I must say, I'm rather enjoying this story. I hope you are/do too. Pardon mon Français...really, I'm a bit rusty.
4
Act One
'I have yet to come to a conclusion as to whether or not I have made the right decision in coming to Paris. When I received MM Richard's letter, answering my advertisement in "Les Papiers de Paris", I was momentarily stunned to learn someone would actually be willing to take me in as a houseguest—and at the magnificent L'opéra de Paris, at that. I thought, with all of the space, that I would finally find somewhere to fulfill the requirements I requested in my ad:
"Aspiring author seeking room for rent to work in peace—will pay generously for services."
Indeed that is exactly what I intend to do for the managers, as it is fairly evident they need the money far more than I.
Ever since the unfortunate deaths that occurred at the famous Opera it seems her numbers have dwindled down so that it takes an enormous amount of effort just to keep her running. I noticed MM Moncharmin wearing the same suit jacket three days in a row—and that was only to meals; the rest of the time he could be seen in rather shabby trousers with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and his hair disheveled as he worked with the stagehands to make the house shine.
I also noticed, on a slightly different note, that that dreaded Senorita Carlotta is no longer with the company. I read about her in the papers; all the English critics laughed at her—her snide attitude, her over-the-top voice.
Good riddance, I say...'
The morning after my arrival, I knew I had not been the only one to occupy my rooms during the night. I could feel it in the air—or rather smell it. That calming scent of lavender mixed with the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon and musk—that was what he smelled like on stage, when he held my hands.
And I knew he had visited me during the night. I thought it had just been a dream, but when I saw that my rose had been placed in a vase by the mirror, I was assured that when I felt him sit by my bed to watch me sleep that it was not a dream.
I went over to the white rose while I stretched my tired body. I reached out and stroked the petals, twirling a strand of hair with my other hand.
Then I looked into the mirror and scowled.
"Foolish git," I hissed at my reflection. I was swooning over a man I didn't even know—and a murderer, at that. I readjusted my patch as it had shifted overnight. My scowl returned to save me from my girlish fantasies that made me want to lodge a spoon deep within my throat.
I took the vase and rose and locked it in the upper cabinet of my wardrobe. I would not let a villainous stranger get the best of me—not after all I had been through. No one was going to pierce my skin that easily.
With a peculiar new mind-set, I headed down to the dining hall for breakfast. It was a vast room filled with a long cherry table and enough seating for thirty people. Outrageously large paintings covered the walls—all in need of a good dusting. But the gaudiest aspect of the whole room was a statue that nearly rendered me unconscious as I entered the space; it was a statue of Napoleon, with his hand in his trousers and his sword stretched out to attack unsuspecting dinner guests.
I had hoped—and expected—my first breakfast to be a gathering of small proportions, with guests including the managers, permanent stagehands, and perhaps a carpenter or two coming early for work.
I did not expect to see the entire company—dancers, actors, singers—laughing and conversing at an alarming pitch as I entered. I had to cover my ears to shield them from the noise, until nearly all pairs of eyes were on me, when which it became eerily silent.
"Ah, Jocelyn, lovely to see you," came a familiar voice from behind me. Firmin stepped around me, carrying a plate of sausages. "Everyone, this is Mademoiselle Jocelyn Covington, our resident guest for the time being." He stumbled over to the table and dropped the platter in front of a small dancer who jumped at the clamor. "She's a writer, you know," he added as he stood up. Several enlightened faces smiled at me. I half-smiled and nodded to them. "Please dear, have a seat." With a hand pressed firmly in-between my shoulder blades, Firmin led me to a chair next to a small blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl, whose smile was so large I was nearly blinded by it.
"I'm Meg Giry," she said, in one of the most wretched voices I have ever heard—halfway between puberty and the screech of a seagull. She held out her hand, obviously expecting me to take it.
"Save your energy, Mademoiselle Giry. I am not here to make friends, so your formalities are completely unnecessary and wasted."
That was putting it nicely.
I watched as her hand slid from view in a dramatic, defeated sort of way. I looked around me; the din had died down. Several faces were still staring at me, some with curiosity, others with disgust at what I had just said to the young girl. They were the youthful faces of dancers, the luminous features of actors, and the stressed expressions of singers.
They were faces I did not want to eat breakfast with.
Grabbing a croissant and a goblet of juice, I stood abruptly from the table and made my way out of the hall, nearly crashing into Firmin as he brought in a pitcher from the kitchens.
"Jocelyn? Where are you off to in such a hurry?" he asked with a look of disappointment.
"I am merely taking breakfast to my own rooms," I replied, brushing past him. Walking briskly away from the horrible morning I was having, I heard Firmin shouting my name, pleading with me to stop.
"This was not part of our arrangement, Monsieur," I hissed as I rounded on him. "You told me there wasn't going to be more than ten people here, and that they would all be sure to leave me in peace."
