So here it is...after finally pestering myself enough about continuing this story...I have. I will admit I have no excuses save laziness for not getting this chapter out sooner. I do hope you enjoy it :)
3
Late at Night
'It is nearly eleven o' clock as I sit here, writing in my journal, inside a rancid smelling carriage on my way to the famous Paris Opera House. The atmosphere smells of old cheese and even older wine. The acidic scents invade my nose and turn my insides, nearly convincing me to throw open the door and throw out the contents of my stomach. Luckily, there is a window, and as I write, I lean my head against it—thankful for the cool, crisp night air that flows over the countryside that is western France.
The only reason I have for wishing that my journey to Paris is short is that I am dreadfully tired. Traveling, even if you are sitting the entire time, takes an awful lot out of a person—which I find peculiar, but true nonetheless. If I were not so fatigued, I would wish to stay in the lesser-populated portion of the country for as long as I pleased, though I would wish for some other form of shelter. The pastoral side of France is so peaceful at night that I can almost see the tranquility...and I can definitely feel it. The extent of the noise in this particular area contains only the light canter of two thoroughbreds and their heavy breathing as they carry me to my destination. No matter if it is what they were bred to do, their situation makes me want to walk the rest of the way. I try to block out the dreadful voice of the man that commands the poor creatures...'
"Oy!" I called out the open window as I heard the crack of a whip.
"Oui, Mademoiselle?" the pudgy, hooked-nose, food-stained driver asks from above me.
"There is absolutely no need to push these horses as you, sir, are doing. I am not in a rush to get where I am going."
"But mademoiselle, you do not understand. Zese 'orses are very slow... zey need, how you say? A little...motivation, no?"
"Reaching the end of their journey is motivation enough, Monsieur. If I hear that wretched weapon again, you'll be lucky to make it back to your shack alive...not to mention without being paid."
'At the sound of not being reimbursed for his service, the driver snorted and quickly returned to the task at hand. And now I sit, gazing out at the stars, growing impatient—though I said I wouldn't—for the end of my journey. I long for complete silence, for isolation...for a bloody pillow to rest my head, and a warm bed so that I may rest, to steal myself for the next day I must endure in this dreadful world.'
I had never been more thankful to be forced to step into a puddle. After what seemed an eternity of being thrown around in that wretched carriage, I heard a "Ho!" and practically exploded through the door.
I wasn't the least bit upset about soaking my boats as I stepped down from my transportation and gazed up at the Paris Opera House.
Through my correspondence with Firmin Richard, I had learned many of the amazing details of the magnificent building that stood before me...but it was nothing compared to actually seeing it firsthand. There are hardly enough adjectives to describe the beauty of it—the magnificent architecture, the mesmerizing sculptures, and the invisible force that seemed to pull me up the steps.
Waiting on the top step was Monsieur Richard—a stocky, short stub of a man, with a receding hairline and a mustache to make up for the missing locks atop his head.
"Ah, Mademoiselle Covington, it is a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance," he said, holding out his hand in greeting. I smiled beneath the hood of my cloak.
"I assure you, Monsieur Richard," I said slowly, removing my hood, "the pleasure is all mine." I took firm hold of his hand before he could pull it away from me, and I smiled the most charming smile I knew how as he flinched in my grasp.
They all flinched.
I paused before following my host inside, he mumbling incoherently about the architect and history of the Opera House—the same details he also wrote in his letters. I felt movement at my side, tugging at my cloak. I turned to see the filthy driver, holding out his hand as a toothless grin plagued his face. I sighed as I reached into my cloak and retrieved his payment.
"Pardon moi, mademoiselle, but zis iz not the payment we discussed."
"No it is not, my dear, foul-smelling friend. But I was not told about the abuse of these poor animals," I said, retreating down the steps and pulling out two sugar cubes for the horses. They each took their share hungrily. As I stroked the closest one's muzzle, the driver came down to me, red in the face.
"Zese are my animals, mademoiselle, and zee way I treat zem iz no concern of yours...nor should it affect my payment," he hissed, holding out his palm once more.
"Very well," I sighed, reaching for the other pouch filled with his reward. He seemed a bit stunned at my reaction and sudden defeat, but held the bag tight nevertheless. I turned away from him and followed several servants up the steps as they lugged my baggage into the massive building. As the doors closed behind me, I heard an angry cry from the driver outside as his horses took flight without him and his carriage attached.
