Chapter Twenty-Eight

This Unworthy Treachery

A/N: ***I almost forgot to mention that the Mme. Giry who appears in this chapter is from Leroux, not ALW, so if you're used to the musical and she seems really off to you, that's why. Apologies if it's jarring!

Spoilers for...Romeo and Juliet, I guess.

One of the disadvantages of setting this in 1832 is that many of the operas mentioned in Leroux had not even been written yet. But, I already time-travelled an entire building, since the Palais Garnier had not been built yet, so I guess we can pardon some anachronistic operas as well? They came with the building, okay?


As he led her through the series of dark tunnels and passageways, Éponine was very quiet, and he thought at first that perhaps she was afraid, or perhaps it was too much exertion for her. Then again, Erik had been very quiet through dinner. It had all been too much for him—the intimacy of helping her lace her corset, the sight of her when she turned around afterward (which he would not allow his mind to dwell on), how beautiful she looked in her gown. All of it had just reminded him of what he would never have. He could never impose his monstrous self on someone so beautiful and full of life, and he had been such a fool to ever think he could, and to go to such horrific lengths to make it happen. He had learned, since then. And even if Éponine thought she cared for him, it was only because she had no idea who he was, what he had done. But if his dark mood had the effect of making her quiet, that wasn't what he wanted. He missed the sound of her happy chatter. So he inquired whether anything was wrong, noting that she had hardly said a word since they left the house on the lake.

"What? No, it's amazing down here. I'm just trying to work out a map of where we've gone."

"Work out a map? In your head?"

"Yes."

He stopped walking for a minute and turned toward her, holding up his lantern to illuminate her face.

Evidently guessing incorrectly, at the direction of his thoughts, Éponine quickly assured him: "It's not because I want to leave. If I wanted to leave, I'd just go out the way you already showed me—which I don't intend to. I just like knowing my way around. I have most of the city in my head, you know. I guess it's a way to pass the time—I don't know. In a different life, I think I could've been a student." She laughed softly.

Her last comment did not sound incongruous to Erik, who saw a glimpse of himself, denied a formal education and so creating his own. Pursuing all of his interests and passions, filling his mind as full as he could, in order to crowd out the miseries of his existence. He knew that Éponine was clever, but the ability to memorise her way around such a labyrinthine city hinted at an intelligence deeper than he, or anyone else, might have suspected.

Knowing that was her interest, he started narrating to her as they made their twists and turns, and explaining what portion of the Opera House they were passing by. He would have even slowed down and allowed her to peek in on some of the rooms they passed, but they were in danger of being late. He used to always arrive sometime after the first act had already begun. If Christine was going on, her angel and tutor had to be in her dressing room to give her some last instructions and reassurance, and that often made him late for the performance. But now, he wanted to be on time so Éponine would not miss anything.

—●—●—●—●—

"You're not coming?" Éponine asked.

"I'll be here, but I prefer to stay hidden in the column. You should sit in the box, though. For the experience."

She had been so delighted when she realised where he was taking her, and he was very pleased and a little relieved. She had said she liked music, so he thought perhaps she might like to see an opera, but he hadn't known for certain.

In the dark of the large hollow column, only faintly lit by the carefully hidden holes which allowed him to see out, and by the small trap door he had opened so that she might go out into the box, she was just a breath away from him. And then, she stood up on her toes, and just as she had done in the shop, quickly kissed his jaw just beneath his mask, beside his mouth. "Thank you," she whispered.

He drew in a sharp breath, and then she was gone, slipping through the trap door, and seated in the shadowy box. He let out his breath in a slow, shaky sigh. She would be the death of him, she really would.

She sat in the chair closest to the column, and he could see her through one of his little peep-holes, carefully concealed in the ornate carving. "Keep your face back," he cautioned her. "Stay in the shadow."

But as though she didn't hear him, she was leaning out of the box and gaping openly at all of the finely dressed people who were coming in and finding their seats, and all the gold, and all the red velvet, and all the intricate marble and...

He smiled fondly. Seeing the Opera House—which had been his passion and domain, but also in many ways his prison—through her fresh and ecstatic eyes made it more beautiful than it ever had been. Very well, then: let someone see her. The beautiful, but quite pale and waifishly thin lady in green silk who had silently appeared in Box 5, and who would disappear just as suddenly.

