Fallen Angels
1888
"Oh, dear…Firmin, here comes that detestable woman again." Monsieur Andre shuddered as he noticed a woman coming through the door. She smiled over at them as she pulled the black hood away from her face, dropping snow onto the floor in the process. Monsieur Firmin shook his head.
"Probably wants us to look at some more of her 'music.' If you can call it that." As she approached, she narrowed her eyes at them and smiled.
"Good afternoon, Messieurs. As you have already surmised, I have come to show you some of my new pieces." Trying to hide her amusement as the managers pretended to look shocked.
"My dear Mademoiselle DuBain, we were saying nothing of the sort." M. Firmin laughed nervously as she focused her gaze on him.
"Really." Raising an eyebrow at them, she took something from inside her cloak. "In any case, these are the fruits of my labor. I believe this time you will be pleasantly surprised by them." She handed M. Andre a sheaf of papers bound with a strip of leather. "Please tell me what you think of them. I think they would make a lovely addition to the Spring Series."
"Of course, Mlle. DuBain. We shall look over them after rehearsal and give you our decision within the week." M. Firmin smiled broadly at her as she gave him a dubious look and pulled the hood over her head. The managers exchanged a glance as she looked up at the stage to see the Corps de Ballet practicing for that night's performance.
"I am quite glad to hear that. Until then, Messieurs." Turning on her heel, she went once more out into the snow. She hadn't been gone more than a few moments before M. Andre flipped through the pages of her music.
"Does she really think we're going to put this garbage on our stage?" With a look of disgust on his face, M. Andre started towards the office. M. Firmin followed him closely, and as they rounded the corner, M. Andre tossed the sheaf of paper carelessly into the wastebasket.
"I can't believe she keeps bringing these things to our theatre," M. Firmin said, his voice fading into the distance as they went down the hall and to the office.
"Who ever heard of a woman composing a decent piece of music anyway?"
* * *
Mademoiselle Angelique DuBain hung her cloak over the back of the chair in her small apartment. She had taken great care to brush the snow off her cloak before bringing it into her home, something she never would have done for those stuck-up idiots at the Opera Populaire. They never even looked at her music, just threw it in the wastebasket as if it were common garbage. Fools.
With a sigh, she sat on her bed and took off her boots. There was a small hole in the foot of her stocking, and she lay back on the bed. Outside the window, it was snowing lightly again. Angelique let her eyes follow a few of the flakes for a moment, trying to postpone thoughts of the ever-growing chill in her room. Already it was so cold, and night hadn't yet begun to fall. She knew she really should be going to the seamstress' shop where she worked, but for a moment she wanted to think of something else. To be somewhere else, even if it was only in her mind.
Unfortunately, when she closed her eyes she could only see the same images she had seen thousands of times before. Her father, asking if she really wanted to see an opera. Of course, Angelique had said yes, and hugged him fiercely as she thanked him over and over. She remembered the scent of his cologne as he helped her mother into the carriage. And although she could remember all of this, she couldn't remember why the horses had gotten spooked. And while they were waiting for help, two men came from the shadows and demanded her mother's jewelry.
After that, the memories flooded back relentlessly. Her parents' blood spilling on the cobblestones while people passed them without a second glance. First begging for help from the uncaring shadows that walked along the darkening street, then giving up to simply hold the people she had come to know as her parents in her arms, as the breath left their bodies for the last time. She could still see the blood that had stained the front of her dress, hear her mother crying softly and her father cursing the people who walked past them without even looking in their direction.
As she buried her parents, she could feel something slipping away inside her…although she didn't exactly know what. It wouldn't be too long before she realized what it was.
Since she was only 15 years old, she had been sent to live with her aunt. Not too long after she arrived, Angelique realized that her aunt didn't like little girls. At every opportunity, she told the girl just how little she thought of her, causing Angelique to retreat further into her own little world. A world filled with beautiful melodies that she herself composed. In her darkest hours, she sometimes dreamed that one day hundreds of people would hear her music and would clap for her, shouting out praise for her creations, as she knew her parents would have.
