La Belle Dame Sans Merci
Meg awoke in her dressing room, grumbling over the fact that she'd slept in her clothes. He was gone, once again had left no sign that he'd ever been there, only the faint fragrance of the white rose, which had been put into a teacup full of water. It was chilly in the room, and she noticed that it was not her elegant little capelet that covered her. It was a full-length cloak, heavy black velvet on one side, gold-shot cream jacquard on the other… and it smelled like him.
She sighed, and got up. The chill was palpable in the room, and she groaned at it, slipping back under the volumous cloak. It was still warm from the heat of her body, and she ran a finger over the velvet. She would not be performing tonight, at least not in the traditional sense… the Bal Masque. It was New Year's Eve.
Her mother wanted her to wear white, again, for the masked ball. But Meg had the secret dress all ready, and she would not do without it this year. It was red- the red of sunsets and battlefields, with black accents like nothing so much as a starless night. The gown was made to look like something from the time of England's Elizabeth. It had slim-fitted sleeves, puffed at the shoulder; a bell-shaped crimson skirt that opened over an underskirt of black brocade. The ruff at her neck and the lace at her wrists were also black, which contrasted with the claret red of the main gown. Meg even knew what she would call herself in this viciously beautiful confection: La Belle Dame Sans Merci. And who would think that the Romantic ballerina Meg Giry would wear something so daring and intimidating. Something that plainly conveyed power- no wonder Erik had appeared the year before as Red Death! She had garnet and black crystal ornaments for her hair and ears, fingers; she would be bedecked with jewels!
But, looking at the charming little clock that rested on her dressing table, she sighed at the time- it was nearly ten in the morning!She went over to the armoire and shifted day dresses and costumes to find the frock at the very back. It glimmered in the low gaslight, half-buried though it was. Meg smiled. Erik had asked her what she was going to be costumed as… and she hadn't told him. She only commented that he ought to find something that looked like it was from the late sixteenth century- and come as either Philip of Spain or some Renaissance gallant. Though it would make him laugh, to come to the masquerade as her persona's bete noir. It make her smile impishly just thinking about it.
She rang for her maid, and when the silly creature gaped at her in her rumpled lawn dress, she snapped, "It was late and I decided not to bother going home. Just get me a bath filled and then we must put my hair in curlers… I want this Bal Masque to be perfect. Help me out of this dress, please?" The maid unhooked the row of tiny buttons to the back of her dress, and Meg threw it over her head, breathing deeply- glad to be out of it. She hadn't worn a corset the night before, thank goodness; so she drew a dressing gown over her chemise and directed the maid, "Never mind the dress, it will need to be laundered. See about the bath, please, and send someone in to stoke the fire- this room is freezing!"
The maid scurried out, and Meg seated herself at her dressing table. She ran a brush through her hair and waited for the young man who came and fired up the gas stove that stood in the corner, heating the room pleasantly. The maid returned and drew Meg's bath, scenting it with violet bath salts. Meg sank gratefully into the hot water, and let the maid wash her hair.
"You've such pretty hair, Mam'selle! It's like silk." The maid commented, "Wish my hair was like that."
"My friend always wanted hair like mine. I don't know why, it's this horrid red, and hers was the loveliest brunette shade. C'est la vie, eh?" Meg commented, then leaned forward to let the maid pour clean water over her head, rinsing her hair.
The rest of the day dragged on, and after her bath, and after the incredible amount of time it took her hair to dry, Meg went about a few errands, dined with her mother and Erik, and had him drive her back to the Opera to get ready,
"I don't want anyone seeing my costume until it's time. But I guarantee this, dear heart, you'll know me when you see me." She said, smiling her favorite smile- the one Erik said made her look like a wicked faery.
"Of course I shall know you, cherie. No one else in Paris has that hair the color of sunlit amber."
"Very unkind of you, to make mention of my hair, and it's abominable color."
"I adore your hair, it looks like spun silk when you wear it down."