He could imagine the chatter now. "You do know that the Phantom is a woman?" "Nonsense, everybody knows the Phantom is a gentleman in evening clothes!" "No, I tell you: it's a woman—a beautiful woman! So-and-so saw her leaning out of box 5." "Ridiculous. Everybody knows that the Phantom has a death's head and sometimes a head of fire, but the Phantom has always been a man." The rumours and gossip and contradictory reports were instrumental in keeping the Phantom alive in the minds of everyone in the Opera House—even those who purported not to believe. When so many people claimed to have encountered the Phantom, and yet there was so much disagreement as to details such as what he looked like, it created the possibility that everyone was simply making it up—while simultaneously strengthening the feeling that that there must really be something in it, after all. Erik was somewhat surprised initially, and subsequently amused by the amount of people who invented encounters that had never occurred. These false reports could not be separated from those which were genuine, and this created a thickly woven veil of mystery. Without the resulting vagueness and confusion, they might have stood a chance at tracking down the very real, purely flesh-and-blood Erik.

The door to the box opened suddenly, causing Éponine to jump and draw back into the shadow. It was Mme. Giry, entering the box with the programme. Naturally she must assume the box would be empty, since it had been many weeks since he had last visited. But here she was, faithfully carrying out her duties regardless. Because she would assume it to be empty, she hardly glanced around the box, but upon placing the programme on the shelf, just as she was about to turn and leave, she spied Éponine.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle," she said, with that haughty, dingy dignity that never left her. She marched across the box to Éponine as she spoke. "You must be lost. This is Box 5 on the grand tier."

"I'm not lost."

"Well then, do you have a ticket? This box is reserved, and it is not supposed to be sold. The managers have been made to understand quite clearly by the Phantom's orders."

Erik spoke before Éponine could, projecting his voice as though it were coming from the chair to the right of the box, instead of inside the column. "I thank you for your faithful protection of my box, Madame Jules. But the lady is with me."

The black feathers in Mme. Giry's bonnet bobbed alarmedly as her head snapped upwards. "Oh, begging your pardon, Monsieur Phantom. I had no idea." She glanced over to Éponine with curious eyes. "Is she a ghost too, then?" Seemingly without thinking, she put out her hand to touch Éponine's arm, as though to ascertain she was real.

"You mustn't touch her. She is not really there in the flesh, merely an apparition. It would be very bad luck for you, Madame Jules. Your daughter Meg is dancing tonight, is she not?"

The tacit threat landed as intended, and the old lady stepped backwards hurriedly. "Yes, Monsieur Phantom! Quite right. I'm very sorry sir. Please forgive me." She curtsied dramatically, with an expression of utmost deference. Then, as though half to herself, she said, "I told them that the Phantom had a lady, and they laughed! Those managers. Well, here she is! You're very lovely, Madame Phantom. I must go now. Enjoy the performance. I will remain outside if you need anything."

"My box keeper," Erik explained when she had gone. "She's a silly old woman, but very reliable. They sacked her—the new managers did. No appreciation for her years of service. I made sure she got her position back."

Éponine smiled. "So it's true then. People believe you're a real ghost. And now, we both are."

Inside the column, Erik smiled as well. Madame Giry was convinced the Phantom had a lady because he used to ask her to bring a footstool. While watching the performance, he would pretend to himself that Christine was in the chair where Éponine now sat. It was rather silly, but sometimes he would even hand the imaginary Christine a flower. It was almost difficult to remember just how lonely he had been, now that he had Éponine sitting there in flesh and blood. Of course, soon she would recover, and he would be all alone again.

When the overture began, Éponine was listening intently.

"Oh," she whispered. "It won't be a happy story, will it? The music sounds very dangerous. What's it called, this opera?"

"Roméo et Juliette."

She didn't say another word until the overture had finished. As the curtain went up, she gasped quietly, reflexively putting her hand on the column as though it were Erik's arm. He wished it was—he would love to sit by her side. But he couldn't risk being seen in the box.

The chorus began to sing the prologue, and Éponine shuddered. "They're so sad. What are they saying? It's French, right? But it's hard to make out."

"They're singing about two families who hate each other. The Montaigus and the Capulets. Until Roméo—a young Montaigu—falls in love with Juliette. A Capulet. And in their young love, they forget all about their names and their family hatred. But it is a star-crossed love, one that would prove fatal for them. In the end, their deaths will end the family feud. You see? You won't need to understand every word. The plots are rather silly, in opera. The music—that is what matters. And the emotions. The emotions are not silly at all, and you don't need the words to understand them."

Éponine nodded, her eyes wide.

Then, Act One began, with the cheerful masquerade scene.

"Oh! They're all happy now."

"It's a party. A masquerade held by Juliette's father."

Éponine hummed along quietly with the merry tune, her fingers beating time on her armrest of her chair.

As the opera went on, Éponine asked fewer questions. Seemingly she was getting better at deciphering the lyrics, or perhaps just caught up in the music.