While her boy cousins played outside, Angelique was to stay inside doing the chores her aunt had given her. The list was long, but she didn't complain, for the one time she had made the mistake of complaining, the beating had been quite severe. But it wasn't the last one she would receive. And each time her aunt struck her, it only served to reaffirm her belief that people were horrible creatures to be avoided and hated. It had finally come to the point where she much preferred to be alone than in the company of others, to hide inside a book or her own mind, even after she left her aunt's home.
With no family and no friends, she had managed to find a tiny apartment over a bakery for little rent. Sometimes the elderly couple who owned the bakery would try to give her some of their leftover bread, as they knew the extent of her poverty. But every time, she would turn them away as kindly as she knew how, not wanting to owe anything to anyone…no matter how hungry she might be.
For the first time in nearly fifteen years, Angelique looked at the bracelet on her wrist. It was simple, just a thin golden thread with a single tiny heart dangling from the clasp, no frills or pretension. Her parents told her that it had been in her pocket when they found her, and gave it to her when it would fit around her wrist without sliding off. That was the year she had turned ten. In a few days she would turn Twenty-two, and the bracelet hadn't once left her wrist since then. It had become more a part of her body than a piece of jewelry, and she often forgot that she was wearing it until it jingled against her sewing desk or got caught on the hem of a dress.
Whoever had given her the bracelet must have cared for her, at least a bit, and as she lay back on her bed, she closed her eyes and tried to think of what they may have been like. Deep in the recesses of her memory she thought she could remember music, and someone holding her. Wispy strains of music, tenuous as a spider's silken thread drifted into her mind…she could almost recognize the notes, but they drifted away from her just as easily as they came.
Frustrated, she sat up and tried to shake the melody from her head. These melancholy thoughts always came to her around her birthday, she should have known better than to let them in once again. Her feet hit the ground, and she became aware of the hole in her stocking again.
Putting her boots back on, Angelique reprimanded herself for allowing such childish daydreams to keep her from going to the shop, especially when she was in such great need of new stockings.
On her way out the door, she took a quick look into her cupboard and shook her head. Unless she could get Mme Lafours to give her a bit of an advance, tonight's dinner was to be even smaller than the night before.
The winter wind blew relentlessly over Angelique's face, the one part of her body she couldn't cover, and she grumbled to herself as she made her way down the snowy street. Of all the months to be wretchedly poor, why did it have to be December? Her boots crunched through the thin layer of snow on the cobblestones, and she tried to concentrate on each step to take her mind off the blistering cold.
The bell over the door of Mme Lafours' shop jingled softly as she passed beneath it, and the old woman across the room looked up from her sewing.
"You're late again, Mlle DuBain. This will be coming out of your salary, I hope you realize that." The old woman's eyes were as black as coals, and they seemed to bore a hole right through Angelique. She nodded.
"I understand, Madame." The woman spoke as if she was even being paid enough to call it a salary, but Angelique didn't say a thing about it. As much as she hated being around people, she had to put food on the table somehow…and there were precious few jobs for women like her.
But as she sat behind her sewing table, Angelique's mind began to wander again. While her fingers were working steadily at the hem of a beautiful evening gown, strains of beautiful music were dancing through her head. This was how Angelique wrote music; letting the melodies work themselves out in her head before they ever saw a sheet of paper. Once she had figured out how she wanted the lines to go, she would stay up for days writing it down, using every available moment she had putting pen to paper and humming to herself. This usually resulted in her being completely exhausted for days afterward, and once she even sewed the neck of a dress shut.
But something told her that this melody was going to be different. She didn't know why, but this time she had a feeling.
* * *
After the last dancer had left the stage and the doors were locked, the Opera Populaire was almost completely deserted. Completely deserted, save for one figure that was sitting alone in Box Five.
Dressed as always in an immaculate black tuxedo and felt hat, the man known to most as the Phantom of the Opera sat silently in the luxurious theatre box which was always reserved for him. Although a white mask covered for the most part his face, anyone who would take the time to look at it would know at once the pain that his eyes betrayed.
Though there was no one on the stage, an entire drama was being played for his benefit and his alone. Even now, he could see her face, hear the beautiful clear voice of his Christine Daae. The only woman he had ever loved with such passion and such abandon. But she had been taken from him by that worthless Vicomte, and what hurt most was that she had gone of her own accord. And he had let her. After all, he loved her too much to see her unhappy.
