With his mind elsewhere, it was surprising that he managed to get back to his secreted entrance, and within the comforting warmth of the corridors. Warm...compared to the outside chill that sank to his bones. Such a rapid switching and shifting of emotions. Pity,.. to pain,.. to anger.., and finally to immense sadness. There were none around when he sank to his knees, all the strength that was in his form disappearing from him, as if it had been an illusion, one that further cracked with the rough hitches of his shoulders.
How long he remained there in the darkness, his hands pressed against his face, he didn't know, but when he worked himself to a stand, his throat was raw and it hurt to swallow. He had another decision to make as he wandered through the winding passage; do what he had first intended and find the Madame, who should have been at the opera house by now, or just go home to his solitude. Strengthening his resolve, he decided to seek out the woman. Perhaps speaking to her concerning his newly found interest would bring some needed calm.
Taking the corridor that led to her office, he listened near the hidden door, ensuring that none were there before he pressed it open and stepped inside. The opening was close to a shadowed corner, and he would wait there, ready to slip back into his labyrinth should any besides Giry arrive.
Madame Giry had indeed arrived at the same time she had every morning, promptly. Her daughter would come much later, when the sun was high and the other girls had arrived, ready to dance in their taffeta and overeager natures. For now, Giry opted to savor the silence as she made her rounds, inspecting the boxes she ushered. The week before a gala was a busy and hectic time for the House.
As she rounded the corner towards her office, using her cane to balance her step, she shuffled in the pocket of her dark skirt for the key. Granted entrance, she closed the door behind her and promptly made for her desk, half expecting to find there a parchment with blood red ink, courtesy of the Opera Ghost she had so long consorted with.
There was no note this time, of course. Not when she had the writer within her office, silent and still. His thoughts had drifted off again, lurking back to the streets, and beyond...beyond that time to his past. Like ripples in a pond, no matter how far one event was from another, the result was always the same. Unfortunately, his ripples didn't become weaker with each cresting.
Raising his eyes, he noticed that Giry was there. He loosely and comfortably folded his arms over his stomach as he exhaled a languid breath, getting rid of the pain that might have lingered in his voice. "I bid you good morning, Madame Giry. And it is indeed a pleasure to speak with you again." No throwing of his words. She knew where he was and that he'd be standing there when she turned around.
Startled a bit by the manner in which he had made himself known, Giry turned to find him standing in the far corner of her little office, full flesh and blood and the low region of his mask exposed beneath the dip of that trademark fedora. She gave a deep curtsy, her head bowed as she gave a rich and genuinely welcoming reception. "Monsieur, it is always a pleasure to speak with you. I imagine you've come in regards to your box for the gala this Friday?" She lifted quite gracefully for a woman of her age, gathering her cane and moving to stand behind her desk to observe him. Her formality was one that was hardly desired in their business ventures, he the provider of her little Meg's regal future and for now the silent source of her induction into the ballet itself. It was by way of his gratitude towards her that she was indebted to him and thus the airs of servitude.
The fedora tipped down slightly with the dropping of his chin, then rose again, completing the nod. "Forgive me if I startled you, Madame. But.. .Friday?" There was an opera Friday? Surely she wasn't speaking of Hannibal. They weren't ready. Christine wasn't ready! Stepping away from the wall, a skeleton key that he had drawn from a hidden pocket in his cape was slid into the lock of her door and slowly twisted. Ominous was the click that came, but there was nothing betraying danger within his movements. He only preferred privacy, and it was to ensure that no one walked in. Leaving the key in the lock he turned his attention back to her.
"Yes, Friday. Monsieur Leferve is holding a grand gala for the new managers, Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin. It is a showcase for this season.." And no doubt a showcase for La Carlotta's insipid arrogance and dying-cow voice, God help the two unfortunate men. Giry had glanced up to him from the various papers that littered her desk, half tempted to question him about the note he'd sent to her concerning Christine Daae. She held her tongue instead, shuffling through the papers and stacking them accordingly; anything to hold back the persistent questions she had to put to him about the chorus girl and his sudden interest.
Managing to refrain from releasing a breath of relief, he nodded once, slowly. "Yes. I wish for the box to remain open, as usual. I believe I would like to see who these new managers are." He disliked the idea of going through another set of managers, but what had to be done would be done. They would get the same warnings about his salary and leaving his box open for his use only. He didn't want anyone accidentally finding out that the northern pillar was hollow. That would lead them into the hidden corridors, and maybe eventually into his own lair. Or the traps that surrounded it. He didn't want to be responsible for them.
Stepping away from the wall, he approached her, standing across from her on the other side of the desk. There was sometimes no beating around the bush with him. "What do you know of this Christine Daae?" he questioned bluntly.
