A/N—Just one chapter to go in this little prologue. You can expect some E/C interaction in the last chapter!
I'd like to thank Child of Dreams, cotesgoat, BadassSyd, come-to-me-musicals, ghostwritten2, Animekitty47, Mominator125, SpookyMormonHellDream, and EliseDaaae for their reviews, encouragement, and support! It means a lot to me, especially on those nights it's hard to feel positive!
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 3 - Opera Ghost
Somewhere, anywhere, away from the stage and La Carlotta! She couldn't stand another minute around that diva and her coterie. Down Corridor B, at the end near the awkward intersection, lay one of the unused secondary dressing rooms. She and Meg had often hidden and played in there at children. The furnishings in these rooms were older, having only a chaise lounge, chest, screen, and dressing table. The true allure of this particular room lay in the enormous mirror on the back wall. Rising from just above the floor to nearly the ceiling, it was of a height that a tall man could see himself completely in it, and its hazy surface had reflected countless hours of entertainment in the form of play-acting of the two young girls. Now the room served as a refuge.
Christine lit two of the gas lamps and threw herself down on the dusty chaise, fuming. Carlotta had been insufferable, blaming every missed cue, every improper position on those around her, especially those girls of the chorus. Several had rushed backstage in tears after rehearsal today, and even Meg, normally so optimistic and cheerful, had been reduced to a stuttering apology, her face flaming, blinking away tears of rage at the diva's insults.
"She's so horrible!" Christine muttered, rising to pace the confines of the small room. "So hateful! And she's such a cow!"
A low chuckle reached her ears, and Christine spun, staring toward the door. It must have been someone in the corridor; she would have to lower her voice. It would never do to be caught in this room.
He stood behind the mirror, watching the girl with some curiosity. She had no way of knowing of his presence; the mirror only worked one way and was in actuality, a passageway. He'd come down this side route, needing to reach the offices, and stopped at the unexpected dim glow from the mirror. Someone was in the room. He paused, listening to her rant, immediately surmising the target of her tirade.
The insufferable diva had obviously been on the warpath again today, and this girl must have been the target of her usual tirades. She glanced up sharply at his inadvertent chuckle—he had forgotten the interesting acoustics of this room, with its concealed channels for air circulation into the corridor beyond, which also carried voices so clearly. He would have to be careful.
The girl intrigued him with her voice, her passion. He found himself seeking her out on his rounds throughout the day. One night he went so far as to follow her home and discovered she lived in a small set of rooms with an elderly lady. The rooms were in a crowded apartment in one of the poorer arrondissements. It would be an unpleasant journey during the winter to and from the Opera House, and he shook his head, bemused, wondering why he cared.
The old dressing room was apparently her favorite place to rest or wait, he noted. One evening when the building was silent, he entered the chamber, wincing at the tooth-grinding shriek of metal on metal from the old mirror entrance. He spent some time that night cleaning and oiling the mechanism until it was soundless, and finally, placed a heavy brass key in the topmost drawer of the chest. Refuge was a concept he well understood.
The manager, Moncharmin, was simply incompetent. A businessman, he had no real love for nor understanding of music. Some employees had been hired on the basis of political or familial connections, others as apparent favors. Some, merely because they were a pretty face and willing to spend time in the office. As a result, incompetency ran riot. He could hear the exasperation in the ballet mistress's voice and the conductor's fury. These two he respected, but they were two among very few. A perfectionist himself, he found the problems personally offensive. The caterwauling of the chorus was too much for his sensitive ears; something would have to be done and soon.
