The Phantom of the Opera, Retold

by Kates

Reposted after some massive editing. The tale of all things Phantom is spun, as seen by the characters themselves. Enter my world, mes amies, with your hand at the level of your eyes and before you go, do please leave me a note.

3. He's here: the Phantom of the Opera

Author's note:  I'm just going to post a whole bunch of chapters from this simply because – if I get any reviews, so be it and I very much appreciate those who do drop me a line or two.  (Thank you, Cat; you are perfectly lovely!  I hope that the part of a certain *revised* character in this will give you a pleasant surprise…)

Disclaimer:  Not mine, I wish they were.  I've just…ahem!…borrowed Erik from Sir Andy – that's it, borrowed him!  And if he likes hanging around my house with me and being the Phantom here, what can I do to stop him?  I have no desire to be Punjab-ed…and it's not exactly the worst fate of all to have such a guy around…  But I digress.

Chapter Three –

"He's here: the Phantom of the Opera…"

Two years later – Paris 1881: from the viewpoint of an unseen narrator…

With feasting and dancing and song,

Tonight in celebration,

we greet the victorious throng,

Returned to bring salvation!

The ballet chorus danced out onto the stage, performing seemingly impossible, curving moves and pirouettes across the floor as Carlotta and her Italian aficionado, Ubaldo Piangi, carried on with their practice of the battle scene in the opera 'Hannibal'.  Nearby, Mme. Giry stood, sharp and commanding as always, beating time with her cane and watching the girls for the slightest mistake. 

And coming onto the stage was the Opéra Populaire's own manager, M. Lefevere. 

Today, unlike other days, two men accompanied him.  One was middle-aged with silver hair, expensive clothing, and a silver monocle twisted in front of his left eye.  The other was a younger man, with short brown hair and sideburns – the latest in the upper circle of men's fashion, from what I had heard.  They were interrupting the practice, which continued, nevertheless, with the actors and dancers on the stage carefully avoiding the trio.  No one could quite tell what the any of the three were saying, but, then again, no one really even cared.  I listened.

"Signor Ubaldo Piangi, our principal tenor.  He does play so well opposite la Carlotta," M. Lefevere pointed towards Piangi, who was playing Hannibal himself.  The two men were watching the rehearsal, nodding politely, when suddenly, a female voice called out from behind them. 

"Gentlemen, please! If you would kindly move to one side?" 

Mme. Giry had had enough of the inconveniences that the three men were causing and she banged her cane angrily on the stage to get their attention.  M. Lefevere quickly ushered the two other men and himself out of the way.  "My apologies, Mme. Giry, my apologies." Then, to his companions, he added in a lower tone, explaining, "Madame Giry, our ballet mistress.  I don't mind confessing, M. Firmin, I shan't be sorry to be rid of the whole blessed business."

The older man, whom he had addressed as M. Firmin, protested, "I keep asking you, monsieur, why exactly are you retiring?" 

As was obvious, the whole situation didn't seem quite logical to the two gentlemen.  Otherwise, M. Firmin would not have asked such a question.  If the Opéra Populaire was doing as well as Lefevere said, why was he selling it and leaving Paris?

But I knew why.

Lefevere ignored him, calling attention, instead, to the continuing ballet.  "We take particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets." As he said this, a petite, slim young girl of about fifteen suddenly became prominent among the dancers and the younger man, the one with brown hair and sideburns, gestured to her. 

"Who's that girl, Lefevere?"

M. Lefevere glanced towards her and replied unconcernedly.  "Oh – her?  Meg Giry, Mme. Giry's daughter.  Most promising dancer, M. André, most promising."

Just then, another girl – this one slightly older, alluringly small, and so fair that even the most censorious of critics could not call her anything but incredibly beautiful – became conspicuous from within the ranks of the ballet corps.  She had fallen out of step, seeming distracted.  I watched her with intensity and interest.

Mme. Giry spotted her and banged her cane again, calling impatiently to her, "You!  Christine Daae!  Concentrate, girl!"

The poor, beautiful child started and danced back into step, resuming her correct position.  I heard Meg ask her in a quiet voice that could barely be heard over the music and whirl of the beaded costumes, "Christine…what's the matter?"

