A/N: It pains me to end the story, and at the same time I'm so relieved, and I do like how it turned out overall. I want to say 'THANK YOU' once more to all my faithful readers and reviewers. Before I close this little note off with a disclaimer, I do have a question for those of you interested...after reading this last chapter, would you consider reading a sequel? As I was writing this last part, my mind was filled with ideas for a continuation that would look mainly at Erik Chevalier the Second (as well as his siblings and friends) and how he manages life after this story ends. If you think it has potential, please (I beg you!) leave me a note/review confirming the idea. If you think this is fine as it is, please say so. Again, one last thank you, and I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

I own nothing, excepts the OCs and madness that filled this fanfiction. Gaston Leroux belongs to himself, and he owns/-ed (?) the rights to his written work, "The Phantom of the Opera".

Chapter Thirty-Four – Epilogue…or Prologue?

May, 1909 – Paris, France

The Palais Garnier Opera House

Once more, he reached into his pocket and gave the driver his pay, hurrying into the building before he could be run over with one of those new blasted contraptions. "Automobiles…noisy hunks of junk," he thought disdainfully. Tugging the grand door open, his ears were instantly assaulted with the harmonious sounds of a complex orchestra and the charming chant of chorus girls.

"May I help you, monsieur?"

He jumped at the sound of the new voice, spinning around to find a woman in her forties raising an eyebrow at him. She was dressed in dark blues and blacks, wearing a rather large flower in her bonnet. Her dark eyes watched him with unbridled curiosity, irking him for some unexplainable reason.

"I'm looking for the owner and manager, Comte Gerard Chevalier," he stated, straightening himself.

"And the purpose?" she prodded on boldly.

"I'm a journalist, Madame," he sniffed. "Please, would you point me in the direction of his office? I was sent by several family members and acquaintances to see him."
"I see," she answered stiffly. She looked him up and down openly, earning a dirty look from him, before she motioned with a careless wave of her hand for him to follow her. Begrudgingly, he did so, his sole purpose for doing so being that he find this Chevalier fellow. Walking down the massive, impressive halls of the theater, he found himself in awe of the magnificent structure. He hadn't been here in many years, and yet its splendor managed to astonish him, and he had seen a great many marvels on his journeys to cover intriguing tales. He was so engrossed that he nearly collided with the woman as she suddenly stopped and knocked twice on the manager's office door.

A man answered it at once, bowing his head politely to the woman. He was a rather handsome gentleman, his angular and prominent face clean-shaven, his stormy blue eyes stunning. "Yes, Madame Cecile?" he asked politely.

"This journalist wishes to speak directly to you, monsieur," she said politely, jerking her head at the man behind her.

The man glanced at his visitor, perplexed. He graciously beckoned for him to enter, however, excusing the woman from her chore. "Thank you, Madame, I can take it from here." She bobbed her head at him before walking away, muttering to herself about how nosy reporters should keep to themselves.

"I apologize if she caused you any grief. She's a rather forward woman for her time," he said, motioning for his guest to take a seat.

"It's quite all right," he answered back, though it really wasn't. "Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Gaston Leroux, I'm a journalist, you see-"

"Ah, yes, I've read your work in Le Matin," his host said, shaking hands with him before they sat down. "I am Comte Gerard Chevalier, co-owner and manager of this establishment."

"I do hope I'm not interrupting anything-"

"Of course not, sir. Now then, how can I be of service to you?"

Leroux cleared his throat, feeling his stomach flip and flop in anxiety. "I have been asked to investigate and complete an in-depth coverage of the Opera House. I understand it was used as a prison and magazine during the Paris Commune."

"Indeed," Gerard nodded. "I can arrange a tour of the cellars if that is what you wish."

"I would greatly appreciate that," Leroux said, holding his breath for a moment.

Gerard raised an eyebrow at this. "…is there something else?"

"…well, yes there is." Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a little notebook and opened it to a marked page, handing it over to the manager. "Would you read this and confirm or deny if it is true?"

