Notes:
Erik's surname in this is Duquesne - This is in honour of the first (and excellent) Phantom fanfic I hunted down after falling in love with the movie, the fantastic 'Prelude' by Christine Reynolds. She has graciously given me her permission to use the surname in my stories and I am truly honoured. She may not possibly remember, seeing as I started this story in 2005 (then life got in the way) and only finished it in 2022.
Mme. Giry's first name in this is Emilie. Everyone else is the same, apart from names I have given to a few characters shown in the movie (who were rather inelegantly referred to as 'Ballet Tarts' in the cast list) and various OCs.
100% based on those who played the parts in the 2004 movie.
Italics denote scenes happening in the past / memories, thoughts and particular emphasis on words.
M. = Monsieur, Mme. = Madame, Mlle. = Mademoiselle, F. = Father/Priest.
Chapter 1 Reminiscence
1st July 1871 Paris
He owed her nothing.
Yet still he sat there, enduring their charade.
Shifting in his seat, Erik Duquesne began tapping his fingers on the armrest, then sighed loudly, unable to conceal his irritation any longer. The child had absolutely no talent. Why he'd even answered Emilie's note, when he'd already known exactly what the result would be, continued to confound him. Yet it was not as if he could have feigned occupation. Parisian society was hardly knocking on his door with invitations to dine at a different salon every night. Her request was the first he'd heard from her in months - possibly even years? And he had to admit, his curiosity had been piqued by her words. A dancer who was ready to be trained to sing instead. His heart had leapt at the possibilities that opportunity afforded, then crashed to the ground once the girl had started to sing.
He should've known.
Chewing on the inside of his cheek in frustration, it took every ounce of control to not shout at her to stop her insipid mewling and leave his poor ears in peace. But he supposed he should at least give her the chance to improve on her appallingly weak performance. "Again," he ground out, "from the beginning."
Meg Giry took a deep breath to steady her nerves and began the simple aria anew. She stood alone on the empty stage, the theatre around her deep in darkness.
Her mother, Emilie, watched from the wings, holding her hands before her tightly, glancing into the auditorium every now and again, yet trying to hide that she did so. Was that a sigh? Erik's voice seemed strained; but whether that was from disdain at Meg's performance, or his usual response to her, she couldn't tell. She glanced back at her daughter and wished Meg could control herself, could stop her voice from trembling. But the more Meg strained to reach notes far out of her limited range, the more Emilie knew it was hopeless.
The reed-thin voice grated on him; this was rapidly becoming excruciating. There was nothing he could do with her. She wasn't a contralto, let alone a soprano – he wondered truly, how she was even in the chorus? He knew his assessment had as much to do with who she was, as the quality of her voice, but he didn't care. He looked her over dispassionately, noting the innate lack of enthusiasm for the task at hand in her anxious brown eyes. Would she die without music? He thought not.
He couldn't argue the fact that many would call her appealing, but he found nothing attractive in her long blonde hair and blossoming figure. Though the latter did lead him to determine exactly why Emilie had made such an absurd request. He'd seen the reaction her young curves were creating amongst the men in the theatre. And more importantly, he'd heard what they'd like to do to her if her mother ever left her alone. They all disgusted him. "Enough," he said loudly.
Meg looked over at her mother, who shook her head slightly and motioned for her to leave the stage without a word. She practically flew back to the safety of the dormitory, hating to be out in the Opera House after dark by herself. Why her mother had pulled her out of bed in the middle of the night to sing to a complete stranger, she'd never know.
Emilie walked out to the centre of the stage, taking her daughters place and looked straight up into the blackness above. "Well?"
"It would perhaps be wise to concentrate on her other talents," Erik answered coolly. "She isn't ready for anything more."