Autumn was on approach and the city grew colder by the day, including the catacombs beneath the city and the underground house. His damaged joints and bones ached with the cold. In his present black mood, he took a malicious pleasure in tormenting those he deemed the most egregious of the offenders, and methodically plotted his dominion over the Opera House. It had taken surprisingly little effort to spread his presence throughout the building, for many theater employees were a superstitious lot. Angled just so a lantern or candle reflected in his eyes, suffusing them with an eerie golden glow. He knew the locations of gas cut off switches and would make the lights go off with a satisfactory pop. Sheet music vanished, reeds split, music stands collapsed. Shoe ribbons became hopelessly knotted, lights flickered in certain dressing rooms. Props and hairpieces disappeared. The faintest trace of lye in the drinking water scratched throats until one by one, the worst offenders left, convinced they were being persecuted. He had taken to sending anonymous, black-bordered letters to M Reyer and Mme Giry, alternating between sharp criticism and useful suggestion. Rather to his surprise, his comments were often obeyed. No one wished to incur the wrath of the unseen spectre.
Moncharmin was proving to be a rather satisfactory source of income. The opportunity had arisen only last month. The manager was ensconced in his office with an older, married woman, pressing kisses on her hand, and as the wine fell lower in the bottle, places of a more intimate nature. He had watched in grim amusement as the man kept one eye on the door as he continued his dalliance, and the other upon the rather sumptuous charms of the giggling woman.
He'd made his voice soft at first, a whispery laugh, until Moncharmin was on his feet, frantically looking about to find the origins of that mocking voice. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am the resident spirit of these walls, the Ghost of the Opera, if you will. It is me you have to thank for the true management of this building."
"What…what do you mean?" the man blustered. Behind the panel, he quietly turned a valve and the gas lights popped off, startling the manager.
"I know everything that goes on within my walls. Everything, good sir. The Opera Ghost sees all. You would do well to stay upon my good side."
The man spun about, eyes wide and searching. "Show yourself."
He laughed, a soft, low chuckle. "I think not."
Moncharmin pulled himself upright, blustering. "I do not deal with charlatans and frauds. What do you mean…I am the manager here! What job do you do?"
"Why, my dear Moncharmin! I have many roles, and I rather think my services are invaluable. Who do you think it was that distracted M Voisine while you were…entertaining…his wife? That was a near miss, you know. A few moments later and…"
"What do you want?" Moncharmin was visibly sweating.
The Voice was amused. "Why, I should think it obvious. I require a small stipend, a salary, if you will, to remain in my good will."
"A salary?" he blustered. "And for what? Blackmail!"
Again that low, soft chuckle. "Oh, I think you will find my bonhomie quite important. I do far more than pay attention to your little…indiscretions. There are props to secure, scripts to correct, scores to adjust. Someone must be certain those innumerable sandbags are secure…it would really be a pity it anything were to fall…"
There had been stories, subtle changes, rumors of a 'ghost' about the backstage, of alterations and rearrangements, rumors that had reached even his ears. He straightened. "I don't deal with swindlers or threats. I shall call the police!"
"I see you require convincing. Au revoir, M Moncharmin." And with a mocking laugh, all went silent.
The man made a tall and imposing figure as he walked with assurance through the Opera House. Scene-shifters, painters, and construction crew saw him most often, and occasionally even the seamstresses, chorus, and ballet rats. He walked as if he owned the House, not merely as a patron or guest, an imperial figure in solid black, pale austere face, and fedora pulled low over his features, cape billowing behind him. It was rumored he wore a mask. The members of the Opera shrugged and went about their business. Eventually their betters would introduce this mysterious man, if man he was, and in the meantime they left him alone. Another occupied their attention more, a spectre said to wander the Opera House, this one a death's head with glowing golden eyes, sometimes seen by the firemen or the despised rat-catcher. Superstition and fear followed those occurrences, for it was often not long after a sighting that an accident would occur.
The following afternoon was no exception. A fragile and expensive light stand fell over, sending glass shards across the stage. A sandbag fell, narrowly missing one of the principles. Props went missing, the main score disappeared. Half of the cast and chorus came in late, confused by the notes they had received informing them of a delayed rehearsal. An entire backdrop fell to the floor, the pulleys spinning frantically as a rope gave way, scattering the stage crew beneath. Some swore they had seen glowing eyes, others a contemptuous laugh. The day was a disaster.