"Well, Erik, it won't be down tonight, it'll be up and dressed with marvelous jewels."
"I expect nothing less, Marguerite."
And she had laughed and wished him luck with his costume, as he had wished her. Then merrily she went into the Opera and once back in her dressing room, she transformed from plain Meg Giry to the mysterious and scintillating La Belle Dame Sans Merci.
Meg took a deep breath, and the slipped out of the shadowy corner to stand at the head of the grand escalier. Her mask covered her face to over her cheeks and nose, and was painted pure white, with black whorls and gold spangles at the top edge, garnet-colored crystals scattered amongst the glitter. Her red hair was piled on her head and a magnificent Marie Stuart style headpiece sparkled darkly amongst the auburn curls. She handed her card to the major-domo, who swallowed hard, but announced her to the frozen crowd of merry-makers.
"La Belle Dame Sans Merci!" He called out as she paused a moment at the top of the staircase and looked out over the assembled guests. A faint smile graced her painted lips as she found the figure she had been searching for. Marguerite descended the steps lightly, as befitted a ballerina; one might almost say she glided.
The assemblage parted before her, as the Red Sea parted for Moses, until she came upon the tall man in somber black. He bowed, and she swept him a curtsy as only a prima ballerina could.
"'Fain I would climb, yet dear I to fall.'" He quoted, prompting a silvery laugh.
"'If thy heart fails thee, climb not at all.'" She replied, and took his arm. There was an almost universal exhale, as if the building itself had taken a relieved breath. Then the musicians began a waltz, and as La Belle Dame and her black-clad gallant swung into the dance, other couples joined in. Though none exhibited that couple's superlative grace.
"I am impressed, mademoiselle. You very nearly caused a riot. What are you supposed to be, anyway."
"A variation on Red Death. I am La Belle Dame Sans Merci. Or Gloriana, which is nearly as delicious a title."
" 'I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful- a faery's child
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.'"
"That's lovely, but it's not from Chartier. Who wrote it?" Meg's own eyes shone, struck by the elegant verse. Erik laughed and whirled her about.
"An Englishman. His name was Keats, I believe. But he used Chartier's title. That verse reminded me of you. You've wild eyes, you know. You may have all of Paris fooled, Marguerite, but not me." He brushed a finger over the tip of her nose, "You're a lovely elfin thing strayed into the city, but you're a wild creature at heart, Meg Giry. That's what makes you so effective a dancer: you seem too perfect, too otherworldly to be real, with your wild eyes promising the moon and stars, and your Korë smile fit to drive a man mad. Add to that your real grace, you could kill a man with that look you flash over your shoulder, cherie."
Meg looked at him a moment, "I think that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Do I drive men mad? What a pleasant thought."
"What would Paris do, if it should learn that it's darling is so savage? Oh flame-haired nymph, take pity on this poor mortal!" He immediately knelt upon one knee and grasped her hands dramatically.
"Get up, you're making a scene."
"Why shouldn't I make a scene, oh Gloriana? You made one earlier."
"Why not? I'll tell you why: because you're you and I'm me, and… and if you don't get up, I'm going to walk away and change my costume to something completely different, and you'll be left looking like a fool in the middle of the masked ball!" She snapped, the game suddenly not funny any more. Meg had nearly blurted out something very foolish indeed. But she was relieved when he stood and began the waltz again without a single skip in the beat.
And then, without a moment's warning, Erik's mask was pulled from his face. And an angry and above all, familiar voice rang out, "Call the Sûreté! He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, roughly pushed Meg out of the way, his sword pointed at the one-time Phantom. Then he looked at the man he had unmasked.
There was no deformity on his face. The skin on the right side was as smooth as that on the left, the nose just as perfectly symmetrical, if just a bit hawkish. The green eyes were sparkling with rage, and the well-formed lips were curled in a snarl. Erik backed away from the Victomte's sword, and knelt at Meg's side, where she had fallen.