Emilie sighed; her heart heavy. Even though she'd known what his answer would be, she hadn't been able to stop herself from hoping that he might have seen something, anything, in her young daughter that he could have worked with. Her beloved child seemed to have developed into a woman practically overnight and though her body had gained considerable maturity, her mind was still fluttery and naïve. Emilie knew it would only be a matter of time before she was taken advantage of in the most devastating of ways. If she could just remove Meg from the chorus she'd automatically become 'untouchable' to most of the men working there. And having the Opera Ghost being responsible for such an elevation would add a jolt of terror to anyone who dared to try and lay a finger on her as well. The girl had no idea of what she courted with her giggling and a flounce of her blonde hair. In the world they lived in a naive young heart was ripe for corruption and seen by many as an irresistible conquest. Emilie bowed her head and closed her eyes momentarily, unable to stop her disappointment and a flare of hopeless anger.
He rose to leave, then turned back to look down upon the stage again. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "But I can't fashion excellence out of nothing. If she has a talent for dancing, I'll see what I can do to promote her skills in that regard. Perhaps Prima Ballerina would suffice, in time?"
"Thank you," she answered, careful not to betray her emotions in any way. She left the stage, relief flooding through her. There was no doubt in her mind that he could do exactly what he proposed.
He might have smirked at the eager look in her eyes, he knew how much she would've hated him to have seen it. But her unwelcome request for help, after so many years, still grated on him. Especially considering exactly who that help would benefit the most.
He watched the darkness at the back of the stage for a long time, pursing his lips in concentration. "And just how are you going to achieve Prima Ballerina?" he asked himself quietly. What part of Lefevre's life could he seek to expose now? What expensive prop or irreplaceable costume could he threaten to ruin? He could destroy some things in Carlotta's dressing room perhaps? That was one of his particular favourites, a task he always approached with relish.
Each idea had worked before; but for it to have his desired effect, yet not implicate either Marguerite or her mother in the actual execution, considering the outcome required... He sighed. This might take a little more than his usual parlour tricks and petty – though utterly satisfying - acts of vandalism.
Deep in thought, he started his descent. Moving silently around the cavernous, seventeen-story building, through basements, passageways and dark tunnels, was second nature to him. Discovery still meant a cessation of this charade he called living. And though he'd felt a weariness these past few years that had never plagued him before, he wasn't ready for the hangman's noose. Not yet.
Pausing for an instant backstage, he was momentarily stunned by the garishness of the fabric that had been delivered that morning. The vivid reds, blues and – God, how much gold? – that would soon be made into costumes for the Gala production of Hannibal, were practically luminous in the dark. He thought of Carlotta, trussed up like a golden pig, shrieking out what she considered singing. With Piangi - that over-weight, pompous imbecile – always trotting three steps behind her, and his dark mood plummeted even further.
Walking through the empty backstage, his feet made no more than a whisper of sound against the wooden floor. The heaving mass of humanity that filled this area earlier had sought out the beds within their homes, rooms and dormitories long ago. He was thankful for that small mercy, for if he encountered anyone on his travels tonight, they would find a particularly unpleasant Opera Ghost at large.
How many years now, had he played that part? The longest-running position in the Opera Populaire, by far. Not simply a story designed to keep wayward ballerinas in their beds at night and out of the arms of any young suitors. But a reality; and one far more nightmarish than any fairytale could hope to be.
And how innocently it had all begun. He'd only wanted something in his home besides dirty blankets and a single candle…
February 1846
Emilie walked slowly around the edge of the lake, anxious not to get the hem of her cloak even slightly wet, should questions be asked when she returned to her dormitory later. "Erik? Are you here?"
She heard a quick scraping sound and turned a corner to see him standing next to the bundle of blankets he used as a bed. How she wished she could have found him something cleaner, warmer. The damp air down here must chill him to the bone at night, and he was still so weak from being held by those gypsies… "I brought stew tonight. It's really good," she chattered away, trying, as always, to cover her nervousness at being near him. She placed her lantern down on the ground. "Dominque didn't want her potato, she's so worried about getting fat, but she knows Madame gets angry if we don't eat every scrap. I said I'd eat them for her, then put them into your bowl, under the table. I know you'll put them to good use. Do you like – " the next word died on her lips as she looked up at him and realised he had something hidden behind his back, "potatoes?" she finished quietly.
