Author's note: And we move on…
Disclaimer: One day, when I take over the world with my comrades, I will own the Phantom of the Opera and all those having to do with it. But as for now, I'm only a simple phan who wishes to entertain others with my work.
Chapter Seven –
The Magical Lasso, Notes, and a Prima Donna
Narrative as told from Meg Giry's point of view…
After her gala performance in Chalumeau's rendition of 'Hannibal', Christine Daae – my best friend and the new star soprano of the Opéra Populaire – had disappeared from her dressing room, without a trace.
She had suddenly, and quite frighteningly, vanished into thin air.
I supposed, as I glanced over at the girls who were standing nearby – the dim and seemingly pastel lights from the wings above us casting glowing, almost chalky bits of light on the spiral-curled, long wings of their hair – that it was Christine whom they were discussing. From what I had heard being whispered in the halls and dressing rooms of the Opéra Populaire, it seemed as if many people suspected that she had departed with the handsome, fabulously wealthy young Vicomte de Chagny, Raoul. I knew that he had paid her a visit in her dressing room after the performance, and also that they two – Raoul and Christine – had known each other since childhood.
However, it didn't seem quite logical to me that Christine would have run off for an evening of celebration with the Vicomte. When we had first heard that the Vicomte would be the Opéra Populaire's new patron, she hadn't shown any particular interest.
But I had heard other people, more superstitious people, speculating on the fact that several members of the cast had seen a shadowy form lurking in Box Five.
It was Box Five that the mysterious, cloaked specter, whom we all called 'le Fantôme de l'Opéra' in our private moments of discussion backstage, demanded to keep a seat in. Those people – the wardrobe mistresses, some of the lower-ranking actors, and all of the ballet corps – now had the strange belief running through them that it had been le Fantôme who had been in Christine's room with her that night, three days ago now. They also believed that it had been he who had kidnapped Christine from her dressing room, ghosting her away from sight and knowledge.
However, that was all simple-minded speculation, the high-ranking actors, practical stagehands, and managers said. There was no such person as 'the Phantom of the Opera', Messieurs Firmin and Andre had told us, and he had not kidnapped Christine Daae! In all likeliness, they announced, she had merely taken advantage of the chaos that generally followed a gala performance and gone home. And if there were such a character as the Opera Ghost, they would very quickly deal with the situation.
They clearly did not know of the Phantom.
No one could give any sort of explanation when it was found that Christine's street clothing – her gown, slippers, cloak, and regular undergarments – were found in her empty dressing room, where she had placed them before the performance. Inquisitive, story-seeking reporters had questioned the managers, searching for answers to what they called 'the mystery of soprano's flight', but all of their inquiries had been to no avail. The managers, let alone everyone else, had no concrete, certain answers to the mystery behind Christine Daae's disappearance.
I had a very eerie feeling about the whole situation.
Just as I was thinking this, however, I suddenly heard a few of the girls who were standing nearest to the wings utter several very loud and frightened shrieks. I turned around quickly, startled, and got to my feet just in time to hear their cries dissolve into embarrassed, tittering laughter. Then, I saw what it was that had frightened them and made them laugh. Joseph Buquet, the old stagehand who serviced the flies high above the stage, had jumped out from behind the towering, dusty stage curtains, wearing a length of fabric that served as a sort of cloak and holding a piece of rope that appeared to be knotted into a lasso. He was showing off for my ballet chorus comrades.
Approaching them with an air of feigned menace, shielding his face with the cloak, he spoke: his voice cryptic and ominous. "Like yellow parchment was his skin…" he said, "And a great black hole replaced the nose that was never there…"
He was speaking of the Phantom.
Pulling out the lasso, Buquet then demonstrated his method of self-defense against the Phantom. He threw the loop of the lasso over his head and pulled it taut; however, before it closed around his throat, he inserted his hand in between the rope and his neck, thus 'saving' himself from a garroted death at the hands of the Phantom.