Firmin turned to M. Lefevere, frowning slightly as he said, "Daae?  Curious name." To which Lefevere replied, without taking his eyes away from the ballet, "Swedish."

Seeming to be suddenly interested in the conversation, the younger man interjected, "Any relation to the violinist?"

"His daughter, I believe." Lefevere stated, frowning a little.  It was obvious that the young woman was not a favorite among the older members of the staff.  "Always has her head in the clouds, I'm afraid."

The ballet continued to its climax and ended as the dancers scattered to the far corners of the room.  Once they were offstage, the chorus resumed.

Bid welcome to Hannibal's guests –

The elephants of Carthage!

As guides on our conquering quests,

Dido sends

Hannibal's friends!

An elephant, life-sized but mechanical, was led onto the stage.  Piangi, still playing his part of Hannibal, was lifted with some slight difficulty onto its back.  Carlotta, who was playing the part of Elissa, Hannibal's fair but ill-fated lover, began her solo center stage and belted out her song as only she could.  I grimaced. 

Once more to my

Welcoming arms,

My love returns

In splendor!

After a few more minutes of song, the chorus – and Carlotta – was finished.  Lefevere strode forward, clapping his hands for silence as the elephant was pulled off the stage, revealing the two stagehands that operated it from within. 

"Ladies and gentlemen – ladies and gentlemen," he began, "May I have your attention please?" That being gained, he stood center stage and addressed them all. "As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my imminent retirement.  I can now tell you that all these were true, and it is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opéra Populaire, M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles André."

There was a polite applause among the stagehands, dancers, and actors and some bowing.  Carlotta made her presence felt by thrusting herself in front of two male actors and smiling prettily, batting her eyelashes at M. André, who raised an eyebrow and looked pleased.  I was disgusted. 

Lefevere turned and took her by the elbow, bringing her forward as he said, "Gentlemen, Signora Carlotta Guidicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now." André darted forward and took Carlotta's hand, then kissed the tips of her fingers in a gesture of affected gallantry.  "Of course, of course," he said. "I have experienced all of your greatest roles, Signora!"

During this, I saw Lefevere turn around, as if he sensed a presence at his elbow.  Signor Piangi was standing slightly behind him and he was glaring indignantly at M. Gilles André, new co-manager of the Opéra Populaire.  New co-manager indeed – Lefevere is a fool if he thinks that he's going to get off this easily. 

"And Signor Ubaldo Piangi," he added.

Firmin came forward and offered his hand to Piangi, who shook it with little deference, being mostly concerned with the conversation between the other manager and Carlotta.  "An honour, Signor," he said.  Perhaps he could see that Piangi was getting more and more angry with André by the moment, for he had quite obviously decided to make an attempt at somewhat distracting him. 

Meanwhile, André was speaking. "If I remember rightly, Elissa has a rather fine aria in Act Three of 'Hannibal'," he said, flatteringly. "I wonder, Signora, if, as a personal favour, you would oblige us with a private rendition?" He then looked towards M. Reyer, the chief repetiteur, who had also objected to Lefevere's interrupting the rehearsal earlier with his two guests, and remarked, somewhat acerbic, "Unless, of course, M. Reyer objects…"

Carlotta flashed M. Reyer a dazzling smile.

"My manager commands…M. Reyer?"

He bowed to her and replied, "My diva commands.  Will two bars be sufficient introduction?" This was asked as he seated himself at the piano nearby.  Firmin, who seemed as if he really didn't like Carlotta all that much but wouldn't lower himself to saying so out loud, replied, "Two bars will be quite sufficient."

"Signora?" M. Reyer asked, ensuring that Carlotta was ready.

"Maestro." she answered, flouncing her round shoulder – the fat old brood mare – flirtatiously at him.  M. Reyer nodded and began to play the introduction.  Carlotta straightened her shoulders and stepped forward, her normally beady, shrewish eyes shining like twin moonbeams as she began to sing. 

I left the box and went to the flies, a deplorably wicked plan in my mind. 

