pay for the doctor and the medicines he wants and the money for the flat." Her breathing was becoming ragged.
Merde. Would she never cease this whining and leave so he could pass? He shifted the weight on his back and tried to ease the tension from his bad shoulder. Perhaps he could scare her away somehow.
"Papa…you promised me a guardian angel when you left…an angel to watch over me, perhaps even the Angel of Music himself. This….this would be a good time." She made a sound, a cross between a choked laugh and a sob.
An angel. He nearly laughed out loud. How naive, how childish. What fool believed in anything otherworldly? He shifted again, his back beginning to become unbearable. He would have to do something soon to make her leave.
From the shadows he studied her, calculatingly. Would she actually believe a voice if it spoke to her? He was adept at ventriloquism, and knew well the power of his tone, his damned ethereal, haunting voice, the voice that had driven men to madness. Or maybe…maybe it was more simple than that. If she just needed money… From his pocket he pulled a wad of francs. Food, she'd said, and medicine. A doctor's bill and rent. How much did it cost to pay for a flat? Oh, what did it matter, as long as she left? He smoothed the bills neatly and fanned them, then with careful aim and a deft flick of his fingers, sent them fluttering down around her, smirking at the astonished expression on her face.
Christine's eyes slowly opened at the sudden brush against her cheek and shoulders. Something softly falling…colored paper pieces…banknotes? Francs? With a soft cry she reached out and lifted one from the floor, then rose, whirling around in shock. A dozen or more pieces fluttered down to fall around her skirts. Gasping, she swiftly collected the notes…a small fortune, more than enough for… She froze, clutching the banknotes to her chest, then spun about, searching the shadows. "Who is there? Who…how…why?" she stammered.
He shrank back even further as her eyes passed over his hiding place. Take it, go, he silently urged her. After a minute, Christine's eyes filled with tears.
"Thank you," she whispered fervently. "You can't know how much I needed a miracle." Clasping the bills to her heart, she knelt and crossed herself, bowing her head once more, murmuring a prayer of thanks. Then, in a swirl of skirts, she ran lightly down the corridor.
"Christine," Meg's doubtful voice echoed about the small chamber, "I know what you said, but how?"
Dark blue eyes sparkled down into hazel-green ones. "I don't know either, Meg, but you saw the money yourself!"
Meg sighed. Christine was a dear sweet girl, but there were times she still seemed to live in the fantasy world of her childhood, the world into which she would retreat when tired, sad, or lonely. "Could it have fallen from above? As if someone had hidden them up there?"
Two sets of eyes looked upwards, but only the plain plastered ceiling, painted with iconography, met their gaze.
"Maybe someone was passing by…"
"And simply threw money at me?" Christine's voice was incredulous, and Meg sighed again.
"No, I suppose not."
"I would surely have seen anyone else here," she insisted firmly.
Meg thrust her hands down into her pockets, grumpy and dissatisfied. For all her romantic ideals, she was a cautious, practical young woman. "What have you done with the money?"
"Paid for the flat, paid the doctor's fees, bought medicine and nourishing foods, and coal for the rooms. It was so cold in there. And I've hidden the rest of it….Mama won't even know I have it, and maybe she will get better, and be able to tell me what has happened to her account."
"Don't spend any more of it than you have to, please," Meg Giry begged. "I cannot believe that it just fell from the sky…and it would be so awkward if anyone was to come and demand its return!"
Christine sighed. She did not really believe in angels either, but the money was so fortuitous and mysterious. Somewhere, somehow, she had a benefactor…and that person needed to be thanked. From a pocket she removed a letter and with a soft smile propped it up on the votives rack. "There," she said. "I've thanked my 'angel' and asked if I need repay the money. Don't fret so, Meg. It will all be fine."
"I hope so," her friend muttered, and the two headed downstairs.
The white envelope caught his eyes on the next trip. Addressed simply as "To My Benefactor" and signed Christine, it was leaning against the stone wall on the top rack of candles, slightly soiled from smoke but oddly untouched otherwise. He plucked it from the rack with disdainful fingers. No doubt she would be begging for more funding. Once below in his home he would amuse himself by reading it, then cast it into the flames.
But it was not so. The letter was short, sweetly thanking the mysterious person who had sent the banknotes fluttering down around her at a time when they were so desperately needed. You were my guardian angel, my helpful friend, she'd written, and it means more than you can ever know. Thank you, thank you. If you need repayment, please do not hesitate to let me know. When Mama is well, I shall happily make restitution.