"Have you looked your fill, Monsieur. Or should I charge you for the pleasure?" He inquired acidly, "If my prima ballerina has been hurt by your stupidity, I can assure you, you will pay." He gave Meg his arm, which she took gratefully. She swayed a moment, and the crowd gasped. Erik solved the problem by swinging her- glittering, crystal-encrusted skirts and all, into his arms.
"You idiot! Don't you know that he's Erik de Lassy, the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac? And the new owner of the Opera Populaire? And if anything has happened to interfere with my dancing, you'll not only have to deal with him, you'll have to deal with my mother!" Meg hissed poisonously.
"Heaven and all the saints forbid. Reyer! I am taking Mademoiselle Giry to her dressing room. Find me a doctor and have him and Madame Giry meet me there!" Erik fought a moment with Meg's gown, "And have her maid there, to get the girl out of this damn dress!"
He strode the entire way to her dressing room, the party-goers, like all crowds, following along to see what happened next. He opened the door with his foot, and he deposited Meg on her chaise and looked about for the maid, who wasn't there.
"Figure out how to get out of that contraption or I will cut it off you, Marguerite." He growled, stalking about the room.
"I'm not ruining my costume just because some titled fool put you in a foul mood. We'll wait for my maid. And I want everyone out of here, right now!" She spat back at him.
"You try my patience, mademoiselle." He snarled at Meg, who stood, or rather sat, her ground coolly.
"As you try mine. I'm no milksop to be intimidated, so desist your looming. Go back to the party- drink copious amounts of champagne, flirt with married women, and make the corps de ballet fall in love with you." She snapped, entirely put out.
A tall, thin man with an incredible mustache elbowed his way into the room, followed closely by Madame Giry, who was gowned in a slim green dress from the 1st Empire.
"Marguerite! What in the world has happened?"
"I was knocked over, Maman. Is that the doctor there with you?" Meg answered, dreading any comment about the red gown.
"I am afraid I am not, Mademoiselle. I am Inspector Ledoux, of the Sûreté. I was summoned by the Vicomte de Chagny, to answer a charge that he had discovered the whereabouts of the infamous Phantom of the Opera."
"Do you see any deformed musical geniuses in this room, Monsieur? Look closely, perhaps he has painted himself to match my woodwork!" Meg had finally lost her temper. "The Vicomte de Chagny sees the Phantom in every shadow, behind every column or statue, and he rushes in, sword at the ready."
"Indeed, Mademoiselle Giry. Though if I may say, he rather has reason to do so."
"You refer to the incident of not quite a year ago? If you recall, Monsieur Inspector, I was there that night. I saw the Phantom, when Christine Daae unmasked him. And I can assure you, Monsieur de Lassy looks nothing like him. Oh, I'll grant that he has the same build and coloring, but he's lacking… something. Why don't you look at him and tell me what it is."
Caught off-guard by the ferocity of her anger, the inspector did look at Erik, taking in the hooded eyes, the mobile mouth and the hawkish nose. He bowed, and said to them all.
"I cannot imagine why the Vicomte would think that the Baron is the Phantom in disguise. I think it safe to say that the Phantom of the Opera is long gone from here. Monsieur le Baron. Madame Giry. Mademoiselle Giry, I look forward to seeing you grace the stage again soon. Your Giselle was breathtaking." The inspector clicked his heels and exited the room, moving aside for the Opera doctor, a small, round man, his peacock mask askew and made ridiculous by the fact that his fussy little pince-nez perched on his masked nose.
The Inspector paused, and took one look at the little tableau in the dressing room: the man in black looming over the chaise longue with his arms folded, glowering at the woman in red, who glared back at him. Then she winced as the doctor did something to her ankle, and the man's expression changed from angry to concerned in a heartbeat.
"So that's the way the wind blows." He murmured, looking for the Vicomte de Chagny. He found the young man, attended to by his pretty wife. She looked up, and the Inspector remembered that she had been not only a singer, but a dancer at the Opera Populaire- and the object of the Phantom's obsession. Well, that sealed it- Monsieur de Lassy had seemed quite protective and attentive to Mademoiselle Giry; and she of him.