Monsieur Richard was waiting for me in the lobby, with a man I assumed to be his other half, Monsieur Moncharmin. Armand was taller and softer than Firmin—his dark hair and even darker eyes suggested that he, like myself, preferred peace and quiet. As I came into the soft light illuminating the lobby, I saw him flinch and look quickly away before regaining himself and turning to me.
"Welcome, Mademoiselle Covington," he said quietly, lifting my hand to his lips.
"Yes, yes, welcome, welcome," Firmin said from behind me, "come, come, it is getting so late. Jocelyn, dear, would you like your tour now? Or would you prefer to see everything tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is already here, my dear sir," I responded.
"Dear me, so it is!" he said, checking his pocket watch. "Well then, I'm sure you are eager to get some well-deserved rest—"
"No," I said quickly, "there is no time like the present. I would very much like the tour now."
Armand quickly excused himself as we entered the auditorium—apologizing to me for the brief encounter—insisting that there was much to be done at nearly two in the morning. I hardly listened to a word Firmin said as he led me through the Opera House, instead soaking every detail in within the pages of my journal.
'Backstage I pass a room labeled "Dancers Only". Glancing in, I see rows upon rows of ballet shoes and costumes. I cringe; my mother once forced me to take ballet lessons. After running into the doorframe as my feet continue their journey this night, I remind myself why I quit before the year was over—graceful is not the sort of adjective one would use when describing me. I pass dressing rooms, prop rooms, scenery rooms, and washrooms, making sure to nod my head every once in awhile to assure to Monsieur Richard that I am indeed paying attention to his rambling. I have come to the conclusion that Firmin is the mouth: Armand, the ear that is forced to listen to the mouth, but lacks the hand to shut it up...'
"Ah, and here we are," Firmin said triumphantly as we stepped on stage. He threw out his hands dramatically, as if he himself was an actor. I only shook my head at his lackluster performance, and even rolled my eyes as one of the stagehands backstage threw up the lights and illuminated poor Firmin's shining head. "Well, my dear, what do you think?"
There is an astonishing difference between what I think and what I say.
"Excellent, Monsieur. Simply wonderful," I responded, squinting against the brightness at his 'angelic' form. He laughed a deep, resonating laugh and came at me with his arms open.
"Oh Jocelyn, there is no need for such formalities. As you are my guest here at the Opera House, so too should you address me as 'Firmin'."
According to what is polite, I in turn should have demanded that he call me by my first name, also. But seeing as he already skipped over tradition...
"Of course," I said softly, stepping away from him and farther upstage. I nearly thought the sound of my shoes against the wood would wake every occupant of the building, but quickly put my worries aside as Firmin followed my lead. I knew he was uncomfortable standing at my side as I gazed out into the rows of seats; I didn't say a word, and the silence was probably too much for him. "It is magical up here," I said quietly.
"Magical?" he responded quickly, thankful for conversation. "How so?"
"Standing beneath the lights that shine upon you as if you were a queen...or a god. Living a life that only exists on paper, bringing it to an audience that you try to pretend isn't there...to give them a taste of what you do for a living—living someone else's life. Someone else's joys, sorrows, pain, triumph...audiences love such things.
"They come in flocks, in herds, at the appropriate time, dressed in their finest. They pay top dollar to get the best seats and watch a story unfold beneath their noses. Some are rich...dukes and barons...and some save their entire year's worth of pay to come and sit in these seats.
"But it doesn't matter. It's worth it to them. To witness another's life without partaking in it. Once they enter those doors, all their troubles are left behind. They are left behind. They come in as ghosts, witnessing but not participating. Patient souls that sit and watch. It's what they want to do. It's what they'd like to do more than just once. That's why they come back. To live without really living. To fall under the enchantment of theater."
"I can see why you are a writer," came a confident voice from behind me. I turned to see a very satisfied grin on Monsieur Richard's face.
"It's what I do best," I reply, returning the smile. I then turned away from him as a sudden hint of movement caught my eye somewhere out in the darkness. I listened closely for any sign of what I had seen, or any sight I may have overlooked. "I have heard rumors," I said matter-of-factly, "of a certain 'Opera Ghost' residing in this house." I turned to see Firmin with his head in his hands. "Tell me, sir, are these rumors true?" He dropped his hands and came forward to stand next to me.
"Sadly...yes, Mademoiselle. We have tried everything to rid the house of his existence; he has caused a great deal of trouble in the history of this place." He paused. "He once believed he owned this theater," the manager whispered. I had to lean in to hear it, but quickly jumped back, for Firmin erupted into a fit of laughter. "Can you imagine? Him owning my theatre?"
"I thought it belonged to you and Monsieur Moncharmin both?" I asked suspiciously.