At his mention of the managers, she felt compelled to keep him informed of all happenings he might have somehow been unaware of. However, with his swift mention of Christine, she faltered and lifted her gaze to him questioningly. Nevertheless, she answered with great composure and ease. "She came to us fresh from the Conservatoire, having graduated near the bottom of her class. She was only admitted by Monsieur Lefevre because of a favorable standing with the child's caretaker, Mademoiselle Valerius. According to the charitable old woman, Christine lost her mother not even a day into her sixth year. She lost her father a month into her training at the Conservatoire."
She paused, studying his masked face for a reaction before she continued. "She is otherwise a quiet and, I even dare say, quixotic girl. However, her performance in rehearsal yesterday took me by surprise." She again met his gaze, her brows lifting as if to silently question You wouldn't happen to know anything of that, would you?'
Later, he agreed. Later he would find out what else he needed to know about the happenings that had been going on. But for now it was obvious where his interests lay. It wasn't the first time he had asked questions about someone, but never did he seek an audience like he had with this young chorus girl. Breathtakingly tall compared to the diminutive woman, his chin tilted down subtly when she paused and took to studying the visage that was half concealed in shadow and mask. There was little to no reaction, as he dared not show anymore than he had already. But now he wagered a guess on why the passion has been stripped from that beautiful voice.
Glancing away from her, he turned his attention to the pages that lay upon her table. Her accusing look wasn't lost on him, he simply made it seem like he was oblivious with the way he straightened up a few parchments with a deft movement of fingers. "Yes, I suppose it would have… hm? It is nice to see at least one upon the line begin to straighten up. Two, if little Meg can remove her head from the clouds." His voice wasn't harsh, but light and even a bit playful. They both knew that Meg could be quite imaginative.
Indeed. A smile had filtered across her aged expression, the curt gesture of her nod one that silently shared an opinion with the Opera Ghost that now stood before her. She studied his demeanor with mild interest, smoothing out the dark fabric of her gown as she thought back idly to Christine's performance in the rehearsal hours before, and even to her daughter's rambling account of the event.
"She certainly shows signs of untapped potential. Little Christine, of course. My Meg, however…" Breathy laughter rumbled from within, her head shaking about slightly before she continued. "If she cared for her lessons and instruction half as much as she did for her gossip, we wouldn't need to have a care in the world." With this aside, the woman was tempted to press on in regards to his interest in Daae, though perhaps from experience, she held her tongue. One must never grant too much information unless it was requested, especially with the Phantom.
Once the papers were straightened, he brought his arm back, sliding it beneath the drape of the cloth, then turning his head he rested his gaze upon her once more. "That would be a feat, would it not? To stuff Meg's ears and silence that wagging tongue. She has not disappointed me too greatly, though." A good thing, indeed. He wouldn't harm the girl, but even in his respect for the Madame, they both knew that having one that didn't respond well to instruction didn't need to be in the ballet.
"What else can you tell me of the girl, Christine?" Though he tried to figure out different ways to word the question, so his interest wouldn't be so glaringly obvious, it came out bluntly anyway. There were times when he was unfalteringly articulate, but lately.. he found that he was acting before thinking. That didn't bode well, nor did it make him comfortable, these slips of usually iron strong restraints.
"Meg speaks often of her and with each accounting, her impression of Christine seems to be one of a very virtuous and sweet child. She's often invited Christine to the lounge but she usually refuses, which is good. If I could teach little Meg that same resolve and keep her from gallivanting around with La Sorelli, I'd surely retire to a furnished country home." Again, the lift of her eyes to the Heavens at the understandable troubles she had with her own daughter. However, he wasn't asking of Meg, was he?
She continued on, digging deeply into each brief encounter she'd had with the girl outside of rehearsal, remembering what Meg had told her. "Her father taught her to sing and even to dance a bit. Christine speaks of him often to Meg. Excellent on the violin, he was." Her brow knitted as she remembered one last detail and offered it sort of half heartedly, hardly seeing any importance in it. "Another thing – apparently at his death, he promised to send her an angel from Heaven." She'd hardly give any credibility to that mundane fact and to display her disinterest, she returned her attentions to the papers she held in her hand.
As she spoke, he listened quietly, watching her carefully for his own reasons. Daae, and the violin. "Was he not the famous player who visited here? The Swedish one?" With her gaze upon the papers, she failed to see the faintest raise of brow he gave at the information she gave concerning the angel. Now he had to truly wonder… Was he right in calling himself her angel? Was he playing into the stories that an old and perhaps senile, man told his daughter upon his death bed? It was an innocent statement, and she took it well. If she had believed him to be a simple ghost or a man, he doubted that her voice would be changed as it had now. He would keep up the facade, for as long as possible. But, that meant she could never see him. Ever. Hiding in shadows was something that he had become used to, looked forward to. Away from prying eyes. But for some unspoken reason, a flicker of disappointment crossed him. Never be seen. He shook it off, his posture straightening.