Carlotta was in the midst of her song when there was a loud ripping sound and then one of the girls in the ballet chorus screamed, pointing to a place somewhere behind the diva.  A cry from all instantly filled the stage, for part of the backdrop had pulled free from its hangings high above them and was crashing towards Carlotta, who looked up, saw it, and darted forward just in time, much to my disappointment.  The backdrop hit the floor with a loud, somewhat dull thud, sending dust flying into the air—

And then all was silent. 

In the immediate, stunned aftermath of the disaster, a few of the younger ballet dancers had begun to cry and everyone else was either murmuring among themselves, wondering what had just happened, or staring at the fallen piece of scenery.  The first audible words came from young Meg Giry, whose suddenly very dark eyes were turned up towards the flies in an odd mixture of both terror and wonder.

"He's here: the Phantom of the Opera…"

Meg's announcement ripped through the chorus and the rest of the ballet dancers and soon the room was filled with whispers of, "He's with us!" "It's the ghost!" "He's here!" Meanwhile, Piangi was the only actor who seemed unconcerned about the reason behind the accident as he rushed across the stage to a swooning Carlotta.  "Idiots!" he snapped at them; then, tenderly, to Carlotta as he gathered her into his arms, "Cara!  Cara!  Are you hurt?" Adding to the tumult, Lefevere joined in, exclaiming loudly, "Signora!  Are you all right?  Buquet!  Where is Buquet?"

"Is no one concerned for our prima donna?" Piangi asked plaintively, although Carlotta was simply hysterical and frightened, but not injured in any way.  Ignoring him, Lefevere glanced up, and ordered curtly to some of the stagehands that stood nearby. "Get that man down here!" He then turned to Firmin and Andre, explaining hastily, "Chief of the flies.  He's responsible for this."

I had quickly disappeared from sight and knowledge several moments before the two stage hands ran up the flight of stairs to the flies, the glow of light from the lanterns that they were carrying splashing and wavering wildly in the shadows, but barely penetrating the deeper blackness there.  I stood and watched as they did their work and moments later, I turned my attentions down to the stage again as the old stagehand hobbled onstage.  Joseph Buquet had been in the employ of the Opéra Populaire's managers ever since I could remember, but since he had been alive long, long before that, it wasn't exactly slighting him when someone called him ancient. 

Suddenly, I glanced closer, frowning ever so slightly, when I saw that, in Buquet's hand, was something that he had partially concealed in his tattered, dingy brown coat.  Lefevere, however, in his impatience, disregarded it.  "Buquet!" he snapped. "For Heaven's sake, man, what's going on up there?"

"Please, monsieur, don't look at me," the old man replied, "As Heaven is my witness, I was not present where I should have been.  Please, monsieur, there's no one there: and if there is, well then…"

With that, he held up the tattered cloth and pulled from it a length of rope, its end fashioned into a noose.  Horror and repulse immediately crossed the faces of Lefevere and the two new managers as soon as they'd seen it and Buquet continued, "It must be a ghost…"

You meddling blackguard.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then Meg broke it by saying, "He's there: the Phantom of the Opera…"

And my disgust turned into anger…

Irritated, André snapped, "Good heavens!  Will you show a little courtesy?" Meg, however, only stared at him with vacant, emotionless eyes and at length, he turned away, tiring of the silent battle of wills.  Firmin was also exasperated: "Mademoiselle, please!" he begged.  Then André turned to Carlotta, who was standing with Piangi at her side, looking pale and shaken but unhurt.  "These things do happen." he apologized. 

It was obvious that he was hoping that she would have recovered enough from her shock by then to be reasonable.  Unfortunately, Carlotta was Italian and Latin blood ran hot in her veins, as well as a full-fledged, tyrannical temper.  She stepped forward, leaving Piangi's side, her eyes blazing, and bit off her next words. 

"Si!  These things do happen!" she railed at him. "Well, until you stop these things happening, this thing does not happen!" She then flounced offstage, calling after herself to Piangi, "Ubaldo!  Andiamo!"

He dutifully went and fetched her furs from the wings, holding them for her as she shrugged the wrap onto her shoulders, still attired in her Elissa costume.  Then the two performers stormed out of the auditorium, but only after Piangi had looked back once and spat contemptuously, "Amateurs!"

