Chapter 13
If the reader would like to understand how Madamoiselle Giry ended up vanishing that afternoon, that is simple enough to explain.
Meg Giry was not frightened of getting caught in La Therese's dressing room, as the singer devoted the third Sunday of every month to charity work and would not be back for several hours. Giry was not frightened of the soprano because La Therese was not a diva – at least, not in the way that Carlotta had been. The dressing room boasted no furs or sequins outside of what was carefully bundled behind closed doors. The only jewelry in sight was a little rolled gold crucifix hung on the bedpost. A pile of sheet music were stacked on the dressing table next to a powder puff and hairbrush. There were no bottle of crème de la cassis or champagne in sight; perhaps, Giry thought, La Therese did not trust her maids and was hiding them. Meg generally didn't think very much about La Therese and, when prompted to, never got past the thought that she simply wasn't very interesting or have enough humour about her to forgive Meg's intrusion.
A little box of English sweets – black and white striped humbugs – was open on the bedside. Meg popped one into her mouth. The peppermint reminded her of her mother, who would sometimes bring such sweets home with a mischievous whisper: "Look what the ghost has brought me!"
She walked to the mirror and put her hand out, feeling the frame for a hook. She found it; only a little pressure was needed to release it from its catch. To her surprise, the corridor was still there. Firmin and Moncharmin really hadn't known what they were doing. Then again if there was no ghost, then there was no harm in the corridor. There was certainly no harm in her checking the corridor to see if there was anyone down there still. She could plead forgetfulness if she returned quickly. Even if they questioned her, they had no way of knowing where she'd been.
The corridor stank as it had before; the smell scurried into her stomach and knocked her sick. The walls were wet, cold and rough. It was not terribly dark, though the old mirror had of course been replaced by one that could only be looked into rather than through. The corridor was darker than she remembered, and louder. As she walked she heard whispers, giggles, arpeggios, arguments; every word spoken throughout the opera house tumbled into the corridor, as numerous and rhythmic as the dirty, dripping water. Only one of those noises stood out or surprised her: a loud bang, like someone with a hammer and nails.
There was certain words she heard that seemed quaint to her: Rest papa, you haven't eaten. The words were less odd than the voice, which, though loud enough, had the quality of a whisper. But then there were many whispered conversations in the Opera House
She tried to remember what the corridor looked like. She had not been frightened that night the crowd stormed the catacombs. There had been so many people, all of whom left safely and returned to normal lives the next day. She tried to remember what they had found in that strange lair; a wax model, a few instruments. Something had happened to the crowd as they ventured into the lair; it was as though they were descending into hell, and becoming devils. She had felt the mad blood stirring herself. She had even felt very sorry not to find the kidnapper so that she could strangle him herself. She tried later to assert that her affection for Christine sent her into such a passion. She wasn't sure what excuse the others gave.
Someone is coming, that quiet voice replied. She heard a puff of breath. Her feet began to ache. She did not have long before she needed to return to the practice. Suddenly her shoes were wet.
Satisfied that there was nothing monstrous stalking this secret passage, she turned the way she came and walked back, listening as the sounds of rehearsals grew louder and waiting patiently for the light slipping through the gap between the mirror and the dressing room lights.
Her fingers met the wall in front of her – the area that must surely be the back of the mirror. She listened behind it to ensure that she would not bump into La Therese. Over the chorus, a bright, high voice gave a short solo before the chorus began again, the music bouncing around the cave as though she was in the rehearsal herself. They must sure have noticed her missing now.
The voices built to a crescendo as Meg Giry felt her chest tighten. Blurry spots danced over her vision as she tried once more to find the catch and found it not only gone, but that the door was covered no longer by the thin back panel of the mirror but thick, wooden planks, nailed over the gap in the wall where the tunnel began. Her breaths jumped over each other so that the air was shoved back out of her throat before it ever hit her lungs. She felt herself tense, her whole frame hunching over itself as the air fled her lungs. The echoing voice crowded around her, leaping one over each other, tumbling, swirling, crowding around her. She felt a fogginess between her head and her shoes, as though her body had evaporated. As she tried to shout, her own voice fell upon her ears, breathless and feeble. She brought her fist down upon the wood to no avail. The voices rose around her, louder and louder, overshadowed only by the thudding of her fists on the boarded-up wall.