Everyone knew – from Buquet's stories of the Phantom's wiles – that the specter best liked to see his victims slain by method of what we had come to call the Punjab lasso. Then again, Buquet's stories were almost completely drawn from the fictitious imaginations of the troupe and Buquet himself. We could never be quite sure if the Phantom really did choose to kill his enemies with the Punjab lasso, or, in truth, if he killed anyone. However, it was darkly amusing to come up with fantastic, gruesome stories about the ghost that haunted our theatre.
With a mixture of horror and delight, my ballet chorus friends applauded Buquet's presentation, crowding around him as he went on.
"You must always be on your guard," Buquet said, sitting down as they settled themselves around him in a pastel-hued clump of tulle and satin, "Or he will catch you with his magical lasso!"
The room suddenly took on a deadly silence and we all turned around as one, fear rushing through our veins, as we heard a creaking noise. The ballet chorus girls gasped and shrieked anew, huddling about Buquet, as a trapdoor – a trapdoor that none of us had ever known to exist – opened center-stage.
Noiselessly, like the swoop of the wings of a bat on the night air, a long, gigantic shadow materialized from within the trapdoor's shadows.
It was the Phantom!
Screaming in terror, the girls grabbed each other by the hands and ran off, leaving Buquet and me alone to face the Phantom.
Cloaked entirely in a long, billowing cloak of blackest velvet, a diabolically shaped hat covering his head and shadowing his face so that only a pale, skeletal slash of his famed mask showed in the light, the Phantom stood. Just watching us. Then, suddenly, terror flooded my soul as I caught sight of the pale young woman in white that stood beside him, grasping his hand, hugging close to his darkness, almost covered by the menacing shadow of his cloak.
"Christine!"
My lips mouthed the word but I couldn't make a sound come forth from my throat. The very sight of the Phantom – the Phantom, with Christine by the hand – had paralyzed my movement, mind, and speech. I was helpless.
The Phantom, meanwhile, had fixed his stare on Buquet.
The old man seemed as deaf, dumb, and stupefied as I was. For a long, horrible moment, a cold, dangerous silence settled over the room as I gaped at the Phantom and Christine, Buquet stared, in terror, into the Phantom's eyes, and the Phantom glared, his eyes seeming to flash inhuman, yellowish sparks at the old stagehand.
Then, without a word, he swept his cloak around Christine and exited with her, disappearing as silently and quickly as a shadow of a cloud before the moon in the dead of night. Buquet and I didn't dare to say anything or to even move.
I couldn't breathe.
And then we heard my mother's voice. She had come onto the stage by the wings, presumably as the Phantom had been glaring at Buquet with his horrible eyes, and was seemingly observing. Then, she spoke.
"Those who speak of what they know," she said, warning in her low voice, "Find, too late, that prudent silence is reasonable. Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue – he will burn you with the heat of his eyes…"
* * * * * *
From the narrative of Firmin, the new co-manager of the Opéra Populaire…
It was just what I needed. Another migraine.
"This cannot be happening to me!" I groaned as I entered my office.
It was a bright, sunny day outside and yet, even that could not take away the definite sense of pessimism and uneasiness that I was now feeling.
As I crossed the large room to my desk, rubbing my temples to try to ease the pain in my head that I knew would soon turn into an all-out, full-blown headache, if not a nervous breakdown, I wondered how such a wonderful night could so quickly and easily sour into a perfect failure. Perhaps it had something to do with the rumors of a ghost that haunted the Opéra Populaire. I didn't know. What I did know is that the newest prima donna in the cast was gone, mysteriously disappeared – or taken, as people would have it – from her dressing room directly after her gala performance in Chalumeau's 'Hannibal' and that there were headlines plastered with the story in tabloids all over Paris.
My co-manager, André, and I were in a deep trench.
Speculating on whether things could get much worse, I sat down in the large, plush, leather-backed chair that sat behind my desk.
