Chapter Thirty-Five

The Incident in Box Five

A/N: Content warning for basically combat PTSD. It's brief.


Erik had fully believed that he had tasted all the happiness life could ever hold for him. How had he dared to ever deceive himself into thinking he could have more? That he could truly have a wife like anybody else, and go out amongst ordinary people? Such an absurd delusion that he had wholeheartedly embraced, nearly ruining Christine's life in the process. Really, he would have ruined his own, too. He would have had to see her always tremble at the sight of him, and move about the house like a nun under vows for the rest of his days. He would have tortured himself always by wondering if she hated him, wondering if she still thought of Raoul... What an exquisite torture chamber for the both of them, he had very nearly built!

But she had saved them. Christine, in her compassion, had saved them all. The Daroga, the Vicomte, herself, and Erik, too. And deep within his soul, with a certainty that almost seemed to come from outside of himself, there was the thought: this is enough for you. This is undeserved grace. Take this, and die a happy man.

And it was enough. It was more than enough.

So how was it, then, after he had been sure that his life had culminated and death was all that waited for him, that he now had nearly a month of Éponine here with him, filling him with so much hope and making him happier than she probably knew? Oh, he was such a wretched, silly man, and she knew it very well; he never could pull himself together long enough to let her forget. Ranting and raving because their lips had mistakenly met. Blurting out what a good wife she would make when she was merely trying to hand him a cup of tea, and she had just told him not to rush things between them! It probably came across all wrong too, making it sound like his idea of a good wife was someone who waited on him hand and foot, even when he came home behaving like a lout. Silly, silly wretched Erik. But she always just breezed past such moments matter-of-factly, or plainly told him what he needed to hear.

She had such a strength about her, and it made her incredibly beautiful in a way that he might, one day, succeed in setting to music, but could never hope to put into words. She faced things, and he doubted it was because she was truly never afraid, nor that she somehow always knew what to do. She simply had a quiet determination that life had to be faced. She would make it up as she went along, but she would never turn aside.

Those words, "let's see," were a more meaningful gift than she probably realised. The fact that she was willing to entertain a possibility, even after he had made such a pathetic and disgusting scene, was more touching than she could know. Even if, when all was said and done, she would end up leaving, deciding that she'd had enough of his darkness and ugliness and wretchedness, it was the fact that she had wanted—demanded, almost—the opportunity to explore whether something lasting could develop between them. She gave him that regard, as a man. As a human. How could he help but be overwhelmed by that?

He overheard her, talking to the seamstress behind the screen. He wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but every now and then he would overhear a few words despite the other noises in the shop. "It doesn't frighten me because it's just part of him," she'd said, with so much warmth and feeling packed into the words. Even though she had told him and shown him in so many ways that she was not frightened of his face, and she had said something similar on the bank of the Seine to what she now told the seamstress, to hear her say it so confidently to someone else, ostensibly when he couldn't hear her and she needn't spare his feelings, had almost brought him to tears.

And there they were at a restaurant, like ordinary people. What wouldn't he be able to do, with her by his side? For, how could anyone look at him with pity or loathing when he was accompanied by such a very clever, beautiful woman, who looked upon him without a hint of fear?

No longer thinking of death, Erik dared to hope, once again, for a life.

—●—●—●—●—

Earlier that day, he had returned to the managers' office, hoping to hear whether his note had the desired effect. He just wanted some peace, that was all. It wasn't fair that, after everything he had gone through with Richard and Moncharmin, he had to start over again! But, from the sounds of it, they had not taken his note seriously. They were too busy laughing and mocking the idea of a ghost for him to ascertain what their specific plans were, but he had a feeling they would end by deciding to view the performance from box five. He decided that, should management change hands again, he would have to rewrite that clause in the memorandum book. It was having the opposite of the desired effect, with each new succession of managers deciding they just had to sit in the ghost's box. Perhaps, if he instead demanded the opposite: that the managers watch every performance from box five. Then, their disobedience would instead get him what he wanted.

Before returning to the house on the lake, he had busied himself by putting a few contingencies in order, in case they decided to make trouble. His intention was just to show them in as efficient a manner as possible that he was serious, and not to be trifled with. And then, hopefully, he could have some peace.

And now, here they were in box five, which, sure enough, was occupied by the two new managers.

He threw his voice into the box, right in front of them, whispering to them. "Good evening, messieurs. So, you did not read my memorandum book? Surely there can be no other excuse as to why you are sitting, now, in my box."

The two men looked at one another, and then burst into stupid, foolish laughter. Even from inside the column, Erik smelled the wine on their breath.