Seven years previous, he had been the most feared man in Paris…but now, he was just a man. And an unhappy one at that. His gaze lingered on the very spot where Christine had once stood. To his ears, her songbird voice still rang through the rafters of his theatre, and even though he still forced himself to attend the performances at the Opera Populaire, all he could see was Christine. Opera was becoming less and less comforting, as he spent a good part of the evening comparing the divas to Christine. This girl didn't have as clear a voice, that one was too fat, yet another was too loud. These days, he usually left the opera more frustrated than when he came.
Perhaps it was time to start pestering those loathsome managers for more money. Although they were still paying his salary, it was continually decreasing in size. They were trying to do it gradually, putting less and less money in the envelopes each month…as if he wouldn't notice! And since he had no need for the money since Christine had gone, he hadn't felt like complaining.
Suddenly restless, he got up from his seat and started down the back stairs toward the stage. Though he could have used the secret passages that he had laid all around the stage and Box Five, he chose to simply walk, if for no reason other than to distract himself. As he approached the stage, he happened to glance into the wastebasket. Some untidy person had neglected to empty it, and he noticed that there was a sheaf of papers lying in the bottom of the basket.
Overcome by curiosity, he reached down and picked up the papers. To his surprise, the papers were covered with music, and he looked closer at them. As his eyes scanned through the pages, he wondered in disbelief who would throw away such a finely crafted piece of music. Taking another look at it, he noted the number of accidentals and other little tricks strategically placed to catch a comfortable singer off guard, and decided it was most likely thrown in the bin by someone who was frustrated by its complexity.
Another odd thing about the music was that he couldn't find the composer's name anywhere on it. Fruitlessly, he searched the pages over and over, but could only find a pair of initials; AD. Realizing that he didn't know of any composer named AD who would write such a piece, he was intrigued.
For a moment, the all-consuming sadness left his mind, and he began to formulate a plan to learn the name of this composer. But for that night, he decided to take the music with him. Surely he could relax by losing himself in what promised to be a lovely piece. And if anyone was capable of playing it, he was.
* * *
The door to Angelique's apartment swung open slowly, and she entered. In her arms was a package, which she set on the bed before pulling off her cloak and gloves. Tossing her gloves on the dressing table, she noted just how worn they were. Still, she had decided when she was in the shop that she needed a new pair of stockings much more than she needed gloves.
Madame Lafours had not been receptive to the idea of letting Angelique have an advance, so dinner was out of the question. Instead, she took off her dress and carefully lay it over the back of the chair as not to wrinkle it. She only had three nice dresses, and the only reason she had that many was because she managed to sneak some of the extra material out of Mme Lafours' shop while she wasn't looking to make them.
Not having a real nightdress, Angelique stood before her mirror in her slip and carefully unbraided her hair. Waves of dark hair fell over her shoulders and tumbled almost to the middle of her back as she picked up a brush and slowly pulled it through her hair. She knew she was attractive, but had long ago resigned herself to spinsterhood. For as she knew all too well, men didn't want an intelligent, independent-minded wife, and Angelique wasn't about to change for anyone.
Thinking it much too cold for a bath, she crawled underneath the covers of her bed and picked up a book she had found in the gutter outside the bakery. It was still a little damp and smelled a bit like mildew after drying on the stairs, but it was readable, and in her eyes, a free book was still a free book. She had no idea why someone would throw it away, but she supposed that their loss was her gain.
It was a very good book, a fairly new one about Sherlock Holmes, and she quite liked mystery stories, although her favorite ones came from the mind of Edgar Allan Poe. Dark, worrisome stories always intrigued her, and they had ever since she was small. The story only served to add fuel to the fire of the music that was still forming in her head, and before long she was lost in the world of the book.
When she read, Angelique completely lost track of time, and she had been reading for several hours before she realized that she was getting tired. Setting the book on the nightstand, she turned the lamp off slowly. As the flame shrank, the shadows around the bed grew taller until they overcame the room and plunged her into darkness.
Without warning, a cold wind blew through the crack in the window, and the threadbare blanket draped over the bed was little protection. Burrowing deeper below the thin covers, Angelique sighed deeply.
How anyone could think of Paris as a romantic place was beyond her.