Was it a weapon? She tried to look past the scrap of dirty fabric strung across half his face and see an answer in his eyes. The bowl of stew was in her hands, covered with a napkin. She'd tried to keep it as warm as she could, but knew it would no longer be hot, not with the length of time it took her to reach him every night. If she needed to though, she could still throw it in his face. It might give her the precious seconds she'd need to get away.
They stood staring at each other for a few moments, both trying not to show the other fear. Emilie moved first. "I'll just put this down here then," she said calmly, placing the bowl on the floor between them, praying to God that she wouldn't feel a blow to her head as she did so. She straightened rather more quickly than she meant to and hoped he hadn't noticed.
"Thank you," Erik said.
She waited for him to eat, usually he pounced on everything she brought, devouring every last morsel. He knew she had to return the bowl or plate each night as well. "Well?" she prompted. "It's good."
She saw him glance hungrily at the bowl and then quickly back at her, noting how his jaw clenched in frustration. Then she realised, if he didn't mean to attack her – after all, she'd given him ample opportunity moments before – then… "Erik Duquesne!" she demanded angrily, placing her hands on her hips. "What are you hiding behind your back?"
He jumped back slightly at her harsh tone, not yet unused to Mouray's fists accompanying such a voice.
She went over to him and grabbed hold of his left arm, wrenching it forward. Even at thirteen she had a temper to be reckoned with.
He gave no resistance, both weakened from his recent captivity, and too much of a gentleman, even at nine years of age, to struggle with a lady.
Once she saw the small gold candelabra in his hand, her own hands flew to her forehead in shock. "Oh my God!"
He shrank from her, his shoulders hunching, his head going down, adopting his usual pose for a beating. Yet he didn't let go of the candelabra.
"Where did you get it? How did you get it? Did anybody see you?"
He shook his head quickly.
"Are you sure?" she asked, grasping his forearm again.
"Yes," he said, trying to pull his arm away without her noticing.
"How can you be sure? If you were seen – "
"I'm sure," he answered firmly, looking up at her again. He pulled his arm from her grip and stood back from her, defiance straightening his shoulders. "Nobody saw me. They never do."
"They never – you mean – "
"I go up there all the time. I watch you dance, I hear them sing," he looked up, seeing beyond the cavern to the theatre above, his eyes full of wonder at the unexpected beauty he'd found there. "I watch the set builders, the stone masons, the costumiers."
She could hardly believe her ears. After all she'd done to keep his presence there a secret and he was walking about upstairs without a care in the world. "You promised me you'd stay hidden."
"And I do, nobody's seen me - I told you," he couldn't disguise the hurt pride in his voice. "They'll never know I'm there. Unless I want them to."
"But –"
In answer he moved past her, quicker than the wind. She whipped her head around over her left shoulder, sure she'd see him standing behind her, but he wasn't there. Turning quickly again to the front - he must have run around her in a circle – yet again, the air was empty. "This isn't funny," she said, suddenly terrified that he'd left her there alone. She ran back to her lantern and picked it up quickly, using it to look out into the darkness. Why had he insisted on living in so far below everything, in this dark hole? Why couldn't he have taken one of the storerooms under the stage instead, like she'd suggested? She wondered how he could bear to be alone in this shadowy, empty cavern, with mist from the lake swirling up around him. Had he gone into the water? But if he had, she'd have heard a splash, wouldn't she? "Where are you?" she asked. "You're frightening me."
"I'm here," he said quietly.
She whirled round again and saw him standing behind his blankets, calmly regarding her. He didn't smile at the trick he'd played on her, but she could see a light of mischief in his eyes, which almost made her forgive him.
"Now do you believe me?"
"Don't do that again," she snapped, walking past him to sit down on a ledge cut out of the stone wall behind him.
He sat down, cross-legged, on the nest of blankets to eat the stew she'd brought him, his back to her, quite pleased with his performance.