Her eyes still downcast, she paused in her silent study of the letters to ponder on his questions for a moment. "Yes, I believe so." Daae, his daughter admitted into the corps de ballet; it made sense. She returned to her reading, silent for a few brief moments before she lifted her head and studied him. "If you do not mind my asking, what is your interest in this girl?" The instant she asked, she wished she'd simply left this question for her own examination. She prepared for whatever would follow, but it was quite strange indeed that he showed such an interest in this chorus girl, hardly a stunning beauty – more of a charming pretty girl – and only recently expressing signs of tangible, untapped talent.
The nod was slight, barely perceptible and he had begun to think of another series of questions to lead away from the young woman when she asked that particular question. Though it was an innocent question, his jaw set firmly and turning to her, his voice dropped dangerously low again.. "Am I not allowed to be curious as to a person? A woman? Or must I live completely in the dark, Madame?" She blanched as if slapped by the brutality in his voice, but accustomed to his swift changes in demeanor, she again retained that polished, unscathed expression as he continued; dragging in a languid breath, the rougher tone was smoothed out to something a lot more cordial. "I..simply see potential. Worry not. I do not care to expose myself to her and frighten the child. As it is, she simply believes me to be a ghost, playing well into the gossip little Meg gives." A bit of a lie, but he was a master in deception not only with illusions but words. The little white lie was undetectable.
She left his answer as it was, not venturing to further question his reasoning. She wished to keep her job, did she not? Even, dare she say, her head? Of course, and so she pressed on to another topic of discussion as swiftly as she had pressed on from her initial summary of the young Daae. "With the new management, I think you'll be quite pleased. Monsieur Firmin himself is a composer, mostly chamber piano pieces and that sort. However, Monsieur Andre is quite foreign to music and is more inclined to the business of scrap metal. He was only offered the job because of his involvement in the Academy." She lifted her brows in a sort of And we know how that story goes manner, her movement behind the desk as she faced him languid and comfortable.
She did well in distracting him toward other matters, and he seemed interested in her comments about the new managers. The sooner he learned of them, the better off he would be. "I trust you will inform them of my wishes? My salary and Box Five?" One of them knew nothing about music. Wonderful. He'd be quite disappointed if the man tried to place a hand upon the operas and their scores. An eye would be kept upon this Monsieur Andre , definitely. "I would be most disappointed if they decided to ignore your heeding and sell the box." A bit of a frown creased his brow, but it was smoothed over when he rolled his shoulders in a shrug, as if the matter didn't bother him in the least. If need be, he'd take care of the warnings himself. They worked quite well with the current manager. Unfortunate that his nerves couldn't seem to take to the ghostly presence.
She bowed her head quickly, aware of his wishes. "Of course." Aware of his wishes, however, wary of the managers' responses to those wishes. Monsieur Firmin struck her as a short tempered man, accustomed to control and strict dictation of all under his charge and Monsieur Andre almost seemed like his whipping boy – he had the very physical traits of a lapdog who often favored bucking against the leash his partner held him with to witness its results.
Giry, was hardly an imaginative and flighty woman, though her child was. She would indeed inform her new employers of the elusive Opera Ghost and his desires, and perhaps cajole from them any doubts or defiance. She would include with the Phantom's resume a detailed summary of the many intelligent tips he'd given to the Opera in the past. "I will inform them as soon as possible. They're supposed arriving around noon for the tour. If not today, then definitely Friday." That event itself promised to be a stressful time for the dance instructor; she'd informed each member of the troupe and even some of the dancers whose ignorant disobedience had taught them to fear the instructor, that each were to be on exceptionally good behavior. Or else. "Is there anything else I can be of service for?"
This news brought a faint drawing down of his brows. Today? Was he going to be rested enough to lurk around the halls? Then again, he was quite awake at this moment. The few hours he slept on the other side of Christine's mirror had proven to be helpful. That should last him for the rest of the day, if not tomorrow as well. He was his body's worst enemy. He fell to silence at her final question and he gave thought to anything else he might have needed to speak to her about. "Mm...no. Nothing further at the time. Thank you for your company, Madame." Much more polite now, than how he had briefly spoken to her, he gave a slight bow; just a gentle dipping of his chin accompanied by the light touch-tipping of fedora's edge. Turning around with a sweeping gesture of his cloak, he made his way back to the slotted opening in the wall without further word.
There had been a reason why he kept playing with those papers, something she'd notice when she picked them up and the silvered sheen of a hundred franc coin free upon the cherry wood desk. He wouldn't allow her to deny the payment for the upkeep of his box as well as keeping him informed of matters. Paying her was the least that he could do.
The brush of latch slid the wall back into place, seamlessly, and in his usual enveloping silence he traveled the corridors five stories below, to his lair. He had plenty of thinking to do, and none of it had to do with his score. Another day, another rehearsal, and he looked forward to seeing the young woman when he returned to the surface later.