* * *
Far below the bed where a young woman was attempting to live through another night, the man who was once the Phantom but was now simply Erik was still awake. He had long since finished playing the piece, and was simply sitting on the bench before the barrel organ, staring at the page.
There was no doubt in his mind that the piece was exquisite, in fact it was nearly flawless, but he couldn't resist wanting to add a few touches to it. On his better judgement, he decided against it. Whoever this AD was had certainly taken their time with it, and even if the arrangement did sound a little odd at first, it was quite possible that they had meant it to be like this.
Turning to the section in question, Erik rested his fingers on the keyboard and began to play the notes. Lingering on the chord which had at first given him pause, a smile spread across his face, and he began to laugh. The dissonance was beautiful and horrible all at once, and he held the chord out just a moment longer to enjoy its full beauty. This piece was more than just a work of art; it was nothing less than a masterpiece. Most people had no ear for notes which at first did not seem to go together. All the tone-deaf imbeciles wanted to hear were sounds which pleased their untrained ear. The fools didn't realize that to truly understand the beauty of a piece, one had to endure a bit of discord so as to recognize the difference.
Now more than ever, he wanted to meet the composer of this piece. The mysterious AD was becoming by the minute more and more fascinating, and it led him to wonder where this person had learned to write music. Precious few were able to write chaos as beautifully as harmony. He had to know who this person was. There was a sudden need to learn all he could about this person, even if they were never to meet face-to-face. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was growing ever closer to daylight, and picked up the music from the stand.
It was time to be going.
* * *
Angelique hated mornings. This was one of those facts of life that no one could change, and she simply accepted it as best she could with a little light grousing. Much as she disliked working for Mme Lafours, she dressed quickly in one of her plain wool dresses and hurried to the sewing shop so she could be warm without wasting any of her own oil or wood. She was determined to save that last bundle of wood for when it got extremely cold, and of course there was always the hope that spring would arrive before she had to use it.
Mme Lafours gave her a stern look as she sat behind the sewing table and began work on a blue-striped dress that had been on her list for a month. Angelique hoped Madame wouldn't say anything about her coming in early, she did not want to have to lurk about the shops of Paris for several hours before she was allowed to come to work. Unfortunately, her luck did not hold out.
"What exactly do you think you are doing, Mlle DuBain?"
"Sewing, Madame." Angelique knew that a smart reply wasn't about to win her any points with her employer, but for once she couldn't hold her tongue. The older woman's face turned an unthinkable shade of red, and she said several things which should not even be in a well-bred lady's vocabulary before she told Angelique to get out of her shop, and not to return until she could show some respect.
Knowing that the old windbag couldn't possibly afford to hire another decent seamstress at the slave's wage she paid her, Angelique left the shop safe in the knowledge that she would return later in the afternoon, job intact.
She managed to linger in the bookstore a bit longer than she expected before the manager tossed her out, and went to a nearby café. Figuring that she hadn't had any breakfast, nor any dinner or lunch the day before, she spent her last few centimes on a cup of coffee and a baguette which she suspected was quite a bit older than a day.
As she chewed thoughtfully on the bread (no easy task, considering she had to pound it on the table to get a bit to break off the end), she wondered what she should do for her birthday. No matter how little money she had, Angelique always tried to do a little something for herself one day out of the year. For her it was either Christmas or her birthday, and living the way she did a birthday was quite a bit more special than celebrating the birth of a Lord she quite suspected was little more than a myth.
The coffee was piping hot, and she drank it slowly to make it last a bit longer. It really was lovely coffee, and she wished she could afford another cup. Once upon a time, she thought she might have been able to flirt a second cup out of the boy who was behind the counter, but these days she was looking much too skinny to do any good.
Giving up the struggle to crack another piece off the bread, she shoved the thing into her bag and finished her coffee. As long as she was searching for a place to hide out, she may as well go annoy the managers at the Opera Populaire. Even if they had thrown out her music, she liked to bother them until the old one started yelling at her again. She considered this to be high-class entertainment, and thought that today she might actually inquire on the price of a ticket to the opera. That would certainly be a treat for her birthday, and the old folks who ran the bakery almost always tried to slip a little money under her door as a gift. Maybe, just this once, she would accept the money. But only as a loan until she got paid.