And then they were gone. 

In the second stunned silence that followed, no one spoke.  Then, Lefevere announced, somewhat abruptly, "I don't think there's much more to assist you, gentlemen.  Good luck.  If you need me, I shall be in Frankfurt."

And I shall deal with you later, M. Lefevere, I thought darkly, as I watched him dash offstage, grabbing his coat, hat, gloves, and cane from a stagehand that held them out to him as he passed.  He was gone as quickly as he had come.  There was a third, long moment of silence as André and Firmin stared at each other, and, alternately, the actors, dancers, and stagehands stared at them, watching for their reaction.  Finally, André spoke.  "La Carlotta will be back."

"You think so, messieurs?"

The cool, feminine voice that had spoken those words came from behind them and André and Firmin turned as one to see a tall, elegant, older woman with hair as black as midnight – streaked here and there with shocks of white – which was coiled smoothly at the back of her head.  She was dressed entirely in black and was resting her hands on a long, ebony-coloured cane.  It was Mme. Giry. 

She held out a folded piece of paper to Firmin, saying simply, "I have a message for you, sir, from the Opera Ghost."

At the mention of this name, the ballet chorus – all of the girls excepting Christine and Meg – twittered and twirled in fear and Firmin rebuked them, seeming appalled by their strange behavior, "Good Heavens, you're all obsessed!"

They went abruptly silent as Mme. Giry continued, "He merely welcomes you to his opera house and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due."

Firmin looked incredulous and asked in a low voice, "His salary?"

Mme. Giry nodded slowly.  "Monsieur Lefevere paid him twenty thousand francs a month.  Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte de Chagny as your patron." 

A Vicomte?  This was news.

André looked annoyed and the ballet girls reacted to this.  Just out of sight of the managers, Christine grabbed Meg's arm nervously.  I wondered why.  "Madame," André said in a controlled, although slightly tight voice, "I had hoped to make that announcement myself."

She paid him no heed, however, and turned to Firmin instead. "Will the Vicomte be here at the performance tonight, monsieur?"

He nodded assertively.  "In our box."

André, exasperated with the woman, finally burst out, "Madame, who is the understudy for this role?"

Reyer stepped forward, voicing the answer.  "There is no understudy, monsieur," he said, in a low voice as the managers turned to him, "The production is new." There was a reaction to this from the managers, who both groaned and looked away. 

Then Meg stepped forward into the midst of them, fearlessly dragging a reluctant Christine Daae along with her.  Christine, I noticed, shot the younger girl a furious look.  Her anger seemed to magnify her beauty, changing her from an innocent, pure, and untouched white rose into an exotic, intense, unrestrained flame.

"Christine Daae could sing it, sir."

Firmin looked even more incredulous than he had when Mme. Giry had first mentioned my salary.  "A chorus girl?"

Watch yourself carefully, monsieur.

"She's been taking lessons from a great teacher." Meg explained, completely disregarding the worried glance that Christine gave her.  Interested, André stepped forward and asked the pale young ballet dancer, "From whom?"

I caught my breath and felt my gaze instantly rivet itself on Christine.  She had sworn to me…but would she give our secret away now?  She looked away, however, seeming as if she really didn't want to answer the inquiry.  Finally, she replied, softly, "I cannot lie to you, sir, for I do not know…"

"Oh, not you as well!" Firmin protested, impatient, and turned to his associate.  "Can you believe it, André?  A full house – and we have to cancel!"

Mme. Giry interceded on Christine's behalf, siding with her young daughter, as she said, with an utterly convincing amount of firmness in her tone, "Let her sing for you, monsieur.  She has been well taught."

There was a long, dreadful pause as Firmin looked at André; André looked at Christine; Christine looked at the floor; Meg waited anxiously; and Mme. Giry watched Firmin for an answer.  And I watched them all.  Finally, Reyer stepped into the void, saying tentatively, "From the beginning of the aria then, mamselle."