Gerard took the book, scanning it at his leisure when his eyes widened as he saw the names scribbled down, the details the narration gave. "…they…they all told you of this?"

"Oui," Leroux nodded. "I had intended to speak to employees and their family members, to anyone really who had been here at the Garnier, especially those during that infamous chandelier crash in 1881, but…the deeper I searched, the more I found out about your family's involvement, and how the…'Phantom' was involved in your family."

"I see…" Gerard handed him the notebook back, his eyes steely cold. "I'm sorry, monsieur, but I will not let my family's honor, and especially not my father's, be impugned by your reports."

"Heavens, no! That's not the purpose at all!" Leroux held his hands up in the sign of surrender. "My goal is to learn all I can to historically report about the opera house, but I am fascinated with your family's story…I should like to create a series in which a mystery is involved, and this story would be a brilliant basis. I could change names and events if you wish, but I beg of you, please tell me what happened to the man known as 'the Phantom of the Opera'."

Gerard stared hard at him, fighting to decipher the man's true intentions. Leroux waited, his heart thumping in anticipation. At long last, Chevalier released a long, tired sigh, running his fingers through his chestnut locks. "I shall trust your word, monsieur, seeing as how you've manage to extract this much from my family and friends." Leroux said nothing for the time being, not wanting to jinx himself. Lacing his fingers together, Gerard stared past him, mindlessly observing the wallpaper pattern. "…just what is it you want from me?"

"How…" Leroux licked his dry lips, clearing his throat and trying again. "…how did your parents…pass on?"

Gerard sighed, leaning back in his chair, his eyes moist as he remembered. "…it was two years ago…winter time, late January. Maman had caught pneumonia from visiting the hospital and leaving gifts for sick children. She got worse as the days turned to weeks. My father wouldn't leave her side…you must understand, he was…much older than she was…At any rate, they both became deeply ill, and then one day, when our maid went in to check on them…they were gone."

Leroux listened silently, watching tears fall down the man's face. He himself was getting choked up as he heard the story. "They were…very much in love, I understand."

"Yes." Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply before facing the journalist once more. "They were in each other's arms, their faces calm…they had died together, and I suppose that was all that mattered to them. My siblings and I…it was difficult that first year, but we knew they were happy…that they are happy…" His eyes moved to the ceiling, his mind envisioning their faces looking down at him from the clouds and sunlight above. Quickly, he cleared his throat and rubbed one of his eyes casually, facing Leroux as he straightened his posture.

"Your father," Leroux started, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes clean. "He was the…well, you know…wasn't he?"

Gerard chuckled, shaking his head. "I think we both know the answer to that," he smiled knowingly.

"And your mother…the Comtesse Archambault…she was a seamstress, wasn't she?"

"Oh yes. And a damn good one – the best."

Leroux smiled at this. "She loved your father, despite everything."

"Yes." He placed his cheek against his fist, memories flooding back to him. "My father was not an easy man to please, especially not when they first met. Still…they had five children, so I suppose something must have gone right."

"I believe I encountered some of your siblings," the reporter interrupted. "But I'd rather hear from you how everything happened."

So it was for the next hour that Gerard explained the story behind the fable of the Opera Ghost, and how a seamstress made her way to the world behind the trapdoors and into his heart. He told him of how friendships were eventually forged, and how they became linked into a large family, now spread all over Paris.

"And you all intermarried with your dear childhood sweethearts!" Leroux laughed. "That's something of a fairy tale!"

"In a way," Gerard said, a faint grin appearing on his lips. "I married Suri, daughter to Rebecca Anderson and the man known to many in those days as 'the Persian'. Two of my sisters married into the de Chagny family – Marceline was wed to Mathis, the Comte's son, and Rosette married the Vicomte's son, Cyrille. Aunt Meg's daughter, Dominique, is married to a British gentleman, goes by the name of Lord Peter Bentley. They live in London now…my youngest sister, Madeleine, is fifteen, and a member of the corps de ballet here. Many of the others are here – Raoul's daughter Christia is part of the chorus and well on her way to becoming prima donna; Adrien Joubert's children, Lamar and Marie, are here also, working in the chorus and ballet, respectively. Jonathan, Joubert's eldest, has gone off to be a missionary in India."