When Roméo sang, Éponine whispered to the column, "His voice is good, but it's nothing like yours. I feel sorry for all the people here who will never hear you sing."

Erik smiled. Though in truth, even if he had been born with a different face, the thought of performing onstage for the masses night after night was not terribly appealing to him.

Speaking of singers, this was the first time Erik had heard the new soprano. Combined with the utter humiliation of the croaking incident, Christine's disappearance mid-performance had been the straw that broke the camel's back for Carlotta, and it seemed she was really gone for good this time. Her replacement was certainly no Christine, but Erik did not find her voice to be as grating as the soulless perfection of Carlotta's; he thought she sang her aria in Act One rather well. Perfectly adequate—he had no complaints.

Throughout the entirety of the garden scene in Act Two, Éponine had a pensive and sad look about her which Erik could not account for, other than to assume it was because she already knew things would not end well for these young lovers. Whatever the reason, her thoughts definitely seemed to be elsewhere. He did not ask her about it, but he was glad to see the look eventually fade away.

"Does he really think that marrying them is going to end the feud?" Éponine scoffed.

"What? You don't believe in the healing power of love, Éponine?"

"Not when the chorus already told us they're both going to die before their families see sense," Éponine said with a wry smile.

"And what if you didn't know that already? What if you were Frére Laurent?"

"I'd marry them, of course. I would never keep young love apart. I just wouldn't count on anything changing."

"Pessimist!" he exclaimed fondly.

She shrugged and smiled.

"So you'd marry them expecting their families to disapprove? Rather negligent, Frére Éponine."

"It's their life," she said, with a gesture to indicate she washed her hands of the affair.

During the sword-fighting, Éponine leaned forward and scarcely seemed to breathe.

"Oh! No, Mercutio! Stay out of this." She looked anxiously at the column, as though she could actually see Erik. "They wouldn't kill Mercutio, right? I really like him."

"Just watch."

"Oh my God! 'Just watch' means yes." She twisted her skirt anxiously in her hands, her eyes glued to the stage.

"Did I say that? I said 'just watch.'" He was grateful to be concealed within the column so she couldn't see him grinning at her like an idiot. She was just too adorable in her concern over the character.

She gasped when Roméo stayed Mercutio's arm, thereby accidentally allowing Tybalt to inflict the fatal blow. "God!" She said aloud, before remembering herself and lowering her voice to a whisper. "Roméo is an idiot," she hissed. "Mercutio was so funny—he didn't need to die. He shouldn't have died."

Erik's grin fell away when he saw that there were real tears in her eyes. Mercutio was a likeable character, sure, but there seemed to be something else to Éponine's reaction. Whatever it was, Erik reached a hand through a trap door and handed her a handkerchief. She took it, but she just held it in her hands and twisted it absent-mindedly. The tears in her eyes refused to fall.

A while later, when Tybalt fell, Éponine, who seemed to have recovered herself somewhat, guessed: "Ah! Now Juliette is going to hate him for killing her cousin?"

"No. She forgives him rather quickly."

When the Duke exiled Roméo, Éponine whispered, "Good. Not for killing Tybalt—Tybalt deserved it. But he should be exiled for getting Mercutio killed."

Act Four opened in Juliette's bedroom, with Roméo and Juliette entwined in each other's arms, and with a quiet laugh Éponine whispered, "You were right. She did forgive him quite quickly. Well!"

"It is their wedding night, after all."

"Murders aside."

She was very quiet through the remainder of the scene, and he noted a soft blush on her cheeks. Despite her pessimistic comments and dry humour, she really was helplessly romantic, wasn't she?

Erik was more enthralled by watching Éponine watch the opera than he had ever been just watching the actual opera itself. She was very apprehensive about Frére Laurent's plan, and gasped aloud when Juliette 'died' at the wedding. She growled in frustration when Frére Jean revealed that Roméo had not received the letter. "She's not dead!" she whispered repeatedly to Roméo in the tomb, with increasing urgency and frustration. And when Roméo drank the poison, she gripped the top of her head in both hands and turned to look at the column wide-eyed, causing Erik to laugh—as quietly as he could manage.

When Juliette stabbed herself, she winced, then sighed resignedly. The curtain fell on the dead lovers, and Éponine looked in Erik's direction with horror. "What did you just have me watch?"

"You didn't like it?"

"I loved it, but what an ending."

Smiling, Erik opened the trapdoor and urged Éponine to retreat into the column before anyone saw that there was someone in Box 5 and came to investigate.

The column was big enough for two people—especially when one of those people was as small as Éponine—but only just. They should get back, but neither of them seemed in a hurry to move.

"Thank you," Éponine said softly.