Christine took her place in center stage as the rest of the group moved to one side and Reyer began to play the opening bars of the aria.  Everyone in the world may call me biased when I describe her next, for to me, Christine Daae is everything – my every breath, thought, and dream.  My heart, soul, and life are hers.  She looked so beautiful.  Her sapphire-like eyes shone, her delicate, well-curved cheeks were flushed, tinged with rose-red: a vivid contrast to her silky, pure white skin and her hair, dark and raven-like as it flowed over her shoulders and down her back in a thousand and one shining, silky curls.  She seemed so small, so fragile and innocent, so completely untouched by life and the world.  So beautiful – so utterly beautiful.  So enchanting.  So beautiful.

In silence, she waited for her cue.  Then she looked up, and her eyes centered on Box Five, where I stood.

Sing, angel.  Now is your time.

Sing for me, angel. 

Then, she began the aria.  As music filled the stage and the theatre itself, everyone around her was awed.  Christine's voice was an angelic, perfect sound: bell-like and clear and sweet, unlike that of any other soprano in the world.  She could dip down into the lower notes of any scale and make them velvety and rich and soft if she so desired, and she could make her song soar into the heights of the highest notes attainable, bright and vivacious and pure.  And it was that moment that made her a star, for Firmin and André had decided to keep her in the part of Elissa on the spot.  However, I did hear only one more note of apprehension from the two… 

"André, this is doing nothing for my nerves."

"Don't fret, Firmin."

But I was satisfied.  I left Box Five.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Almost before anyone had even had a chance to realize it, the evening of the gala performance of 'Hannibal' was upon them.  As the company rushed around backstage, lacing on costumes and donning stage makeup, and the richer elite of society drank champagne and joshed among themselves about the upcoming performance, Christine Daae was still in her dressing room. 

And I was making my way through the dusty, secret passages that ran along behind the walls of the theatre, towards her.  Now I must confess that I had thought it quite amusing when Christine had been given her current dressing room in the wake of La Carlotta's desertion – the very same dressing room in which I had given her singing lessons for the past two years.  Within it, a large mirror had been placed: a mirror which I had put many secrets into, one such secret being the fact that – from one side – it seemed to be simply a normal mirror.  From the other side, the side on which I stood, it was a window.  I could see into the room and she could hear my voice through it…but she could never see me. 

To her, I was no more than a voice.  

I took up my usual position just as she crossed the room, glancing at herself in the huge, full-length mirror that was hung on the wall.  I inhaled sharply on catching sight of her face through the wall of glass that separated us, taken off guard by her beauty.  Then I watched as she smiled softly, turned, and went to her dressing table.  She picked up her mirror, her delicate fingertips caressing its worn edges, and surveyed at her reflection closely.  She was checking her makeup.  Of course, it was in perfect shape and even to the untrained eye, she was as beautiful as the goddess of morning herself. 

Suddenly, her hand flew to her throat and she frowned, a look of deep, intense worry coming into her eyes.  I knew why.  Her necklace, part of her Elissa costume, was gone.  For a moment, she frantically looked around for it.  Slowly then, she straightened and turned to face the mirror.  She had long since learned to sense my presence, something for which I was more thankful than she would ever know.  I didn't like the thought of coming upon her in the darkness of the opera house's halls and frightening her – which was why our contact with one another through the mirror and the mirror alone was such a pleasing arrangement.  She knew that I would be there. 

"You were expecting me, weren't you?" I asked, breaking the silence between us. 

She smiled again and looked up and I saw that her eyes: her wonderful, alert, jewel-like eyes of sapphire blue, were sparkling with happiness.  "You told me once that I'd become a great singer, mon ange." Then she paused, scanning over the mirror's other surface as if she thought that she might catch a glimpse of me there. "I may not be great yet, but I'm a singer…and I have you to thank for it."

Oh Christine.

My heart overcome with emotion towards the tender emotion in her voice, the sweet, innocent, child-like, and trusting expression on her face, I half reached out my hand, stretching my gloved fingertips towards her, towards the wall that the mirror served as to separate us.  I wanted to be in that room with her so badly, to be at her side and know what it felt like to look in her eyes as she looked into mine.  Would we forever be kept apart by mirrors and walls and shadows…and myself?

And then I had a mad, reckless, stupid idea.