"Monsieur le Vicomte, I think that we must put this affair of the Phantom behind us. It does Madame no good for you to be always looking behind you, searching the shadows. It is a new year, a good time to make a resolution- to live without fear. I am certain that with Madame, your charming wife, you can do this thing. The Phantom of the Opera is nothing more than a memory. Consign him to the past." Inspector Ledoux bowed to Christine, the Vicomtess de Chagny, and made his way from the Opera.
"Do you really think he's gone? I was so certain, Christine. I was so certain that man was him." Raoul raked a hand through his hair, and looked down at his wife.
"Dearest, I think the Inspector is right. He is long gone. My dear, foolish Raoul. No more tilting at windmills, and searching the night for monsters?"
"Yes, Christine, I promise." He kissed her hand, and smiled down at her.
"And now, you must go and write an apology to Meg. Knocking her down like that! I have never been so appalled in my life! Yes, a nicely written apology, and two dozen roses…pink, I think. Raoul, did you hear a word I just said?"
"Yes, dearest. An apology, and two dozen pink roses. Or should I make it three?"
"Three, yes, I think that might convince Meg not to kill you. "
Madame Giry and Louise, Meg's maid, had helped her out of the Elizabethan gown, and into a pale green wrapper dress. The doctor had put ice on her ankle, and had advised her not to dance for a week, although she should be able to walk by morning.The edict over dancing was just to be on the safe side, and she was well enough to complain loudly over the terrible rudeness of the Vicomte de Chagny.
But once Doctor Broderie was out of the room, she sent Louise on her way as well. Meg knew what was coming, at least from her mother.
"Well? I have a feeling I know what you're going to say, Mother. It's about the Dress, isn't it?"
"Marguerite, your performance this evening more than made up for your sartorial choices. Though I must say, you looked very intimidating, berating the Vicomte in that manner. I don't think anyone could have done that in white tulle."
"I would have said exactly the same things in the same tone and manner if I'd been wearing a bathing costume, Mother."
"You were magnificent, Meg. Nemesis could not make someone quake in their boots so."
"I was so frightened." She whispered. "He could have run you through before taking the mask off. He could have scratched at your face… he could have…" Meg trailed off, lips trembling.
"I think it's time we go home, ladies." Erik said, bundling himself up in a cloak, draping a cloak about Meg, then picking her up and wrapping her tightly. Madame had wrapped herself up, and the three made their way to their waiting carriage through the back halls that saw few merry-makers. The drive to the house was made in silence. Once in the house, Meg was soon settled into bed.
"How did you do it?" She asked him, as he set her down on her bed. "This new mask. It looks… amazing. You could go out during the day and no one would turn around." She reached up to hesitantly touch his face. "It feels real. How did you do it? And why not before now?"
"Always so full of questions. It's taken me years to find the right compound that creates a mask that simulates flesh. And last year… I wanted her to love me for myself. She saw my face before I was finished with it. She didn't understand; she didn't want to. And I was so lost that I couldn't see it." He paused, almost uncertain. "It is a terrible thing, to never have love. Don't shut it from your life again, Marguerite."
"I won't. But I meant what I said. I'll be no man's mistress or plaything. Be he king or peasant, I'll not. I have no intention of becoming a pretty china doll- sitting on a shelf till my lord and master wants me to decorate his arm or warm his bed. It would kill me."
"You've too much spirit for that, Meg. You're a creature of fire, of passion. I must write a ballet for you, cherie."
"Yes, you do that."
Author's Note:
I know that it has been a long time since I've updated For What It's Worth.Mea maxima culpa. But I hope that this is a long enough chapter to satisfy those who have been waiting.The title is taken from poems by the medieval French poet Chartier, as well as the more famous one by Keats, who is quoted in the text. Please, please, please review, and check out my other Phantom fics, "Fairy Tales","All Through The Night", and "Not the Only Way Out"
Warmest Regards,
K.S.