Conversation in the Chapel

*Author's Note: Sorry to take so long between posts...I'm afraid this story in the unofficial red-headed stepchild of my stories. It always seems to get the least amount of attention whenever I sit down to write. So be prepared for long spells of non-productivity.

And for future reference: YES, I do know that Paris actually has the Opera Garnier, not the Opera Populaire. I have been to Paris and seen it with my own eyes. When originally writing this, I decided to try to reconcile the Webber and Leroux versions, so I chose Webber's Opera Populaire. I am glad that several of you were diligent enough phans to point this out, but really, I do know the difference. : ) *

La Sorelli allowed herself to sleep in the next morning. The gala—along with the sudden death of Joseph Buquet and the rumored Phantom-sighting—had been enough to rattle her nerves thoroughly. So, in the interest of self-preservation, Sorelli had taken the day off. Besides, it would be another eight weeks before a new show opened; it would not hurt for the ballerine to spend a day in bed.

The dancer awoke to survey the room with slightly critical eyes. It was a nice little flat, decorated in the latest style—but not quite as nice as Carlotta's, Sorelli told herself. In truth, she had never seen the singer's abode, but Sorelli's mental image of her house depicted a place decked out to the finest extent.

Sorelli took a moment to look at all the things within the room—the dressing gowns, the mirrors, furs, feathers, jewels, perfumes, silks and chocolates. There wasn't a single thing in there that had not been given to her by one lover or another. Why, even this flat was being paid for by Phillippe!

In all honesty, that was the only reason Sorelli had begun her affair with the dashing Comte. As patron of the Opera Populaire, Phillippe had a certain power over her fate. As long as he kept beating a path to her door, La Sorelli was safe from the proverbial axe. Her relationship with the Comte also gave her the freedom to do and say as she pleased, without fear of retribution.

But all that hung by a single, delicate thread—Phillippe's infatuation for La Sorelli. Right now, he was still enamored by the little dancer; he would do anything for her. But Sorelli was twenty-three years old and no stranger to the fickle ways of noblemen. Men like Phillippe de Chagny did not stay with one woman for very long. They also did not continue to spend money on the ones they no longer solicited.

Sorelli knew that Phillippe would never marry her. He also would not remain enamored for much longer. Then she would have to find a new lover, a new man to keep her in the style and comfort that she was so accustomed to.

The dancer gave a heavy sigh at this particular thought. Really, she would hate to lose the Comte. So far, he had been the best—high rank, noble birth and the funds to keep her happily installed, as well as the patron of the Opera Populaire, no less. Deep down, La Sorelli realized that she had reached the pinnacle of her success as a mistress; everything would be downhill from there.

Determined to shake these dismal thoughts from her pretty little head, La Sorelli left her bed and called for Regine to help her dress. A quick trip to the boutique would cure her current ills.

As usual, whenever La Sorelli stepped onto the street, she was greeted with warm smiles and hats tipped in cordial recognition. Today young men smiled as she moved gracefully through the crowd, her body moving as only a dancer's can across the troubled waters of the busy street. These people knew her, idolized her, devoured her every move and constantly begged for more.

The night before, La Sorelli had given an eloquent farewell speech to the Opera's previous owners Debienne and Poligny. It was the first time many of the public had heard her speak—after all, dancing did not require vocals, and few were actually on close enough terms to speak with her. Her voice was deep, but soft, rising and falling with a cadence that was enchanting. Last night's speech flaunted Sorelli's intellectual side and showcased her oratory talents. If the public adored her before, they were madly in love with her now.

"La Sorelli! Le Bijou de Paris!" Came a cry from across the street. The dancer turned to give a small wave to the amorous fan. Another total stranger who somehow felt he knew her, simply because he had seen her dance across the stage in a painted face and tulle skirt. Still, it was gratifying to know that in some way, she had already left her mark upon the hearts of Paris. After all, she was Elle Qui Tient Le Couer de Paris dans Ses Mains.