* * *
M. Firmin Richard was having a bad day, plain and simple. First, the sets weren't ready for the opera that was premiering on Friday. Then one of the ballet dancers had fallen and twisted her ankle, forcing M. Reyer to completely rework the ballet in just one day. He knew for a fact those silly brats in the Corps de Ballet didn't have the retention for this sort of thing, and there were important people coming to Friday's performance.
As if all this weren't enough, that piece of music that he was certain M. Andre
had thrown out the day before was lying on his desk, looking content to be there. Irritated, M. Firmin picked it up rather roughly and tossed it in the general direction of the trash bin.
The door opened, and M. Andre came in just as the bundle of papers sailed over the bin and hit the side of the desk. The leather strip came undone, and papers flew everywhere. M. Firmin invoked several phrases which only sailors dare repeat in polite company, at which point M. Andre looked blankly at him.
"What was that?"
"That damned woman's piece! Didn't you throw it away yesterday?" M. Firmin was looking troubled, and M. Andre nodded.
"You mean Mlle DuBain? Of course I did."
"One of those blasted janitors must have mistaken it for a piece of music, then. It was lying on my desk when I came in this morning." Beginning to calm down, M. Firmin glanced at the sea of papers on the floor. For a moment he considered picking them up, but changed his mind when he saw the look on M. Andre's face. "What did you come in here for, Andre?" Silently, he begged God for it not to be more bad news. He couldn't take any more of it.
"I'm afraid it's more bad news, Firmin. The tenor has come down with laryngitis, and there is no understudy for his role."
A burning sensation had developed in M. Firmin's stomach as ignored the papers on the floor and walked out the door with his associate. God was mocking him, he was certain of it.
* * *
Seemingly out of nowhere, a man appeared in the office of the managers. When he saw the sheets of music strewn across the floor like common garbage, he could scarcely contain his outrage. These buffoons had dared to throw this beautiful music onto the ground? This was unacceptable.
Seething, Erik knelt to pick up the music. It was heartbreaking to see the piece in such disarray, and he tried not to think about it. Instead, he thought about what the managers had said about the composer.
A woman had penned this piece…this was very intriguing, and he laughed to himself as he realized it. How could he have not known that the composer was a woman? For all its complexity, the piece carried a somewhat gentler tone that most men were incapable of comprehending. Now it seemed so obvious, and he chastised himself for not suspecting it sooner.
This woman had a name, Mlle DuBain. It didn't sound familiar to him, but he hadn't heard of many women composers anyway. Still, this woman was very talented, and he wanted to let her know that someone appreciated her music. But he didn't know where she lived. This was indeed an unfortunate thing, but a way around it popped into his ever-working mind at once.
Scooping the rest of the papers into his arms, Erik disappeared as quickly as he had come, leaving no trace of himself or the music. He could rearrange the music at his leisure, as this woman had carefully numbered each sheet of music. Just another thing that should have told him at once that the piece was written by no man. Her script was very delicate and light, and she was surprisingly meticulous.
Fading back into the darkness, he smiled. This was going to be more interesting than he could have ever imagined.
* * *
Next to Angelique's boot was a box of tiny crystal beads, each one barely large enough to fit over the needle's point. Every now and again, she would reach back to pick up a handful of the Lilliputian beads, then turn back to the work at hand with a pleased smirk. And here it wasn't even lunchtime yet.
Before she had a chance to go to the opera house, Mme Lafours had managed to catch up with Angelique and ask her to come back to the sewing shop. A woman had come in with a wedding gown which was in dire need of some new beading, and the old woman's hands weren't as nimble as they had been in the past. Of course, she had informed Angelique quite abruptly that she wasn't getting paid any more for this, but the young woman could have cared less. The shop was quite warm. She wondered if this would be of any use softening the bread.
Before long, her mind was back on the music. It was easy to do just about anything, even the complicated work of beading a wedding gown, if she could convince her mind to think about her music. When she was in one of these moods, Angelique was able to find music in just about anything she did. The rattle of the beads in the box, the soft pop and crackle of the fire, even the bride's wearied sighs sounded like an offbeat melody to her, and she managed to incorporate them into her song. Maybe if the opera tickets were too expensive, she would write herself a song for her birthday. And this time, she might actually find a piano to play it to herself on.