Without pausing to further speculate on the dangers, on the risks, on the chances I head of ruining everything I had somehow slowly built with her, the trust and confidence that she had come to have in me, everything, I acted on that idea.  As I moved to obey my wildly whirling mind, I couldn't think of anything but submitting to the deepest urge that I had.  And that urge was to reveal myself to her, once and for all.

Only it didn't quite work out that way.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *                      

Christine resumes the narrative …

I was silent, waiting for him to speak, when the lamp by the door was extinguished, dousing the room into inky blackness.  The only light left was the one small candle on my dressing table.

Then something brushed against my back, and a hand, gloved in immaculate white, materialized out of the darkness just above my ear.  Something glittered in its palm and I stared, my lips parting, as a necklace: composed of gold, rubies, diamonds, came to rest around my neck, settling coolly, gracefully, into the dip of my collarbones.  The hands withdrew and I gazed at the necklace, unable to believe its beauty. 

"It's beautiful!" I breathed. 

"Do you like it?"

He sounded pleased.

"Of course I do!" I replied breathlessly, still amazed.

"Then it's yours.  I thought that, perhaps, it might give you whatever power you need out there on stage tonight," He said. "That it will remind you of me and help you know that I will never leave you.  Especially tonight." 

Wanting to jump up and throw myself in His arms, I turned around and almost stood.  A quick movement from within the shadows and the hand that was raised to just inches from my cheek told me that that had been a terrible, terrible move. 

I froze. 

The hand, however, came closer to me, until it was just short of caressing my face, and then it dropped, as He said, in a very quiet, very low, and very controlled voice, "No, Christine…not yet…I beg of you…wait just a little while longer and I'll show you everything.  Just not yet." 

The pleading note in His voice was so touching that I knew that disobeying would surely ruin something, take something very dear and precious away.  I turned back around and looked down, hiding the memory of the rough, shadowy outline of a man's profile – the arch of the forehead, nose, lips, and chin very defined and aristocratic, however darkened by the blackness around them – in the back of my mind. 

"I'm sorry."

There was a surprised pause, and then the hand glided out of the darkness again and came to rest on the back of the chair, nearly touching my bare shoulder. I again felt the irresistible urge to gaze up at Him, to try to see Him.  But I restrained myself instead and merely veiled my eyes with my eyelashes. 

"Don't be, mon petite." 

A deep, wistful sigh. 

"There is nothing that you can do for me." 

His hand left my shoulder and in another moment, the candelabrum was re-lit and I stood as His voice instructed, "Now, sing your part for me – for you must shine tonight, mon amour."

That was the first time that He ever called me His love.      

*                       *                       *                       *                       *                       *

Narrative switches to Meg Giry…

My mother seemed to be concerned about something that night, but she masked her concern with impatience, brought me aside and said, "Go see what is keeping Christine.  It's almost time for her to be onstage and she hasn't even come out of her dressing room yet."

I had my own counsel about how long Christine was allowed to stay in her dressing room, but any argument with my mother wouldn't help the situation, so I nodded and ran back to the dressing room area.  Christine's room, only recently given to her as a result of her new position in the Opéra, was located in a corner near the back entrance to the main hall area.  Thus, it took me several minutes to run up a number of stairs and sprint down the hall to the room.  Once there, I leaned up against the wall outside of the door for a long moment, trying hard to catch my breath. 

All of the girls in the ballet corps, including me, were well in shape – how could we not be?  My mother demanded it!  However, running that fast and that long could literally take the wind out of anyone's lungs. 

It is truly unfortunate that there isn't an alternate way in, I thought as I went to knock on the door. 

Suddenly, noises from inside halted me and I paused, frowning.  Inside the room, I could hear Christine going over her aria from the opera…but there was another voice there, in the room with her…singing with her, in perfect harmony…

I listened and the song continued. 

Think of me,

Think of me fondly,

When we've said

Goodbye.

Remember me

Once in a while –

Please promise me

You'll try…

On that day,

That not so distant day

When you were

Far away

And free…

If you ever

Find a moment,

Stop and think of me…

It was all too beautiful.  I felt tears, even though I didn't know why, pricking my eyes and could barely keep myself from bursting into sobs at the wondrous majesty of the music that swept over me from inside that dressing room.  Christine sang the notes perfectly: her voice sound like that of an angel. 