~*~

When Madame Giry reappeared that morning for barre exercises, she seemed oddly lighthearted. Humming softly, she cleaned the floors and prepared the room for class.

Gabriel, however, was in an awful humor, "Do you realize how worried I was last night?"

"What about last night?" Giry continued sweeping.

"Your meeting with the Opera Ghost," Gabriel reminded her. "I told you that I wanted to come with you and you deliberately ran off without me."

A smile tugged at the corner of Giry's mouth. She shrugged, "I told you that I would be fine, and I was. He is a Ghost, not a criminal."

"He could have been a criminal in his previous life, for all we know," Gabriel interjected.

"He's not." Giry replied calmly.

"How do you know?"

"I just do, Gabriel. Now, move. I can't sweep the floor with you standing there."

Gabriel gave an exasperated sigh, but he did as he was told. He really wasn't worried about the Ghost--after all, what could a Ghost do?--but rather the people Giry might meet on her way to see the Ghost. Giry was completely unaware that a woman of her petite build and pretty looks should not roam the dark halls of the Opera House alone after midnight. The Opera was inhabited by all sorts of unsavory characters.

The corps de ballet rushed in with shrieks of delight and incessant chatter that always accompanies teenage girls. They each put on their dainty pink ballet shoes and straightened their long, gauzy skirts. Giry put the broom away and picked up her cane, gently urging the girls to hurry along. "Come on, my pigeons. We've got a lot to do and very little time in which to get it done."

"Has anyone seen Christine?" asked Meg, her black eyes searching the crowd.

"She is still ill," Giry answered. Her stern face kept the girls from asking any further questions. They knew better than to tempt Giry's wrath.

~*~

Bambina saw the Opera Ghost that very morning. She was going over her stunts for her next performance; her partner Ubarto was tossing her high into the air. While she was airborne, the acrobat happened to turn her gaze to the rafters. She gave such a screech of terror that poor Ubarto jumped back, dropping her rather than catching the girl. She landed with a dull thud.

"Forgive me!" Ubarto regained his wits and rushed to help her. The other performers crowded around her at once, all firing questions.

"Bambina, what happened?"

"Why did you scream?"

"Shame, Ubarto! Why did you drop her?"

"Bambina, why so pale?"

Ubarto helped her sit up. Bambina's lips quivered with fear, "É il Fantasma di Opera! He was here, in the rafters! I saw him!"

The Italians cried out; their eyes all shot heavenward. There was nothing but shadows left.

"He has vanished," whispered Bibiana in a low voice, so the Ghost could not hear.

"That is what Ghosts do," agreed Emanuele solemnly, her hazel eyes still searching the ceiling.

"Perhaps he just wanted to watch us practice," suggested Ilario, the youngest acrobat.

"After all, we are the stars of the show," spoke Ludovico, the unofficial leader of the rag-tag acrobats. The Italians murmured in agreement.

This is the simplest truth about the Opera: no matter what part they played, each company member believed themselves to be the center of attention. Sometimes it was true, sometimes it was not.

"I am sure he has missed seeing us," added Ilario.

"Come," Ludovico helped the shaken Bambina to her feet. "Let's give the Ghost a show to remember."

And so the acrobats--Nichola and his wife, Natalia, Emanuele and her partner Gaetan, Ludovico and his partner, Bibiana, and Little Ilario—took the stage once more. Ubarto suggested that he and Bambina sit out for awhile, to which Bambina readily agreed. So they sat and watched their troupe members flip, toss, and amaze with feats of daring and dexterity.

Bambina could not stop looking up at the rafters, wondering if the Phantom would appear again. So few had seen him; it was widely believed that the only time someone saw the Opera Ghost was right before he or she died.

Isn't that what happened to Joseph Buquet? Why, he had seen the Ghost less than two months ago, and now he lay dead, killed by some mysterious force! Bambina shivered and crossed herself against such evil. If the Ghost had come to take her soul, it would have to wait. She had many sins that needed to be forgiven.