"And your brother? Erik the Second, I presume," Leroux asked, seeing a cloud of uncertainty fall over the man.

"…he…took their passing with the most difficulty," he said, shifting in his chair. "He up and vanished the day after the funeral, wouldn't say where he had gone to when he came home…he doesn't much care for social outings or being seen in public nowadays."

"I see…I say, if you are the co-owner of the opera, who is the other? Isn't Madame Joubert-Adelshire-?"

"Aunt Mary has retired recently," Gerard said, rising from his chair. "I am the only manager at this point…my little brother is the co-owner – my father stated it explicitly in his will." Walking towards the door, he motioned for the journalist to follow. "Come. I believe I promised you a tour."

~OG~

Long after Leroux had gone, Gerard Chevalier sat down at his desk again and sighed, placing his head upon his arms and shutting his eyes. "If that infernal journalist does anything to ruin my family, I shall send Erik after him-! No…no, I wouldn't do that…I wouldn't wish Erik's wrath on anyone." He was beginning to wonder if he should ask Suri to keep a closer eye on his little brother when a frantic knock caught his attention. "Come in," he answered, raising an eyebrow as chorus master Robert Herriot burst into the room. "Monsieur-?"

"This is an outrage!" the man fumed, shaking a fistful of papers at the manager. "The Opera Ghost has gone too far!"

"What do you mean?" he asked, rising from his seat as his brows furrowed.

"Look at this note!" he demanded, practically shoving the paper into his face.

Gerard frowned, wondering what mischief "le Fantome" was up to now. Opening the crumpled piece of paper, he grimaced at the harsh, red scribbles that were emblazoned on the parchment.

"Monsieur Herriot,

I made it perfectly clear in my prior note to the management that the show for this season will be Cendrillon, not La Profeta. I have taken the liberty of replacing the music with the correct sheets you will be needing. Also, it should be noted that Christia de Chagny is best suited for this role, not that clucking hen that is known as La Beatriz Abaraca. Take heed of my warnings – your ignorance and impertinence will only serve to bite you in the posterior at a later date.

Your obedient servant,

O.G."

"Can you believe this?!" sputtered the chorus master. "The impudence-!"

"I thought I had made it quite clear that the show was to be Cendrillon," Gerard cut in, glaring at the man. "I made that announcement yesterday to the company…you were also there. Tell me, were you too occupied in gazing at the La Beatriz in your hung-over state that morning, or are you really trying to force your will against others and test my patience?" The man stared at him, turning quite pale as his superior became frustrated. "It really is no wonder that you and the Opera Ghost are constantly butting heads. One more outburst from you, or complaint from the Ghost, and I shall sack you, monsieur. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes, sir," he stammered, walking away quickly before his boss could change his mind.

Shaking his head, the manager bit back a growl before stalking out towards the stage, certain he would find who he was looking for. Passing through the lavish hallways, Gerard took several steps and turns before arriving at the grand stage, his hawk-like eyes singling out one particular dancer in the troop. "Madeleine! A word!"

The little red-head dancer shrugged to her friend before scurrying towards her brother. "Bonjour, big brother," she said amiably, though her eyes glistened with curiosity. "What ails you?" She received the letter from him as well as a raised eyebrow, and as she read through the note, she fought back a grimace. "Oh dear…"

"Talk to him for me, won't you?" he sighed. "He's becoming more and more distant when it comes to seeing me. He enjoys your company at any rate."