Sewing tiny, clear beads on a white dress can quickly become a tedious job, and Angelique was extremely pleased to hear the bride ask if they could have a break to eat lunch. As the young woman took off the magnificent dress, Angelique informed her that it was entirely possible for her to bead the dress without the bride actually being in it. This pleased the girl to no end, and she said that since the wedding wasn't for a week yet, she'd leave the dress at the shop.
The moment the girl left, Mme Lafours seemed to have one of her infrequent bursts of generosity, at which time she informed Angelique that since she had come to work before her scheduled time, she would allow her a five franc advance on her wages. For a moment, Angelique was speechless. She must have been making an odd face because Mme Lafours was looking at her as if she were a moron.
"Are you ill, child?"
"No, Madame! Thank you ever so much, Madame!" Finding her voice, Angelique's mouth babbled on as her mind started shouting at once all the things she could do with five francs. Pictures of a real lunch, a bit of oil for her lamp, a new book, a cheap pair of gloves floated through her mind, and she didn't even notice that Mme Lafours was holding out the five franc note.
"Here, take the thing. And don't be late this afternoon or I shall let you go for good!" With a murmur of discontent, Mme Lafours disappeared into the back where the material was kept.
Unable to contain herself, Angelique fastened her cloak around her throat and hurried out into the snow. She knew the old bat wouldn't fire her as long as the wedding gown needed to be finished, so she took her time as she walked along the street. As she was walking towards the café to purchase substantially more food than she had eaten earlier, it began to snow again. Though the snow was light, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and kept walking.
The opera house was within walking distance, and she decided to go there first. Walking through the doors of the entrance she smiled a bit, remembering the first time she had come into the Opera Populaire as a child. It was as beautiful then as it was now, and she marveled at the fact that the place hadn't seemed to change much. Same beautiful ceiling, same luxurious boxes…a chandelier which looked a bit different, but was basically the same, and of course…
"Just what I needed," an irritated voice came from the office door, and she didn't even have to turn to see who it was.
"Good afternoon, Monsieur Firmin." Same exasperating managers.
"I expect you've come to check on your precious piece?" There was a note of annoyance at the fact that she rarely, if ever, used his last name when she addressed him.
"In part, yes."
"Well I can tell you right now that we won't be needing it." Clearing his throat, M. Firmin looked up at the ceiling. "Come along, you can collect it now."
"Was there any particular reason?" Angelique asked this, even though she already knew what he was going to say. She could almost say the words in unison with him.
"Not especially. It simply isn't what we have in mind for this season." His back was turned to her, so he didn't see Angelique raise an eyebrow at him.
"At least you gave it a chance," she said sourly as he opened the door to the office. M. Firmin turned to her.
"What was that?"
"I never spoke, Monsieur." To this, M. Firmin gave an irritated look, and motioned her hurriedly into the office. "By the way, how much does this theatre charge for tickets to the opera?"
"More than you could afford, I'll wager." He spoke under his breath as if Angelique wasn't in the room, and she pretended not to notice as Firmin handed her a stack of papers that was on the desk. "Here is your music. If you would kindly take it, I have a rehearsal to attend." Angelique looked at the papers.
"Well, I am quite flattered Monsieur. But I can assure you without a doubt that I did not write Don Pasquale." With an amused look on her face, she handed M. Firmin the score. Giving her a look, he looked closer at the cover.
"What in blazes…" M. Firmin turned back to the desk and began rummaging through a stack of papers. "I assure you, your piece was…" The memory of the stack of music flying about the room came back to him, and he laughed. "Perhaps it was just misplaced by a janitor."
"Yes, that is a possibility, isn't it." Angelique spoke rather dryly to the man, folding her arms. "Well, if you happen to find it, I am employed at Madame Lafours' Seamstress. Kindly send it along, will you?"
"Of course," M. Firmin replied with a smile. "I shall make a note of it right away." He turned to his desk, and Angelique gave the back of his overcoat an icy look.
"I'm sure you will," she said frigidly as she walked out of the office. As soon as she was gone, M. Firmin crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it in the bin. He really did dislike that woman.
In the street, Angelique was muttering several less than ladylike things about M. Firmin's masculinity when she caught the smell of something lovely drifting from a nearby restaurant. The five franc note still in her pocket, she headed for the smell. It was almost enough to make her forget that the managers had thrown away yet another piece of music which she had neglected to make a copy of. Almost.