Angrily, Moncharmin gritted his teeth and surrendered. With opening night so soon, the House could not tolerate another series of delays. Resigned, he stared at the black-bordered note and reached for bankbook and pen.
Alone in her office, Adele Giry studied the mysterious note on her desk, a note which had most certainly not been there when she had left, locking the door behind her. The spiky black handwriting was unfamiliar but the contents were not. …in our mutual best interests to cooperate…I will require little of your time. You will remember me as the personage you met on the night of your husband's demise… She took a sip from her rapidly-cooling tea, thinking uneasily. She did indeed remember that haunted evening, with a mixture of fear and gratitude, and did not like the veiled implications of this missive.
There had been a number of unusual occurrences lately, the dismissal of the two worst dancers, something she had been demanding for weeks, the sudden additional budget for new shoes and costume repair, and Meg's very odd story of the stagehand who had been harassing the dancers who suddenly found himself terrified of a threatening voice and now avoided the younger girls altogether. Few if any of the "ghost's" actions plagued the corps de ballet, though the silly girls seemed to delight in telling stories and seeing the spectre everywhere. Thoughtfully, Adele Giry laid the note aside.
The wretched musical passage would not leave his head. Irritably Èdouard Reyer made his way back to his office on the third floor of the Palais Garnier. He'd debated spending the night at his club—it wouldn't be the first time—rather than go back to his solitary, barren flat, and in the end, simply went back to work. Now as he approached the door, a faint, flickering light appeared under it, and he froze.
Several times in the last few months he had returned to find someone had entered his private office and made alterations in the score of whatever the orchestra was presently rehearsing. The changes were most often for the better, he had to admit; subtle alterations of tempo or dynamics, corrections of bad copies, a suggestion here or there, the writing done in a dark red, spiky ink. No one had admitted to being the culprit, if culprit was indeed the correct word. Admittedly, he had once or twice left a particularly difficult problem out on the desk overnight, in hopes the mysterious musician would lend a hand. A strings man himself, brass gave him the most difficulty in arrangements.
And now here was a light, and as he listened, the faint tones of the upright piano he kept in the office, should inspiration strike. Moving as silently as possible, he crept forward.
There was barely time to fling the cowl over his head as the office door slammed open. He leapt from the chair, bolting into the shadows, cursing himself for not locking the door. M Reyer stood there, eyes locked on him, breathing hard.
Èdouard Reyer was not a man given to religion or superstition, but the vague figure crouched in the shadows gave him a violent start. All but invisible against the far wall, his features were entirely hidden by a heavy cloak and hood. Only his eyes caught and reflected the candlelight, glowing golden like a cat's eyes in the dark. A pragmatist, he had not believed the stories of a masked demon who haunted the lower levels. Now it stared back at him. Reyer's eyes darted to the table, seeing the open score, and found his voice.
"Stay, please, I beg you."
The shadowy man, if man he was, straightened to his full height but did not move. Reyer slowly approached his desk, where slowly dripping candles were lit, keeping the table between them. Notations in red, as before. He studied the passage, fingers moving against the table, as he silently played the section in his head.
"An improvement, yes. This will indeed harmonize much better. And that counterpoint—it is meant to be a counterpoint, no?—will work as well." The twin yellow eyes moved down, an acknowledgement.
Reyer's vision had become more accustomed to the dim light, but his "guest" was utterly featureless beneath the hood. He hitched a leg up on the desk. "I think it is you I have to thank for the alterations in the last few months." The head beneath the cowl inclined as if in agreement. "I think perhaps we both have the best interests of the Opera and the orchestra at heart." Again that inclination, and curious waiting silence. Carefully, Reyer laid the sheets of music back on the table. "I was having trouble with the brass section, but see you've surmised that and dealt with it. My…appreciation, sir." He smiled faintly. "I hope I can count on your continued…collaboration?…in these matters."
The spectral figure inclined its head a third time, and Reyer turned away, clenching his jaw and making a pretense of studying the score. When he looked up again, he was alone.
Thank you for reading, and please leave a review? It gives me the encouragement to post each chapter. :)
~R