"Of course, you leave him to me," she winked, kissing his cheek as she stood on her tip-toes. Scurrying off, she could hear her elder brother call out to the dance instructor, Madame le Plume, excusing his sister for the time being from rehearsals. "Not that it matters – she treats me just as equally as any of the other girls," she grinned. She knew of nearly all the same hiding places and passages in the opera house, enough to know how to avoid the booby traps her father had created and her second brother had improved upon. Tugging upon a torch that lined one of the walls towards the rear of the structure, she slipped inside the secret opening and lit a match, snatching a candle out of its hidden nook that he had placed there for her. Moving along with her only source of light, she skipped through the dripping tunnel, leaping over any obstacles she found, mostly rats and puddles. When at last she came near the main road that led to the underground lake, she whistled a merry tune, signaling her presence, should he be nearby. Coming to the entrance, she stepped out, her eyes falling upon a lone figure standing by a distant wall, the mist rolling off the lake encircling him like some mythical being from an enchanted legend.

"Erik," she called out gently, approaching him timidly. "Erik…Gerard sent me."

The tall, thin shadow sighed, pulling two single roses from his cloak before slipping them into two neighboring slots before him. "I assume it has to do with that oaf, Herriot."

She held her tongue for the time being, approaching him fearlessly as she caught sight of the two slabs in the wall where the roses had been places. The first was emblazoned with an elegant "E", the other had a delicate "A" etched onto it. "Maman would scold you, you know…and then kiss you for being so deviously clever. Papa would be…he is proud of you, Erik."

"I know." He kissed his fingertips and tapped his mother's grave, repeating the same gesture for his father. Madeleine's lithe body was suddenly pressed against his and he accepted the embrace in silent contemplation. "…what does Gerry want?"

She giggled in spite of herself – she knew her elder brother hated the nickname Erik had given him. "He just wants to see if you're all right."

"You mean, he wants to ensure I won't do anything drastic, like Papa." He snorted in a most undignified manner, adjusting his white mask. "Don't worry, I won't go Punjabbing the dolt."

"He doesn't understand why you've decided to become a recluse and live down here when you can live aboveground at home. You have the mask Papa made that's practically a second skin-"

"I don't want to be confined to my sticky face mask, I want to be accepted for myself!" he roared, though she didn't bat an eyelid at him.

"You mean you want Christia de Chagny to accept you for your face," she sniffed. "I love her, I really do, but Erik, she clearly doesn't care for anything other than her hair or voice."

"It-It's not like that!" he stammered, struggling to make his stutters turn into a menacing, snapping retort. "I'm tired of having to hide my face! And besides, Christia is faint of heart, you know that. She'd…she'd never accept me like…this." He snatched the mask off, exposing his face to his little sister. His catlike eyes glazed over, melancholy as he remembered his parents. "Papa was lucky…he found Maman and they loved each other despite all the odds…she brought him to life…"

Madeleine kissed his face without fear, already quite accustomed to his grotesque form. "You, too, will find someone…your face isn't quite as horrific as Papa's."

"But it's still horrific," he sighed mournfully, gripping his mother's locket which now hung around his neck. "No, mon petite. It would be a miracle from God – or Papa and Maman's intervention – if I found someone to accept this face…"

~OG~

Leroux exited his editor's office, excitement and sorrow fighting to take hold of his heart. It had been four months since he turned in his report on the Palais Garnier; since then, he had begun work on a series of mysterious stories revolving around the information that the Chevaliers and their friends had given him. He had sworn to Gerard that he would not reveal the whole story, nor what truly happened with the "Ghost", though he adamantly insisted as he wrote each installation that the story was true in all aspects. It was a shame to see the story altered to such degrees that poor Erik – as he would say to himself as he wrote the next parts – had to die alone from a broken heart.

He knew the truth though…he had written himself a detailed manuscript and locked it away where no one would be able to lay their hands on it. It would not be for another hundred years, perhaps, until it would be safe and acceptable to reveal what had really happened.

"Perhaps," he murmured, looking towards the beautiful blue sky of his home. "Perhaps in the future, someone will find my accounts and reveal to the world what really happened behind the trapdoors."

THE END…?