Sitting down at the table of the restaurant, Angelique sighed rather heavily. So much for her feeling.
* * *
Almost an hour after Angelique had left the theatre, M. Andre ducked into the office to avoid the heated bickering that had erupted on the stage between the chief mezzo-soprano and one of the ballet dancers. Knowing at once that someone would undoubtedly want him to mediate this little tiff, he escaped into the office and closed the door behind him.
It was quiet in the office, thank God, and M. Andre sat down behind the desk. But before he could really start enjoying the peacefulness of the office, he noticed that there were two envelopes on his desk. All at once the office grew very cold, and with a shaking hand he reached over to pick up the envelope which was addressed to The Managers. It wasn't the envelope itself that caused him alarm, but the handwriting on the outside of it.
Tearing open the envelope, M. Andre quickly scanned the letter. Unfortunately, this did not make him feel any better. Abruptly, he stood up and hurried out of the office, snatching the second letter from the desk as he did so.
Before he was even halfway out the theatre's front door, M. Firmin was looking for him. M. Andre was a bit relieved, and looked up at the other manager gravely.
"For goodness sakes, Andre, you're white as a ghost. Has something happened?" Without answering, M. Andre handed him the opened letter. "Good Lord," he breathed softly. "I thought for sure he was dead."
"I believe we can rule out that possibility now, can't we?" M. Andre pulled the other envelope from his pocket. "But now you know where that dreadful piece of music went to." With a wan smile, he motioned to the door. "Will you be accompanying me to the seamstress' shop, Firmin?"
* * *
Having stuffed herself silly at the restaurant, Angelique was now happily working away at beading the wedding dress. The job was much simpler now that the dress was securely settled onto a mannequin, and the number of beads in the box was rapidly decreasing. It was amazing what a full stomach could do for her, and she bit off the end of the thread as she hid the end of the string inside the next bead with a smile.
The door swung open, and Messieurs Firmin and Andre rushed inside. Angelique was back in the material room with the dress, and didn't notice they had arrived. Wearing the smile she reserved only for customers, Mme Lafours greeted the two men.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I do for you?"
"We are here to speak to Mlle Angelique DuBain." M. Firmin took the lead, and Mme Lafours shook her head.
"I'm sorry, Messieurs, but Mlle DuBain is quite busy at the moment. Perhaps I could assist you?"
"Forgive us, Madame, but it is imperative that we speak to her at once," M. Andre smiled at her, and seeing the woman relent for a moment, he continued. "We won't keep her more than a moment!"
"Very well, just for a moment. Mlle DuBain?"
"Is something wrong, Madame?" Angelique's voice came from around the corner, and a moment later, she came out from the material room. Her long braid was pinned in a bun so that it was out of her way, and there was a measuring tape hanging around her neck. Little curls of hair had escaped her braid, and she looked about as much like a composer as Dr. Watson. When she realized that it was the managers, she tried to smooth her hair down. "So we meet again," she said with a smile directed at M. Firmin. He cleared his throat nervously.
"Yes, well, it seems that you have an admirer, Mlle DuBain. He sends his regards, and invites you to attend Friday's premiere with his compliments." Clearing his throat again, M. Firmin turned to M. Andre.
"However, at this late time there is only one seat left…" M. Andre coughed nervously as he looked at Angelique. "That would be Box Five." Though the managers looked visibly uncomfortable at the mention of the words, Angelique simply nodded.
"Tell your mysterious patron that I'm honored, and I will be happy to attend." She smiled brightly at them, then turned towards the back of the shop. M. Andre pulled the envelope from his pocket and waved it at her.
"One last thing…he also asked us to give you this letter."
"Thank you," Angelique said as she took the letter from his hand. She waved to the managers as they walked out into the winter chill. While she stood looking at the letter, Mme. Lafours came up behind her.
"What do you think you're doing, standing there like a little idiot? Get back to work!" Her words snapped the young woman out of her trance, and Angelique hurried back to work on the wedding dress, jamming the letter into her pocket as she did. The letter remained forgotten in her pocket for quite some time.