On the top of the desk itself was a mound of that day's mail: letters, a few newspapers, the like. Feeling a sudden rush of impatience at the whole blasted situation, I eyed the newspaper article that had made front page for the day, claiming exclusive coverage of the story on the mysterious disappearance of the Opéra Populaire's new, beautiful young diva, Christine Daae. " 'Mystery after gala night!' " I read. " 'Mystery of soprano's flight!' "
I picked up the newspaper, shaking my head with a scorn towards the memory of the reporters who had barged into the Opéra Populaire during rehearsals that very afternoon to pry yet another interview from us on the so-called 'kidnapping'.
" 'We are mystified,' baffled Sûreté say, 'Utterly and beyond words mystified – we suspect that foul intentions run afoot beyond the outer façade of grandeur at the Opéra Populaire!' "
I slapped the paper down onto the desktop and stood back, once again feeling my blood pressure rising. My wife would have a fit if she knew that I was getting myself worked up again. However, as I thought about it, it became increasingly clear to me that, even though it frustrated me to know that things around the Opéra were seemingly beyond my control, there could be a profit in all of the chaos.
"Bad news on soprano scene," I commented, strolling over to the tall, clear set of windows that took up almost the entire wall behind the desk, "First, Signora Guidicelli storms out in the midst of rehearsals, then Mademoiselle Daae disappears after them!"
I strode back towards the desk, then turned and walked in the opposite direction pacing as I thought furiously. Since Carlotta's replacement by Christine and Christine's own 'kidnapping', there had been a vast amount of newspaper publicity on the enigmatic goings-on behind the stage curtains of the Opéra Populaire. And with the publicity had come an overwhelming rapport from the prospective patrons and guests. More and more people had thronged to the Opéra's box offices to buy tickets in order to see for themselves the elaborate, thrillingly terrifying inner chambers of the theatre that had so seemingly swallowed up the beautiful young soprano.
Yes, there was a definite side of profit to the whole mess.
"Still," I remarked aloud, "At least the seats get requisitioned. Gossip really is worth its weight in gold!" I glanced towards the window once more, shook my head, and resumed my walk. "What a way to run a business; spare me these unending trials! Half the cast evaporates into thin air, but the crowd stills applauds! Opera – we may as well just go on and forget Gluck and Handel, since it obviously takes only a simple scandal to pack 'em in the aisles!"
Suddenly, the door slammed open, whacking against the wall with peculiarly destructive force, making me wince in reaction, and my co-manager and friend, M. Gilles André, stormed in. The dark circles around his eyes and the ruffled messiness of his hair and clothing told me plainly that the last three days hadn't been too kind to him either.
It had all started when the young Vicomte dashed up to us as we had been preparing to leave, telling us that Christine was gone from her dressing room and that he had heard a man speaking to her from inside, and that the door was locked. This, of course, had promptly instigated an all-out gendarme inspection of the premises. With the police force had appeared the reporters, and thus our long, long night of questioning and searching had begun. It was now three days afterwards and there had been no sign of Christine, the Vicomte, or anything that would point towards telling us where she had gone. The newspaper articles had been published and sold, letting the story on the loose, like an escaped animal of sorts.
Clearly, André was in a temper because of that.
"Incredible!" he raged, stalking into the room and banging the door shut behind him. He crossed the room to me, throwing his coat, hat, gloves, and scarf onto the chair that sat in front of the desk all in one flurried movement. "Incredible!" he continued, "Will they all resign? This is incredible!"
"André, please don't shout…" I began, attempting to calm him. "It's publicity and the take is more vast than you can imagine! Think about it, André – free publicity!"
He slammed his hands down on the desk, palms flat. "Firmin," he said, with some asperity, "What good is publicity when we have absolutely no cast?"
Shaking my head at his youthful, somewhat foolish outlook on things, I reached into the mountain of papers in front of me and began sorting through it. At length, I found an envelope that was addressed to me.
"But André, have you seen the queue?"