"I am glad to find you gentlemen in such good spirits, and possessed of such a good sense of humour that you think this is a joke. But this is your last warning to vacate my box immediately, otherwise disaster will be visited upon this theatre."

Their response, again, was laughter, still more raucous now than before.

Erik fumed. For all Richard and Moncharmin had trifled with him, at least they comported themselves in a way befitting the seriousness of their position.

As they continued to laugh and to joke about the Phantom to one another, there were several disapproving looks from other audience members, and lots of irritated murmuring, and hissing voices asking for quiet. Soon, in came Mme. Giry, accompanied by the house manager. Mme. Giry's eyes glittered haughtily, but the house manager looked extremely fearful and uncomfortable, given the awkward position of having to confront his superiors like this.

"I'm terribly sorry, messieurs. But there have been complaints..."

"Oh! Oh, we'll behave ourselves."

Listolier put a hand over his own mouth to illustrate the point, his eyes still mirthful.

"Really, messieurs," hissed Mme. Giry, "you are annoying the Phantom, and you won't like what happens when he is annoyed."

"Oh, be quiet, you old bat," muttered Blacheville.

"Say that again!"

But the house manager was already pulling her out of the box before she had a chance to make a scene of her own.

Once the managers were alone again in the box, Erik's voice whispered to them, "Very well, gentlemen. You have made your decision."

They looked at each other, and though there seemed some stifled dread in their eyes, they were largely just amused.

Clenching his jaw, Erik turned to Éponine and whispered, "Wait here."

"But where are you going?"

"Something I must take care of."

Éponine sighed resignedly and sank to the floor. He felt a moment of remorse, because she looked and sounded very tired. But if she sat here and waited, she would have an opportunity to rest. With singular purpose, he left the column and made his way beneath the stage, where he had concealed a few small charges. Very crude, but it was all he'd had time to arrange on the fly. Not enough to do any very serious harm, just enough to make his point clear. He smiled to himself as he went and lit the fuses, and then, humming along with the orchestra, he made his way back to box five. He had it rigged so as to give himself plenty of time.

Éponine was still sitting when he returned, and she had closed her eyes. There was so much weariness and a little pain on her face, and he bent to touch her shoulder gently. "Are you all right?"

She opened her eyes with a little start, and then nodded.

And in that same moment, there was a tremendous blast, followed by another, and Éponine shot to her feet, a tormented, panicked, faraway look in her eyes as she grasped Erik wildly, seeming not even to see him. Erik didn't even have a chance to admire his handiwork as the series of blasts went off all around the stage, throwing the entire theatre into a tumult. Once the blasts had all gone off, the finale would be the drenching of the entire stage with water—because he wasn't trying to burn the place down. But, he had coloured the water red for a bit of dramatic flair. It would have been spectacular to see the effect of his appearing to rain fire and blood upon them all, but he didn't even look, because his only concern was Éponine.

He cursed himself for not thinking about how she might be affected by the sounds of powder going off, after the barricade. He held her close as she trembled and struggled to breathe, and she clung to him like she was drowning.

"Breathe," he whispered to her in a soft, melodious way. "I'm here, you're safe. It was only a theatrical effect. Breathe, Éponine. Match your breaths to mine."

There were the sounds of tumult all around them. The entire place was in an uproar. Just as Éponine seemed to get some sort of grasp on herself, and was pulling away from him, looking a little embarrassed and prickly, there was the sound of one of the managers—Blacheville, perhaps.

"We now have you, not only on extortion, but also property damage! Listen, 'Phantom', whoever you really are—we shall make a full report to the police!"

Erik smirked. He doubted very much that they would, as they surely knew they would be disbelieved and laughed at. But let them try. On the very slim chance that the police even attempted to do anything about it, they would never find him.

He laughed, throwing his voice into the box to echo all around them. Then, he glanced down at Éponine, and the look in her eyes was more terrible and impressive than his laughter.

"Éponine..." he whispered.

But she motioned him to be silent, and then she descended out of the column.

With a sinking, awful feeling in his stomach, he followed her in the passage. He found a lantern, lit it, and then caught up with her, but she would not look at him

"Éponine—"

"Extortion."

"You must allow me to explain—"

"That business about the envelopes?"

"They simply don't understand. It isn't extor—"

"That's a yes." Continuing not to look at him, she marched with singular purpose. He was impressed to see that she very much knew the way, after a couple of trips to box five, there and back.

"But it isn't—"

"Silence. I want silence."

She was still trembling a little, but now he didn't know if it was because of the explosives, or because she was filled with rage.

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


A/N: Agh I'm so upset by this situation that I created. Why do I do this to myself?