Author's Note: I can't help it. I'm busy as heck, but I keep posting anyway. I think it's because of the number of you who are reviewing. I'm posting tonight (Thursday) because I probably won't get a chance to be on the computer at all tomorrow. I'll try to post again on Sunday, but just in case we're too busy, I'm posting tonight.
Humor Warning: I found this chapter funny, though it's impossible to say exactly why. I don't think it's fall out of your chair funny... maybe just more shake your head and chuckle funny. Let me know if it's the same for you.
Disclaimer: POTO owns me, not the other way around.
A shameless plug: For those of you who don't yet know about my Leroux-Erik plush toy project, please visit my website at www . sixpoint . us / Erikindex . html (you'll need to take out the extra spaces, though). Erik is supposed to ship on Monday November 16 from China to my home, but I had to revise his glossy hang tag a couple of times, so he might be a bit late. Suffice to say, Erik will arrive to me by the end of November, so if you want to give one to a phantom fan as a Christmas/Chanukah/Kwanzaa/Winter Solstice gift, I can arrange it if you order now. You can order at the website if you are able to pay with a credit card. If you can't, email me to make other arrangements. Erik is 19" tall total and about 12" when sitting. He costs $24.00 plus about $3.50 for shipping and handling. Go on... you know you want one... everyone is always talking about phantom plushies, and now you have the chance to own one for REAL.
Before I got more than a few steps down the corridor, I found myself face to face--or rather, face to throat, for I have previously mentioned my shortness of stature, have I not?--with the absolute last person in Paris I wished to encounter at that moment: Comte Philippe.
There is no excuse for what happened next, but let me attempt to excuse myself anyway with a reasonable explanation. I must say first that I have never particularly cared for Comte Philippe, though I admit I would be an absolute hypocrite to dislike him for his casual relationships with the Opera ladies. It is difficult to put a reason to my intense dislike of the man, but perhaps it begins with jealousy. The de Chagny family was one of the wealthiest in Paris, and as the head of that family, Philippe controlled a large amount of wealth. I do not need to remind you of my unfortunately economic circumstances of which you have long been aware to illustrate why jealousy in that regard was certainly a contributing factor to my dislike of the man. He was also taller, more comely and more confident than I, all of which, I admit (with the slight exception of comeliness, for which he more than made up in exuberance) Erik was also. But Erik was my friend, while Philippe was not. Philippe had never uttered so much as a kind word to me. Indeed, Philippe rather acted as though I did not exist, and I suppose that ultimately it was that invalidation that fueled my seeming hatred of the man.
This night, however, I blamed him entirely for a situation that threatened my lifestyle and my happiness, and so instead of merely thinking some unkind thoughts while appropriately excusing myself and stepping politely around the man, I gave him a hearty shove.
I know. Horribly indecorous of me it was.
Philippe must harbor similar feelings against me, however, though, for rather than point out my breach of etiquette, the supposed-gentleman simply shoved me back. Quite forcefully.
I had not intended to get into any type of altercation, let alone a dual of the fists, but I could not simply yield at this point. I pushed him again, with far more force than the first time. This time he paused to look me in the eye and chew his moustache. After a long moment, he tugged his gloves from his hands and tucked them into his pocket. I raised my hands. I had not been wearing any gloves in the first place and made this obvious tensing my hands into fists, releasing them and clenching once more.
Philippe rushed toward me and I grabbed him by both arms, eager to avoid being punched if I could help it. His forward momentum threw me backward against the wall, off which I kicked, driving his back against the opposite wall. With a twist of his shoulders he bent at the waist whipped me around to slam me into the wall once again. We grappled back and forth with one another in the corridor in this highly undignified fashion until both of us were disheveled and panting, neither having landed a punch upon the other. Realizing the futility of my situation, I released him with one last thrust. He stumbled back but retaliated by gripping me by my lapels. He lifted me from the floor a little and placed me against the wall once again.
"So," I told him, "it would appear that you nobles are no better than the rest of us at heart. At least, you in particular aren't."
He fixed me in his icy gaze. "If you were correct in that, I would have given you quite a thrashing by now to put you in your place."
"My place? And where pray tell might that be?"
His eyes moved up and down me. He opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it and shut it once again. At last he ventured, "According to your manners, the gutter seems the proper place."
"The gutter," I repeated, certainly outraged beyond decorum. "The gutter indeed. And what then is the place for individuals such as yourself who place young ladies in scandalous positions then decline to take responsibility?"
The man blanched quite completely and dropped his hands to his sides. He stared open-mouthed at me like some giant fish. At last he found his voice. "What do you know of that?" he said accusingly.