I went on looking through the mail and discovered yet another envelope, identical to mine, that was applied to 'one M. Gilles André: co-manager of the Opéra Populaire'. Whoever had sent the notes had a devilishly good writing style…and wrote in blood-red ink…
"Oh, and it seems you've got one as well, André." I told him, calmly, handing the envelope across the desk. With an air somewhere between exasperation and surrender, André shot me a dry look and took the note. At my nod, he sighed, as if I was making his day a tad more troublesome, opened the envelope, and read it contents.
" 'Dear André, what a charming gala! Christine enjoyed a great success,' " he read, " 'we were hardly forfeited when Carlotta left – otherwise, the chorus was entrancing but the dancing was a lamentable mess!' " Disgusted and perturbed by the writer's insolent tone, he threw the note down on the desk and began to pace the room. Shrugging a little, I opened my note.
" 'Dear Firmin – just a brief reminder: my salary has not been paid,' " it said, in black, cruel, scrawling lines across the paper, " 'Send it care of the specter by return of post – PTO: no-one likes a debtor, so it would go better for you if my orders were obeyed!' " Now I understood André's anger. I stood, knocking the chair backwards, and paced the room with him as we both mused our thoughts aloud.
"Who would have the gall to send this?" I asked.
"Someone with a puerile brain!" André retorted. Having a sudden burst of inspiration, I dashed over to the desk and picked up both of the notes, then examined them closely as André continued to stride restlessly. "These are both signed 'O.G.'…" I said, in a low voice, as something that felt all-too-much like fear came over me with cold, chilling fingers. "Who on earth is he?" André burst out, stopping in his tracks. Our eyes met and then we both realized that the answer was staring us right in the face.
"Opera Ghost!" we said, almost as one.
"It's really not amusing." I commented.
"He's insulting our position!" André added.
"And he also wants money…" I said, even as I recalled Mme. Giry's comment on the Opera Ghosts' 'salary', which our predecessor – M. Lefevere – had paid him. Thoughtfully, André commented, his chin in one hand, "He's a funny sort of specter, you know…with the gall to tell us what we've been doing wrong and how to fix it, right to our faces, and with the confidence to expect a large retainer from us."
"My dear André!" I nearly shouted, in my exasperation, clearly seeing the sense of humor that he was suddenly taking the whole situation with, "Nothing could be plainer except for the fact that this man, whomever he may be, is insane!"
The door, which had been closed, slammed open once more and André and I turned as one to face our visitor, who was none other than Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny. He seemed just as perturbed and uneasy as André and I felt, yet he had obviously had the good sense to remember not to show it. His thick, blond hair was immaculately combed and slicked back on his head and his clothing was in as perfect condition as it had been the night of the gala.
"Where is she?" he snapped out, before André or I had even had a chance to welcome him. We must have been even more haggard and benumbed than we had thought, for the both of us merely stared at each other for a moment, then at the young Vicomte, for a moment before either of us could rally our mental forces to make a reply. It was André who made the first move towards conversation. "You mean Carlotta?" he asked, uncertain of just who the 'she' that Raoul was referring to was. It wasn't Carlotta, I knew, from the look of disgust and irritation at our dull minds and stupid questions.
"I mean Miss Daae!" he said, "Where is she?"
Flustered, I finally managed to speak, saying, "Well, how should we know?" and Raoul narrowed his eyes, with an air of supreme command and austere grimness. "I want an answer," he said, icily, as he drew a slip of paper from his coat pocket and showed it to us. "I take it that you sent me this note?"
My tired mind refused to follow this. "What's all this nonsense?" I asked, bemused. André at least seemed to understand the question – "Of course not!" he protested. Finally, the accusation behind Raoul's inquiry came clear to me and I realized what he meant; I was quick to ensure our innocence in the whole twisted matter. I echoed André's denial, "Don't look at us!" to which Raoul interrupted, with a dark look in his eyes, "She's not with you, then?"