With humble gratitude and an overflowing heart,
Christine Daae
He moved as if to toss the note into the coal fire, but at the last minute, folded it neatly and slipped it into a drawer, for reasons he could not explain. How long had it been since anyone felt kindness or gratitude toward him? It was a novel sensation.
The new screen painter was superb, even he had to admit. Climbing high amongst the flies, he located the piece in question and leaned in to observe the technique, taking care not to ignite the highly flammable fabric. Up close, he could see how the man had created that sense of gauzy mist over the mountains that looked so realistic from the floor.
Voices. With one swift move he extinguished the small lantern and froze in position. He had no fear of being seen in the shadows, dressed in black, but there was no point in risking the light.
"…know how long it will take. When the meeting is over we can leave. I'm glad you're coming home with us tonight, even if it's just for dinner."
"Mama is visiting with her cousin tonight. I am so grateful she is feeling better."
Little Giry and her friend. He grimaced, hoping they were just passing through the backstage area, but the two young women stopped downstage, facing the stalls. Carefully he began sidling across the wires back to the catwalk.
"…was furious! Did you see her face? I thought surely…apoplexy…"
Laughter, pure as a peal of bells. He paused, struck by the unusual sound, and quickly descended the ladder to the second level, leaning over and listening.
"…couldn't, from where I was, but how she hates to be corrected!" The two women were vainly trying to smother their amusement. Little Meg struck a pose from the current dramatization of The Tales of Hoffman, a stance he recognized as that of La Carlotta, the Opera's reigning diva. Meg flung her arms out dramatically, and shrieked the lines, causing the other girl's voice to ring out in that glorious peal of laughter again.
"That's not at all how I'd do that part," Christine mused, when the two had regained their composure. "I'd be more gentle…I think she's too aggressive, myself, but that's what the director wants," she sighed.
"I wish you would do it," Meg said gloomily. "Carlotta is going to give us all headaches. You know she likes to brag she can crack the glass on the chandelier. You really should try out for a part some day, Christine."
But the older girl shook her head. "I'm just a dancer and good enough for the chorus, Meg."
The little blond turned to her fiercely. "That's not true, Christine. I've heard you sing, when you think no one is listening. You have a good voice. It's not powerful, but it's pretty. I bet in time you would be marvelous."
"I'd need years of lessons."
"No, you wouldn't. Look…there's no one here. Sing, Christine…show me how that scene should be done. No one will ever hear you but me, and it's your chance to try out the stage while we wait on Maman." At Christine's stubborn look, Meg sighed and stepped forward, lifting her voice. "Like this….AAAAAAAAAAAA."
Up on the catwalk, he winced. Meg was no singer, to be sure. Not expecting much he shut his eyes against the coming assault on his senses as Christine stepped forward.
Les oiseaux dans la charmille
Dans les cieux l'astre du jour,
Tout parle à la jeune fille d'amour!
Ah! Voilà la chanson gentille
La chanson d'Olympia! Ah!
Tout ce qui chante et résonne
Et soupire, tour à tour,
Emeut son coeur qui frissonne d'amour!
Ah! Voilà la chanson mignonne
La chanson d'Olympia! Ah!
She sang without warm up, there was no power to her voice, but oh, the tone…impossibly pure, a golden sweet soprano, effortless and trembling with emotion as she sang The Doll's Song to an empty theatre. He leaned back, stunned. Where had that voice come from?
Down on the floor, Meg was applauding, as Christine took mock bows and laughingly accepted an immense bouquet of invisible flowers.
"You see? You could do it! That was so much better than Carlotta! There's just no way she could be such a lovely little doll! Especially a little doll!" Meg giggled.
Christine turned away from the empty house, her smile falling into lines of sadness. "It will never happen, Meg. I would need lessons…and you know I can't afford them. It takes all of my salary just to keep the flat together." They began walking toward the wings of the stage.
"She never did remember where she'd put the Professor's money, did she?" Meg's voice was sympathetic.
"No, and I don't have any hope of finding it. It's not in the flat…she thinks she entrusted it to someone. Oh Meg, it's such a mess." Their voices faded off as the two young women passed through the side door.
Up in the walkways, amongst the counterweights and flies, the listener stood, stunned. Her voice had affected him like a bolt of lightning, shocking in its intensity.
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~R