The rest of the day passed quite quickly, and as soon as Mme Lafours told her it was time to go, Angelique took off without a second thought. After buying wood and oil for her lamp, she reached her apartment quickly, and decided that it would be a good night for a bath. While she waited for the water to boil, she took off her wool dress and folded it carefully. Without a doubt, she would need it again the next day.
As she folded it, she heard a faint crinkle in the pocket and realized that she had never read the letter from her fan. Excited, she looked at the script on the front of the letter. There was something strangely familiar about it, but she was much too elated to actually think about it. Her first fan. Angelique opened the envelope, wondering just what could be so important as to make the managers come see her. There was a single sheet of paper inside, and she unfolded it. There was a short note written in red ink, along with thirty francs. Angelique was breathless, not knowing what to say.
My dear Mlle DuBain,
Seeing as those idiot managers would not know a work of art if it fell upon their head, I hope you do not mind that I wish to purchase it from you. Please accept this small amount of money in return for the magnificent piece of music I happened upon at the Opera Populaire. If the amount is inadequate, I shall remedy it at once. I look forward to your next triumph with anticipation!
Your obedient servant,
O.G.
With a squeak of excitement, Angelique pressed the letter and the money to her chest. Whoever O.G. was, she wished he were there so she could hug him. Thirty francs was more than enough to buy herself some new gloves, and maybe some new boots to wear to the opera. Her mind was working much too fast, and she suddenly realized it. Perhaps he would be at the opera that night to meet her.
Now this was a whole different story. Angelique wondered just how far she could stretch this thirty francs. If she was to meet a man who might very well buy more of her music, she certainly couldn't go in a ragged old dress. Perhaps she could dress up one of her old dresses with some new things…
Excited beyond description, Angelique picked up the pot of now-boiling water and lugged it into the bathroom where she proceeded to pour it into the tub to mix it with some cold water. Maybe she could even make a new dress by Friday. Then it hit her.
"Oh no…" Pressing a hand to her lips, Angelique nearly dropped the pot. "Tomorrow is Friday…there's no way…" Slowly unfastening the buttons on her slip, Angelique let it fall around her ankles as she tried to comprehend how she could have let her own birthday sneak up on her so quickly. As she stepped into the tub and began to unbraid her hair, she tried to think of ways to make herself look even better for her fan.
Her fan. Just thinking the words covered her body with pleasant goosebumps, and she laughed as she sank further into the hot water. She didn't want to miss a moment of this happiness, and once more silently thanked whoever had given it to her.
* * *
Unaware that she was expressing such gratitude, Erik was sitting before the opened piece of music which he now owned at the relatively small cost of thirty francs. It was worth substantially more to him, but it was all he had at the moment he had written the letter.
Letting his mind travel to the past once more, an image of Christine Daae appeared before him. But now, her eyes seemed so sad. It broke his heart to think of the pain he had caused her with his callous and unthinking gestures, but sadly he had no other memories of her.
When she had first come to him, thinking him to be her Angel of Music, she had always been happy. There hadn't been a time that her bright eyes weren't smiling as the pure notes poured forth from her throat. He had recognized her talent right away, and helped her to develop it. For this she was always grateful, but no matter what he did or said, he could never make her love him as much as he loved her.
By now, he knew she was married…possibly with a child. For an instant, Erik wondered if her child was beautiful, then dropped his gaze into his hands as he sighed. Of course her children would be nothing but perfect…they were Christine's children, as well as of that ludicrous dandy of a man she had married. He couldn't imagine her having anything but a perfect child. An exquisite child which wasn't…which never even had a chance of being his.
A mixture of sadness and rage rose into his chest, and Erik sprang up from his seat. For a moment, he stood alone in the darkness before sitting back down in resignation. Christine…everything about her was in the past. No matter how intelligent he was, no matter how many curses he uttered, how many tears he shed, how much sadness filled his heart, none of it would bring her back or change the past.
Sadly turning to the music on the stand, Erik closed the cover. Tonight, he had no more desire for even the grandest melodies. The name of the composer drifted into his mind once more and he silently apologized to her, in the hopes that her seat at the Opera Populaire would bring her more happiness than it had brought him of late.
From somewhere in the shadows, a wisp of air extinguished the flickering light of the candle on the barrel organ's edge, leaving only the mournful sound of a sigh in the unfathomable darkness.