"Yes, well, that is what I meant..."
"What can you tell me about the Opera Ghost?" Firmin sighed before speaking.
"He is a wily one, the Phantom. He knows every trap door and passageway. He prefers box 5 to view the performances," he pointed up and I followed his finger, "but he hasn't been there since before...well, you know." I nodded. "And even then, no one has ever actually seen him in there. His voice is the only thing that proves his existence."
"That seems a little impossible—"
"Oh I assure you, my dear, it is entirely true. We have had the misfortune of his company ever since Andre and I took over...but it is said that he has been living here since the Opera opened—"
"Monsieur Richard!" Somewhere off stage, a restless stagehand called for the manager.
"If you will excuse me, Joce—" I waved him off, gazing around the auditorium. When I could hardly hear his footsteps, I glided along the wooden boards of the stage, admiring the craftsmanship of the area. With my right foot planted, I dragged myother foot around an invisible circle that encompassed my body, tracing the shape slowly and carefully. I watched my work, never taking my eye off my moving foot.
Until I saw a pair of black boots polished so brightly I knew they did not belong to the manager...or any of his employees.
I stopped my spinning, following the trail of ebony that draped the man that stood but a few feet away from me. I followed his long legs up to his lean torso, to his black tuxedo and long, flowing cape...to his broad shoulders and proud stance...and then to his face.
Where most would have let escape a cry of despair, of shock, of disgust...I wanted to cry out for joy...
Here stood a man, whose right side of his face was hidden behind a stark white mask...whose small dark eyes expressed to me more about the man than anything he would ever tell me...pain, loneliness, and a certain hint of hope that sparkled when I finally met his gaze.
Unconsciously I took a step toward the Opera Ghost. Oh how I wanted to know more of this phantom!
Following my lead, he walked slowly toward me, holding out his gloved hands and taking mine in them. Neither of our gazes left the others as he gently kissed the back of my hands. His lips were cold as ice, but the emotion in the gesture warmed my cold heart.
"I have never had the pleasure of meeting another who did not flinch at the first sight of me," he said slowly, in the most stunning, supple, soothing voice I have ever heard. It was like silk—it was silk. I let it fall over my body; I closed my eyes, hoping he would continue talking—I didn't care what he said, as long as he spoke.
But he didn't. With my hands still in his, he waited for me to respond.
"Nor have I," I whispered. I know I must have looked like a fool, my mouth hanging open as it did, my eyes watering as I gazed into his, my hands shaking at his gentle touch...
"Go to bed, Pierre, or you'll bring down the house with all your tired clumsiness!" I turned swiftly to see Firmin appearing out of the shadows from backstage. He approached me swiftly, without any indication that he saw the man on stage with me. I turned abruptly around, only to see that the Opera Ghost had gone without a trace. I looked up, and out into the auditorium, and tried to see behind the curtains, but there was no indication of an escape. And then I looked down...
And saw a white rose, lying upon a trap door.
"I do apologize, my dear Jocelyn...Pierre is new, you see, he hasn't quite 'learned the ropes yet'." He laughed hysterically at his own clever pun, not watching as I lifted the flower from its resting place and placed it within my traveling cloak. Wiping a tear from his eye and still chuckling, the manager said, "Well, my dear, shall we?"
Holding out his arm, I hesitantly took it, allowing him to lead me to my rooms, where my luggage had already been brought. As we entered, my eyes fell upon a luxurious space, with furniture I knew had been brought in especially for me. I scowled at the sight of it.
"Monsieur, this is unnecessary...all this...all I really need is a bed and a writing desk," I said innocently, trying not to sound disgusted.
"Well, that you have...that and more," he stated dramatically, waving his hand around the room, pointing to the large wardrobe that stood next to the annoyingly high queen-sized bed, draped in a deep midnight blue. "To match your beautiful...eyes, of course," he said with much less conviction. I turned to him with a look I knew to be of madness. "Well," he coughed, "I shall let you get settled in then." He walked swiftly to the door, but hung back before exiting. "I would like to reintegrate the fact that we are all very pleased to finally have you here, Jocelyn. If there is anything you need, anything at all, please don't hesitate to—"
"Thank you, Firmin, that will be all. You have already done too much," I interrupted. I followed his steps to the door, willing to close it on him. "Good night, my dear manager," I said softly, attempting to be polite, "thank you for everything."
"You're quite wel—"
The door was shut. I heard his residing footsteps. I looked around my new home, hoping I had made a wise decision, hoping that I would find the peace and quiet I was looking for, and hoping that I would see the Phantom of the Opera again.
Please review.