"Of course not!" I snapped, irritated.
André, I suppose, had the better sense of the two of us and he replied, with a bit more presence of mind, "We're in the dark—" but Raoul would have none of it. "Monsieur, don't argue," he said, handing the note to André, who stood closest to him. "Isn't this the letter that you wrote?"
I had had enough of this – the unexplained, bothersome mysteries that seemed to be wont to eternally keep appearing around the Opéra Populaire, the notes that our unseen critic was sending us, and now Raoul's own accusations. "And what is it that we were meant to have wrote?" I asked, belatedly seeing the way that André's eyes had suddenly widened as he read the contents of Raoul's letter. Then, realizing my mistake, I felt a chill go through me and corrected myself hastily. "Written!"
André read the note aloud, with a hollow tone to his voice. " 'Do not fear for Miss Daae,' " it said, " 'The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again.' " A moment of awed, terrifying silence stepped in between the three of us as Raoul shot both André and I a very puzzled look that was almost a frown. At the same time, neither André nor I could bring ourselves to believe the veracity in the mystifying events that were unfolding right before our very eyes.
"If you didn't write it," Raoul finally ventured, as he stared at us. "Who did?"
Before any of the three of us could react or even make a single move, the door slammed open, yet again, and this time, Raoul, André, and I whirled as one to gape at our newest arrival. And in through the door, arrayed in a swirl of velvet and furs, swept Carlotta Guidicelli herself. She didn't look remotely happy.
"Where is he?" she railed, brandishing still another note in one gloved hand, as she minced across the room towards us, her eyes alight with anger. Her note didn't seem to have cheered her any more than ours had.
André, once again exhibiting his awesome ability to rally his mental forces in a moment's time, stepped forward to greet her, smiling uncertainly, saying, "Ah, welcome back!"
Carlotta brushed him off, as she snapped, "Your precious patron – where is he?"
Raoul didn't seem to realize what danger he could be putting himself in the way of by replying to the angered diva face-to-face, thus allying himself against her temper; he folded his arms and asked, with a frown, "What is it now?"
Immediately recognizing him to be the personage that she must have thought was her enemy, Carlotta's eyes flashed malignantly and she met him in the center of the room, waving the note in his face. "I have your letter!" she told him. "And it is a letter which I rather resent!"
"And did you send it?" I asked him, quickly.
Raoul seemed shocked that she would even suspect him of such an action. He stepped back, away from her, an offended look on his face. "Of course not!"
"As if he would!" put in André, hastily.
"You didn't send it?" Carlotta asked, frowning in suspicious confusion.
"Of course not!" Raoul snapped.
"What's going on…?" I inquired, failing to comprehend what had just happened.
Carlotta shoved the note accusingly towards Raoul, narrowing her eyes, as she asked, pointedly, "You dare to tell me that this is not the letter you sent?"
"And what is it that I'm meant to have sent?" Raoul asked, just as pointedly; Carlotta handed him the letter and he opened it; the rustling of the paper seemed as loud as a cannon shot in the midst of the sudden silence that had fallen over the room.
" 'To my dear Signora Guidicelli,' " it read, " 'Your days at the Opéra Populaire are numbered – Christine Daae will be singing on your behalf tonight. I would advise you to be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take her place!' "
I glanced at André and he looked back at me. After a moment, I said, decidedly, "Far too many notes for my taste."
"And most of them about Christine." André added. I agreed, continuing, "All we've heard since we arrived here is Miss Daae's name—"
Here, I was cut off by the arrival of two more visitors: Mme. Giry, and her young daughter, Meg. "Miss Daae has returned," Mme. Giry announced.
"I trust her midnight oil is well and truly spent." I replied.
"Where precisely is she now?" André questioned her.
"I thought it best that she went home." Mme. Giry replied, unnerved, as Meg put in, with child-like concern for her friend reflected in her voice, "She needed rest."
Raoul spoke up, asking Mme. Giry, "May I see her?"