~*~

Carlotta carelessly plucked away at the rose, letting the petals fall unceremoniously at her feet. She still had not found a way to get rid of that Daae brat.

Suddenly, her door flew open and Edouarde and Castile, the French tenors, burst into her room with their usual gaiety. "Ah, Bella Diva! You have returned to us!"

"Of course I have," Carlotta flashed a false smile. "And in case you haven't noticed, I returned two weeks ago. What fine friends you are!"

"Perhaps we have been too caught up in the whirlwind of Daae's success." Edouarde's eyes gleamed devilishly. Castile, who was by far the better mannered of the two, elbowed his friend roughly.

"Don't speak of such things, you swine! La Carlotta has nothing to fear from that little mouse that calls herself a soprano!"

"Ah, yes, except that mouse has something that La Carlotta cannot make up for," Carlotta took a seat, a frown on her lovely features. "Youth."

"Bah!" Edouarde made a face. "Youth is over rated."

"You can say that," Carlotta rolled her eyes. "You're still young."

"And so are you," Castile reminded her. "You can go on singing for decades, Bella Diva. This Daae, she is just a flash in the pan. The world will have forgotten her tomorrow."

Castile proved to be wrong. The world did not forget Christine Daae; in fact, it seemed to be just the opposite. Everywhere one went, they could hear the name of Paris' newest soprano on someone's lips.

~*~

"Oh, that Carlotta is a wreck," Edouarde said, propping his feet on the edge of Sorelli's settee.

"Really?" Sorelli smirked, applying a spritz of perfume to her neck. She knew that Edouarde and Castile were the most two-faced members of the company—after they had finished chatting with her, they would scurry to La Carlotta's room, eager to relate their entire conversation.

"Christine Daae has become quite a thorn in our Bella Diva's side," Castile agreed.

"What else is new?" Sorelli shrugged. Quite honestly, she was sick of talking about the new songbird. Daae this; Daae that. It was enough to drive a girl insane!

"I hear that Daae has been taking lessons from a teacher." Edouarde leaned forward conspiratorially.

Sorelli was unimpressed, "That is what singers usually do, Edouarde. Perhaps if you knew that, then you would be taking Carolus' place in the next production."

Edouarde gave a wry chuckle at the barb; he was used to Sorelli's stinging comments. Whenever she was annoyed, she lost all sense of tact—not that she had that much politeness to begin with.

"Yes, but this is a very special teacher," his tone held a certain allure.

Sorelli sat up, suddenly interested. She turned to face him.

"What do you mean?"

"No one has ever seen him," Edouarde gave a sly grin. "They say he is only a voice—he claims to be an angel!"

"Are you sure Daae isn't just mad?" Sorelli asked.

"Perhaps she is," Edouarde sat back. Another unreadable smile came across his handsome features, "Of course, that is what they said about Joan of Arc."

"I wouldn't go so far as to compare a chorus girl to France's savior," Sorelli commented in a dry tone. Still, she wanted to know more, "So, this…angel. Has anyone else heard him?"

"Little Giry—Meg, I think is her name—claims to have heard him once," Castile answered.

"Meg's a crackpot," Sorelli shrugged. "It's a shame to see how imbecilic she turned out, with such a good mother."

"Yes, Giry certainly didn't pass on her qualities to any of her children," Castile admitted with a sad shake of his head.

"Such a shame," Edouarde agreed with gravity.

As if struck by a sudden thought, Sorelli jumped to her feet. She hurried to door, peering into the hall at the grand clock that rested against the wall. She turned around, making a sweeping motion with her hands, "Shoo. My Comte shall be coming soon; I can't very well have you two men sitting in here when he arrives."

"Oh, give him a kiss for us," Edouarde grinned evilly. Sorelli swatted him playfully on the rump as he exited. Castile gave a slight nod and hurried out as well.