"I happen to know a great deal about a lot of things," I said cryptically, carefully, and slightly accented, my fantasy of crossing treacherous landscapes of perilous locales to track down the man capable of providing suitable entertainment for the little Sultana returning dimly to my consciousness. After all, was I not apparently known in the Opera as the Persian? of what use was a reputation if one did not put it to good use?
"What exactly do you know?" he tried again.
"Far more than you would appreciate," I said, cryptically again, accenting my words more heavily. "I came here tracking a dangerous man and stayed to prevent monsterous acts that might lead to the death of a goodly number of the human race. But one makes so many serendipitous discoveries when one embarks upon such an arduous investigation."
"Investigation?" He glanced over one shoulder quickly. "What sort of investigation?"
"I am not at liberty to divulge details. Suffice to say I have unraveled a bit of the mystery of the Opera ghost." I thought perhaps I might spook him a bit with superstition, but here my logic was flawed.
"Opera ghost! Bah!" he spat at once. "A lot of superstitious theatre nonsense."
I shook my head at him as though he were a child. "That's what they want you to believe. It is a very real danger, I daresay, especially to one who would do something dishonorable within the confines of the Opera. It is said that the supernatural protect the inhabitants of realm they choose to haunt."
Philippe de Chagny does not scare so easily, however. He simply turned and walked away muttering something about irrational Orientals under his breath.
"Surely you have heard of the deaths of the scene-shifter and the concierge?" I tried. (If there is an Almighty God, may he forgive me for using Joseph Buquet in such a fashion!)
But all for naught. Philippe de Chagny apparently does not believe in ghosts. He said as much aloud and turned to walk away.
I waited until he was a substantial distance down the hall then called after him.
One does not have to believe in order to be affected," I called. "Perhaps you would prefer to wait and see if the spirits of the Opera protect their principle dancers."
That drew his attention back to me, though he did not return but simply stopped and stared at me from a distance.
"In my investigations, I happen to have learned quite a bit about you," I continued. "A bit about you and a certain La Sorelli. I daresay I know a bit more about your situation than would please you."
That drew him fully back to me to stand once again immediately before me, towering over me.
His eyes narrowed, he was most definitely trying to grasp my role in the whole mess. "I've seen you around here," he said carefully. "I know you've visited with her--"
"And I know that you have done the same," I countered. "It's rather common knowledge what you do during your visits," I ventured. "I can hardly say the same is true of my visits."
I suppose it was the suspicion that broke him. Or perhaps it was the threat of gossip. Or sheer frustration with the situation itself. One cannot know. Suffice to say, he broke.
"What do you expect me to do?"
"Why, marry her, of course." I could hear my own heartbeat by this point, for my own future hinged upon convincing him, and with Erik down below, oblivious, the Opera ghost was certainly not going to appear suddenly to support my insubstantial threats.
I did not expect Philippe's response at all. He laughed. Yes. Laughed. A bitter, frustrated laugh. Then he said, "Oh, to be a worthless good-for-nothing who could marry whomever he pleases!"
My mouth fell open and I stared at him. It was not just his words but something about his tone, about the look in his eyes, mere angry slits though they were. Had he presently admitted he wanted to marry her? "My apologies," I said at once. "I had no idea."
Oh, that outraged him entirely. "Is there some reason why I should not? An 'opera wench' is not worthy of love, you think?"
"Love!" I choked. "Love? You love her? Why, then marry her at once! A man of society such as yourself is surely in a position to make the rules rather than be confined by them. Do as you wish as long as it is also right and society shall bend to your will."
"It is a simple thing, perhaps, for one such as you to say."
I desperately wanted to take exception to his characterization of 'one such as I' but I hadn't the time to worry for my own reputation just then. "A great number of noblemen have married dancers," I countered him instead. I knew from Erik at least one other noble with the title of comte who had married a dancer, as well as a baron who had done the same. As a matter of fact, the Opera ghost had quite a list of examples some who outranked Philippe: a marquis, two brothers of kings, and even a king himself! (Incidentally, there was a time long ago when Erik and I had toyed with the idea of my presenting myself to little Giry as a Persian Prince, but I abandoned the idea entirely when I discovered how easily won she was without a magnificent story. But I digress.)
Philippe snorted at me and turned to go.
Nothing I yelled after him drew him back again.
Shameless Begging: Oh, do please let me know if it's all coming together or if it's still a mystery wrapped in an enigma. And as I have forgotten to include the Baron Costelo-Barbezac (the guy who actually marries Meg Giry in Leroux) if anyone has an idea for where I should work him in when I revise, I'd be eternally grateful. Also, did anyone want to see the scene where the money disappears from Firmin Richard's pocket? It may become necessary to produce deleted scenes from the RDJT.... Anyone interested?