He had an overwhelming urge to throw his arms around her, to kiss her, to bury his face in that place where her neck and shoulder met and to revel in the softness of her skin. But it felt wrong. He had brought her here to get her mind off her grief, not for any such ulterior motive. And what if she allowed him because she felt she had to, even if she found him repulsive?

Clearing his throat, he remembered the other business they had to take care of—a welcome distraction. "Excuse me a moment," he said. He pressed a little lever three times, and each time it created a little knocking sound near the door of the box. Three taps.

"How does that work?" Éponine whispered in a tone of awe.

"I'll show you sometime," he promised.

And then Mme. Giry entered the box. "Yes sir?"

"Madame Jules?"

"Yes! At your service!" She gave another low curtsy, and for a moment it seemed she would keep going until her bonnet touched the ground.

"My salary is coming due once again. But our previous little trick will not do any more, will it? As you have told the managers everything."

Mme. Giry blanched, and she opened her nearly-toothless mouth to speak, but Erik silenced her.

"Not to worry. I know it wasn't your fault. They were very persistent and annoying until recently, and you never would have said a word about it had they not pressed you incessantly."

"Yes! That's true! That's exactly it, Monsieur Phantom. You know I keep your secrets, I—"

"So," he interrupted, "to remedy the situation: when they give you the envelope, I want you to place the fake one in Moncharmin's pocket when he least suspects it. It is to be Moncharmin this time, as he was rather put out upon finding out that the envelope had been returned to Monsieur Richard's pocket before."

"Quite right, sir. Only—the fake one, sir? Not the real one, as before?"

"The fake one. And then you will place the second fake envelope here, in the box."

"Two fakes?"

"Yes."

"And what am I to do with the real one, then?"

"Madame Phantom will meet you in the foyer of the ballet. You are not to acknowledge her or even appear to recognise her. You are to slip past her with the envelope in your left pocket, do you understand?"

"Yes sir, I understand perfectly."

"You are not to touch Madame Phantom, as that is very bad luck and she is not a flesh-and-blood person. As soon as she has taken the envelope out of your pocket, she will disappear. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir!"

"If you say a single word about this to anyone, something dreadful will befall little Meg. At the very least, you can bet your life she will never be Empress."

Mme. Giry snapped into a straighter posture, alarmed. "No! I'll never say a word! They won't hear anything from me this time, I promise."

"Thank you for your excellent service, Madame Jules. You may go now."

Once the lady had gone, Erik removed 10 francs from his wallet and left them in the box for her. Then, they descended out of the column and into a secret passage, where he had left the lantern. When he picked it up and lighted it, it illuminated Éponine's extremely displeased face, startling him a little.

"What's the matter?" he asked her, somewhat confused.

"All that with the boxkeeper lady. What was that about?"

"Merely a means to collect my sallary," he said, turning to walk down the passage in the direction of the house on the lake. "You said you wanted to do something for me to pay for the dresses? Well, as I said before, you don't have to, but if it would make you feel better, here it is. You said you learned to pick pockets."

Éponine grabbed his arm. "Wait."

He stopped and turned back towards her.

"I have a nose for shady business. I recognise it when I see it."

"There is nothing untoward, Éponine. As I said, I am merely collecting my salary."

She crossed her arms. "I thought you had called this your Opera House."

"Yes," he said cautiously.

"So then, wouldn't you pay the managers a salary, and not the other way around?"

He managed a laugh. "Éponine, you don't understand how the opera business works. Not that you would be expected to."

"Erik." She fixed him with a very serious expression. "Please do not involve me in anything underhanded or dishonest. I'm done with all that. I did enough of that for my father, all right? I'm done."

"Of course not." A cold uneasiness began to seep into his stomach. "I'm not a crook like your father."

"Promise me."

He was entitled to his salary, wasn't he? He was justified. His face had robbed him of the opportunity to live an ordinary life like anybody else, despite his many talents with which he might have earned a living. The design and construction of this building owed so much to him, and yet he went uncredited. Without his tutilege and insistence that they allow her to sing instead of Carlotta, they would have never had Christine Daaé as a star—and it was the vicomte who removed her from the stage, not him. He would have allowed her to continue singing. He gave them many helpful notes and instructions on how the Opera House should be run. They were useless without him. So he earned his salary, didn't he? He wasn't some low-life, indolent crook like Éponine's father. Right?

"I promise."

C'est toi qui va porter la peine
De cette indigne trahison !


A/N: In a modern AU, you know Éponine would talk non-stop during movies. Erik thinks it's cute at first, but I could see him getting a little annoyed over time, lol.

Also Erik nooooo what are you doing?!