But the other voice that accompanied hers was too wonderful to describe. 

It belonged to a man, of that I was sure: tenor, beautifully so, and vibrant, like the ringing notes of a harp, and…I can't describe it.  I had heard many impressive singers before, but this one far excelled them all.  This singer made his music with something intangibly heavenly – he sang with passion. 

Who was it that sang with Christine? 

I felt a cold chill go through me and crept towards the door, which was cracked open just ever so slightly.  By pressing my body up against the wall and tilting my head just ever so slightly, I could just barely make out the interior of the room.  And as I looked in…ah-ha!  There was Christine, standing by the mirror, her back to it.  I remembered that mirror well – it was gigantic and incredibly elegant, and one could see every single aspect of one's looks within it, from head to toe.  But the odd thing was that Christine had her back to it and she wasn't facing it at all…and the other voice – that voice of an angel – where was its owner? 

I saw no one. 

Perhaps the door, or something else, hid him…whoever he happened to be.  But who was it?  Who? 

I squinted to sharpen my vision, wishing that I was invisible so that I could walk right in and see what was going on inside.  Christine finished the song, with her partner, and the last note of the song took my breath away so quickly and powerfully that I thought I would faint.  Trying hard to steady my whirling mind, I listened.

"Excellent.  You have done well, mon petite.  You will excel all tonight and I will have never been as proud." Pride fairly dripped from that unseen voice. 

"You are as beautiful as your voice, Christine." 

I felt a shiver run down my back.  Who was it that could address Christine in such a winning, smoothly elegant and alluring voice?  Trying to see Christine's mysterious guest, I leaned forward, even farther. 

And then in a split second, something absolutely terrible happened. 

My weight against the door caused it to suddenly swing open and bang into the wall of the dressing room, while I myself lost my precarious balance and fell, startled, into the room.  The voices abruptly ceased and I felt my face turn a bright red, flushing with both heated anger and embarrassment.  I had never felt so foolish.  I had been caught…spying.  It served me right.

Suddenly, Christine was at my side, picking me up off the floor.  I held a hand to my forehead, rubbing it where I had hit it on the side of the door in my fall, and then looked around.  She was wearing her costume and looked perfectly beautiful, like the queen of Carthage herself.  But it wasn't the costume or anything else that concerned me at that moment. 

As I stood unsteadily, I looked around the room.  "Christine, who was that?"

The young prima-donna-to-be frowned as she stood there, trying to brush my costume back into order.  "What are you talking about, Meg?" Even the skeptical note in my friend's voice didn't dissuade me.  I had seen something and I knew it, even if she didn't.  "That voice – the one that sang so much like an angel – who was it?"

Christine's dark, curving arch of a right eyebrow furrowed over the fine, straight bridge of her nose as she watched me. 

"You must have hit your head harder than I thought, ma cherie."

"There was someone here, Christine!" I protested, my dark eyes snapping with impatience at my friend, "And if you don't tell me who it was, I'll – I'll…" I trailed off, unable to say what I would do.  Christine smiled gaily to that, steering us both towards the door as she said, "Come along, Meg Giry.  We've had enough adventures for tonight and the opera can't start without us."

I looked back towards the dressing room; its door was closed by then, and I shook my head.  "There was someone there.  I heard his voice."

At my side, Christine looked at me sharply.  "You heard nothing!" she said, with surprising vehemence. "The voice that you heard was nothing but an echo: a vibration of my practicing against the walls – or it could have been your imagination.  Tell me seriously, Meg, did you really hear someone there or did you just want to hear someone?"  At my perplexed look, she shrugged lightly and walked on, and when we had reached the backstage area, we went to our places. 

However, something – something more than just a mere feeling – told me that Christine wasn't telling me everything that she knew.

*                       *                       *                       *                       *

Author's note:  I know, Erik was a bit bold there, coming into her dressing room and standing right there behind her, but he's also Erik, so there was never any danger that she could have seen him.  Besides, the whole set-up of that scene just seemed to work as a bit of mysterious romance between the two – can you honestly blame me?