Her heart still fluttered wildly in her chest. Would she ever stop being so afraid of him? She realised that no matter what she'd imagined, it would be nothing to what he'd suffered, being caged up like an animal in that horrific fair. Even with what he looked like – no child deserved that fate. But the simple fact remained, he'd killed a man to escape it. No matter how many 'Hail Mary's' she said for him at night, nothing would erase that sin from his soul. She shivered at the memory and caught sight of the candelabra again, almost hidden underneath the blankets, only a tiny portion of the gold showing in the dim light. "Where'd you get it?" she asked.
"Isadora's dressing room," he shrugged.
She rolled her eyes heavenward in anguish. The Prima Donna's dressing room! "Of course," she said hopelessly, "I should've guessed."
"At first it was a game," he continued, oblivious to her distress. "I went in and out of her room, just to see if I could. Did you know," he turned around to face her, "there are tunnels here? Secret passageways, doors that you can't see - that you have to feel?"
She shook her head in amazement.
"There are ways into every room, hidden ways," he said. "Even if the door's locked from the inside. Whoever designed this building was quite brilliant."
He looked at her so earnestly and so full of admiration for his unknown benefactor that she couldn't help but be moved.
"There's only one room so far that I can't get into."
"Which?" she was intrigued, despite her fears for his safety.
"Yours," he answered simply.
Her mouth fell open in shock.
"Don't worry," he said, "the man who built this warren made sure to keep his little rabbits quite safe from any monsters that skulk in the shadows."
She felt heat rise in her cheeks at the implication of his words and quickly put down the lantern she was holding, hoping to hide her blushes in the darkness. As much as she tried to hide her feelings, she found it hard to look at his face. Had he realized she'd been glad when he'd finally fashioned that scrap to hide it from her?
"I will never try to get into the dormitories, Mademoiselle, and I will ensure that no-one else ever will either."
He said it with such unerring conviction that she couldn't help but believe him and found herself thanking him before she'd even realised she'd spoken.
"You're quite welcome," he said.
"But you can't keep it," she said quietly.
"Why not?" he asked, turning his back to her once more. "Why should I spend my life surrounded by bare walls?" he looked around him, out into the darkness. "Why can't I fill my new home with beautiful things? She hasn't even noticed that it's gone, has she?"
"Not yet. But - it's stealing," she answered firmly. Yet another Commandment he'd already broken. She wondered, not for the first time, if he even believed in God.
"Of course it's stealing," he almost laughed, not remorseful in the least. "What else am I supposed to do? I can't exactly walk into a store and buy things. How would I pay for them?"
"You could earn money, some day," she began hopefully, yet even she knew what she suggested was absurd.
"Doing what exactly?" he turned back to face her, scorn creasing his brow at her ridiculous suggestion.
"You could work here, the stone-masons perhaps – they give apprenticeships –"
"And what should I answer when they ask for my place of residence?" he sneered at her naiveté. "'Dear Sir,'" he spat, as if composing an imaginary letter. "'Please arrange for my monthly pittance to be sent to the bowels of this very Opera House, where I have resided for many years, right beneath your feet.' I don't think so."
She knew he was right. How could he ever have a job, a proper home, any kind of life outside of this damp, fetid hole in the ground? "But you have to put it back," she persisted. "It's too valuable. They'll call in the Police and they might search the whole building and then they might … " she couldn't finish the thought.
"Find me," he answered, frowning. He wouldn't admit it to her, of course, but he was not ready to be dragged from his new home. He was only just beginning to discover its myriad of secrets and wonders.
"And no matter how justified," she said quietly, "you did kill that man, that Mouray." Even from behind and in the half-light, she could see his whole body stiffen at the memory. "You'll still be wanted for that. If they arrest you, they'll –"
"I know," he interrupted, knowing full well what the conclusion of her sentence would be. If they found him, they'd hang him. "I'll put it back." He glanced up to the ceiling, thinking for a moment. "I'll make sure she finds it; she'll think she misplaced it – it will be nothing."