Sorelli watched the two men leave, an amused smile on her doll-like features. Edouarde and Castile might be gossiping, backbiting little idiots, but they were her only friends. They were part of the theatre world; they understood the pressures of being a performer in the grandest House in Paris. They had laughed with her, cried with her; onstage they lived and died with her. And at the end of the day, they were the only men who hadn't tried to take advantage of her, and the only two friends who had not abandoned her.

~*~

"I am your angel," a haunting—yet somehow beautiful—voice stirred the silence of the chapel.

"That I highly doubt," Giry rolled her eyes, crossing her arms.

There came a light chuckle, "I thought you were Christine."

"No you didn't," Giry said simply. She sat down with little ceremony, "You just like teasing me."

"I do," admitted the voice.

"Come out here, so I can see you."

A figure appeared in from the shadows, dressed from head to toe in black, except for a stark-white mask.

"Looking quite dramatic today, aren't we?" Giry commented dryly.

"It's for those delightful little ballerines of yours," the figure replied. He took a seat—but not too close to Giry. Rumor had it that he smelled like death—personally, he didn't know what death smelled like, although he had been the cause of it many times. But just in case, he didn't want get too close to Giry's delicate feminine senses. That was the one thing his wretched mother had taught him—women were sensitive, and to be treated as fragile bits of glass. They also couldn't be trusted.

"Erik," Giry took a deep breath. "I wanted to thank you for taking Daae as a student."

"My lessons have done wonders," Erik said, although there wasn't a prideful note in his confession. "I must admit, I surprised myself. I didn't know I was a miracle worker."

"Nor did I," Giry admitted.

"There's something else."

"What?"

"You're not telling me something, Giry."

There was a thoughtful pause. Giry was at a loss at how to best approach the subject. Erik understood this and sat by quietly, allowing the ballet mistress to collect her thoughts.

"It's just that," Giry took another deep breath. "Your…appearances have been occurring a little too frequently."

Giry felt her companion's anger rise, but he did not speak, so she continued. "Everyone had been talking—seeing things, hearing things. It's just too much."

"So I am no longer allowed to walk about the halls of my Opera House?" Erik demanded in a harsh tone. He leaned forward, his yellow eyes burning with intensity, "I built this place—I created it! It is mine, mine alone! You are only here because I allow you to be. I—"

"You are only here because I allow you to be," Giry's voice was strong and assertive. There was a moment of tense silence. Each knew the other was right. Giry would never reveal the truth about the Opera Ghost, because Erik could very easily kill her or her beloved Meg. Erik would never kill Giry because she was vital to his living arrangements at the Opera Populaire. Another stalemate.

Erik gave an aggravated sigh; Giry looked away. Several minutes passed.

Finally, the ballet mistress stood up, gathering her skirts with a sense of finality, "You're letting yourself be seen too much. If I didn't know you any better, I would assume your skills are slipping. Keep out of sight; stop scaring my girls. Frightened girls make bad dancers. I will send Christine this evening."

Erik nodded, not even bothering to look up at Giry. He was still angry over her latest edict.

The ballet mistress took a hesitant step towards him, but then apparently decided against it. She left the chapel without another word, leaving Erik with his thoughts.

She was right. Damnit, she was always right. She knew as well as he did that Erik was allowing himself to be spotted—he prided himself on being able to completely disappear in a room full of light. For the past ten years or so, he had successfully traveled the hallowed halls of his creation without the slightest mishap. So why, suddenly, had he decided to let anyone and everyone see him?

Erik didn't know the answer. If he did, he was too scared to admit it. Perhaps he just wanted people to realize that he was merely a man—a fragile corpse of flesh and blood, not an evil demon of insurmountable powers. Perhaps he was just bored. Either way, Giry was right—if he wanted to continue living in peace, then he must disappear once more.

But something had stirred within his misshapen soul. Erik no longer wished to spend his life alone—in peace or otherwise.