"No, monsieur, she will see no one," she told him, pointe-blanc. It was obvious that Carlotta could care less for the welfare of the young soprano who had so briefly taken her place as lead diva of the Opéra Populaire's stage, for she thrust her way through André, Raoul, and I, asking, "Will she sing? Will she sing?"
Mme. Giry made short of her reply, with no fuss or apologies. "Here, I have a note," she said, drawing the slip of paper from the depths of her shawl in one graceful movement as she spoke. Raoul, Carlotta, and André all dashed at her on seeing it, all simultaneously demanding, "Let me see it!"
"Please!" I said, and reached over their heads to rescue the note, giving Mme. Giry a nod of thanks. Then I opened it and read the words within. " 'Gentlemen: I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions; I am giving you one last chance…' "
Something very much like an unseen, terrifying, ominous presence settled over the room. We all froze in our places, fear almost visible as it vibrated in the suddenly icy air, as an eerily powerful and hypnotic voice drifted into audibility: rising and overpowering mine.
"Christine Daae has returned to you, and I am anxious that her career should progress. In the new production of 'Il Muto', you will therefore cast Carlotta in the rôle of the pageboy and put Miss Daae in the rôle of the Countess. The rôle which Miss Daae plays calls for charm and allure, whereas the rôle of the pageboy is silent – which makes my casting, in a word…ideal."
There I saw Carlotta – across the circle of people from me – stiffen in outrage, like an offended hen whose feathers had been ruffled by a dash of water.
"I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five," added the voice of the specter. It paused and seemed to desire that the feeling of menace that we knew loomed over us would be taken as real and not ignored. "Which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination shall occur." The voice drifted off into the air, and I, after a long, terrible moment of silence, read the last phrase that had been written onto the page.
" 'I remain, Gentlemen, Your obedient servant, O.G.' "
There was a split second of silence before Carlotta's shrilling voice broke our pause like the shattering of a million shards of glass.
"Christine!"
"Whatever next…?" wondered André, bemused, as Carlotta raged on, shrieking, "It's all a ploy to help Christine!"
"This is insane…" I said, staring at the note in disbelief.
"I know who sent this!" Carlotta said, then whirled around and pointed an accusing finger at Raoul, "The Vicomte – her lover!"
He, ironical, asked her, "Indeed?" Turning to us, he asked, "Can you believe this?" Without a reply, André darted to Carlotta's side, trying to reason with her, pleading, "Signora…" Half to us, half to herself, she said, ignoring André's attempts to calm her, "O traditori!" The scenario had gone far enough, I decided. "This is a joke!" I told her. "This changes nothing!" André added, quickly.
"O mentitori!" she shrieked, ignoring us.
"Signora!" I begged her.
"You are our star!" André said, lighting on an excellent idea of how to appeal to her diva's frame of mind. Hastily, I joined his effort, saying, "And always will be!" Carlotta turned away from us, however, clapping one hand to her brow in an exuberant actress's show of melodrama. André followed her, still pleading, "Signora…"
"This man is mad!" I told her, darting in front of the Italian prima donna before she was able to reach the door and barring her exit. André came to stand beside me and together, we kept her from making her exeunt. Firmly, he stated, "We don't take orders!" Then I stepped back into the center of the room and addressed them all: Carlotta, André, Raoul, Mme. Giry, and her young daughter.
And the Ghost, should he be around.
"Christine Daae will be playing the Pageboy – the silent rôle," I said, and then cast a look about the ring of people who were standing about the room. Among them, only Mme. Giry, Raoul, and Meg seemed to still have lurking thoughts of apprehension. I ignored them, thinking, What was there to be afraid of? The Opera Ghost is, in all likeliness, only a prankster who receives a thrill out of frightening people and darting about in a ghostly get-up…it's not as if he's real…
"Carlotta will be playing the lead."
* * * * * *
Author's note: Oh, the poor idiots – if only they knew the price of angering Erik…read on!