Disclaimer: All right, I admit it – they're not mine; I stole them all. Except Marie-Suzanne, who is communal property (and apparently never ages, either). Shocking, isn't it? By the way, I apologize for the mistreatment of Firmin; he's just so easy to pick on, poor dear.
Several hours later, Philippe stumbled out of Carlotta's room, looking dazed. Carlotta had attempted to sing every song in 'Hannibal' to him, including those written for male base and tenor voices. It hadn't worked.
"Honestly," Philippe muttered to himself, "you'd think she'd have enough onstage, but no . . ." He sighed. It had to be late afternoon already, and the managers would be preparing for their show tonight. He had to find them quickly, before they disappeared among the various befuddled ballet dancers, complaining chorus members and violent violinists that always accompanied a night at the Opera. Recounting Christine's directions over to himself, he finally ended up in the correct hallway, counted thirteen doors, and knocked politely, silently praying that this was, in fact, the correct room.
"Madame Giry, do go away, would you?" called a weary voice from inside. "That's eleven dire warnings today, and we don't really need a twelfth -"
"It's not Madame Giry," said Philippe, in some exasperation.
There was a pause. Then a second voice said, "Raoul?"
Philippe sighed. "Not quite." His irritation overcoming him, he couldn't resist adding, "But he does say thank you for the loan of the dress."
Another long and awkward pause. Then, "I suppose you'd better come in," said the first voice stiffly. Philippe didn't wait to be asked twice. He affixed as polite a smile as he could manage under the circumstances onto his features, pushed open the elaborately carved door, and entered the manager's office.
The two men inside gave him identical wan smiles.
"How do you do, M. Firmin, M. Andres," said Philippe, and shook both their hands, desperately hoping he'd attached the right name to the right face. "Philippe, Comte de Chagny, Raoul's elder brother. You remember me, I hope?"
Firmin – or perhaps André – brightened. "Oh, yes. The charming gentleman who was so much attached to Mlle – now, what was her name? The ballet dancer -"
André – possibly Firmin – nudged his partner. "That's hardly the most tactful thing to say, now, is it?" he muttered.
Philippe found himself smiling. "It doesn't matter; that's long over now," he said. "Although, of course, I still have the most affectionate fondness for the Opera and her staff."
"Of course, of course," said probably-André, with a genial wave. "Have a seat, do."
Philippe looked around for an empty chair. There was certainly a variety to choose from. One was far too large – "That's the one we reserve for Carlotta," explained could-be-Firmin, seeing his gaze alight on it – and had a cushion that his arm could sink into up to his elbow. The next was all black, and looked about as soft as an ironing board. "Madame Giry's," said maybe-André. Starting to feel as if he'd stumbled into the house of the Three Bears by accident, Philippe looked at the third; it was small and dainty and elegantly worked, looking so light as to be ready to fly away.
"Don't tell me," said Philippe, "that one's Christine's?"
"Well, yes," said one of the two – Philippe decided to give up attaching names to them. "There are certain members of our staff whose duties bring them in here to confer with us quite often . . ."
"Try 'practically live in here'," muttered the other.
"So we've provided them with seating, so they needn't be looming over us all the time," continued the first, ignoring his partner with long practice. "Otherwise, we'd never get anything done."
Philippe looked again at his seating choices, and grimaced. "I . . . think I'll stand, for now. If that's all right with you."
"As you prefer," said the one sitting nearer to him, with a shrug. "Now, what did you want to confer with us about?" He stopped, looking wary. "If it's about your brother and the Daaé girl, I assure you, we'd be quite happy if the two stopped seeing each other – he upsets this Phantom fellow for some reason, which makes him rather bad for business."
"And he ruined my second-best dress," said the other sulkily. "Spilled red wine all over it. Right after I'd gotten the coffee-stains that that Giry girl got on it out, too. It's most unfair."
"Well," said Philippe, who decided that they'd beaten around the bush quite long enough, "while I apologize about the dress incident, I would think that the incredibly large sum of money he's just gifted you with would more than make up for it."
"Firmin!" said the one who was presumably André, looking shocked. "You forgot to thank le Comte for his generous donation!"
Philippe shook his head. "Don't thank me yet," he said. "I can't let you keep it."
Firmin's eyes flew open wide. "No!" he gasped, and, pulling out a check, cuddled it close to him. "Mine!" he cried wildly. "All mine!"
Philippe blinked.
"Don't mind him," said André hurriedly. "He gets like that sometimes, poor chap. It's the stress. He had a traumatic childhood. Now . . . what were you saying?"
"I'm afraid," repeated Philippe patiently, "that I can't let you keep all the money my brother so rashly gave you. It wasn't his to give, and while the Opera House, as always, has my full patronage, that doesn't quite extend to the shirt off my back." He glowered in remembrance. "Although that doesn't stop Raoul from taking that, too . . . but that's besides the point. If you would kindly write a check giving back to the de Chagny household three quarters of the money my brother donated, I would consider it most gracious of you."
"And if we don't?" snapped Firmin, who was still holding the check next to his heart. "We don't take orders!"
"Then I'm afraid," said Philippe, "I'll have to hire a lawyer. My grandfather – you may have heard of him? Baron Marius Pontmercy? He was quite well-known in legal circles; his friend Courfeyrac, who miraculously survived a death at the barricades decades ago due to the kindliness of a woman named Marie-Suzanne, is still very much alive, very much respected, and very willing to represent the descendants of his dear old roommate. So I think you'd be much better off keeping some of the money than losing all of it in a court of law."
Firmin started frothing at the mouth.
Philippe got ready to dodge, but André, who was himself looking rather green, stepped neatly in front of his partner. "Excuse me," he said, twiddling his thumbs nervously, "but did you say – Marie-Suzanne?"
"Yes," said Philippe. "Why?"
"Oh, no!" André shuddered. "The woman is horrible!"
"You know her?"
"Know her?" said Firmin bitterly from behind André, clenching his fists so tightly he almost tore the check, at which point he gasped and gave it a kiss before continuing. "She's lost us thousands of dollars! She keeps coming in here trying to seduce our Opera Ghost, heaven knows why -"
"And then Miss Daaé starts throwing temper tantrums and refuses to sing -"
"And that – that woman always seems to think she can become the new prima donna, and tries to sing in her place!"
André touched his hand gingerly to his ear in remembrance. "Monsieur, it's terrible. We've been thinking about getting a restraining order."
"Well," said Philippe callously, sensing victory, "if you don't agree to my proposal, I'll tell Uncle Courfeyrac to send Marie-Suzanne over to you – and he'll see your restraining order doesn't go through, either."
"Fine." André sighed. "Anything is better than . . . that. We'll keep a third of what Raoul gave us, and give you back the rest."
"One-quarter," said Philippe firmly. "You've already paid off your new chandelier, and since you're losing your staff by the day, you can hardly complain that you need more money to pay their salaries."
André winced. "Touché."
"Tell your partner to write the check," continued Philippe, "and I'll trust we can continue our amicable business relations."
Firmin growled. Philippe dodged prudently behind Carlotta's chair.
"If you'll just give us a moment," said André smoothly, and, turning around, propelled his partner through a door in the wall behind him.
Half an hour later, Firmin emerged, threw a check at Philippe, then turned around and slammed the door again.
"Good day," Philippe called out to them, then walked out the door, breathing a sigh of relief that his task was finally accomplished . . . only to walk right into the middle of a mob of ballet girls leaping down the hallway shouting something incoherent.
"His ear . . . the fan to mow the opera?" repeated Philippe, in complete bewilderment.
The Opera was about to begin.