"I know that was our original arrangement, Jocelyn," he began, startled at my sudden change of direction as I attempted to steal away from him. "But things do change." I stopped.
"And what, exactly, has changed, Monsieur?" I asked, nearly shaking with impatience.
"We received a letter—a few weeks ago—from a benefactor willing to fund an show here. He has said that he would take care of everything—the cost of sets and costumes, the pay for our staff and talent...he even said he would pay off the Opera Ghost!" He was out of breath by the time we stopped just outside my rooms. "Mademoiselle, there is no way I would have passed up an opportunity like this. I would have told you last night..." I raised an eyebrow at him. "...but I didn't. I apologize. Your business is important to us all, but not so important that it would stop us from putting on another show." He straightened his shirt and ran his hand over his shining head. I snorted softly at his boldness.
"Well, one can hardly blame you." He didn't know whether to take it as a compliment or an insult, which made my smile grow a bit wider. I took a bite of my croissant and opened the door. "Good day to you, Firmin," I said as I closed the door in his face.
Slumping against the oak gate, I thought about my position. To stay, with magnificent accommodations, but to put up with all the people, or to go—back out into the streets, with no plan, no reputation, a scowl and an eye patch.
"You will be coming to the show, Jocelyn, will you not?" I leapt out of my skin at the sound of Firmin's voice on the other side of the door. Throwing it open, I was amazed to see the manager still there. My eye must have been bulging and my nostrils flaring, for the poor man took an uneasy step back from me as I stared him down.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Coming...to the show...this evening?" he stuttered. I started to breathe again, looking away from him.
"I am not a fan of the Opera, Monsieur," I stated simply. Before I could close the door, Firmin's hand stopped me.
"Please, Jocelyn. You are staying in an Opera House. I guarantee you will enjoy it if you only give it a chance."
"I have nothing to wear."
"I am sure one of the girls has something your size." That was the last thing I needed—a borrowed dress off an over zealous dancer. He must have seen the look I gave that thought. "And of course you would join MM Moncharmin and myself in the top box, stage left—right in the middle of the action!" I smiled inwardly at the zeal of this man; he was desperate just to have me climb out of my cave and into the public world.
"Very well," I said softly, removing his hand from my doorframe, "I will think about it." He kissed my hand gently.
"I shall hope to see you then to-night, in the front lobby, at seven o' clock—"
"Yes, yes, I will meet you there."
When he left, whistling down the corridor the entire way, I fell back on my bed and stared at the high ceilings.
What had gotten into me?
'I am going to the opera to-night, for reasons unknown even to myself. It is not something I normally do—expose myself to the public. The only logical explanation for this behavior of mine—if you can call it logical—is that I might, perhaps, run into the mysterious Phantom again, which in itself is most ridiculous wishful thinking. I must clear my head of him, though it is hard to do so. One who has been deprived of physical and emotional bondage nearly their entire life cannot be blamed for grasping on to someone who seems in the same situation...'
I had lied to the manager about not having a dress; I indeed had one, though was ashamed to say I did. It was too bright, too tight, and too revealing. It made me feel like one of the whores from that Moulin Rouge place over in Monmartre...
I tried my best to position it on my chest so that I wouldn't have to keep pulling it up the entire night, but my efforts were to no avail. I looked at myself in the mirror.
'I should really get rid of this wretched mirror. Dump it in the Atlantic along with this God forsaken dress. I look like a brightly wrapped caramel. Perhaps I would be better off hiding in a candy dish in some immaculate parlor...'
One might say I looked elegant, or even beautiful—if I hadn't been wearing the eye patch. It might be said that it sort of ruined the entire ensemble; I say it gave it character. I pinned up the last curl in a half up-do, letting the longer, lower curls fall over my collarbone and neck. As satisfied as I could be with my appearance, I made my way to the door.
But I stopped. I thought I saw movement, perhaps just felt it. I didn't know where the feeling came from but it gave me chills. Curious, cautious chills.
The lobby was bustling with life as I entered through a side entrance. I smiled at the looks I received when onlookers noticed me--the women scowled and hit their men as I walked by. Everyone flinched, as usual.
Pushing my way through the crowd to the center of the area, I saw Firmin speaking with what I assumed was the benefactor of that evening's show. He spotted me and waved me over to where they stood.
"So pleased you could make it this evening, Jocelyn," he said, extending his hand. I took it and fell into position next to him. "My dear, I would like you to meet Monsieur Ransom Emeroy." The tall, light-haired man flinched as I turned to him, before extending his hand toward me. His clear blue eyes communicated the appalled look that his mustached mouth did not.
"A pleasure, Mademoiselle," he said, attempting to sound charming. Perhaps this was the appropriate time to respond with, "The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur"—but that would be a lie. When I remained silent, save for a small nod, he continued to speak. "My dear manager has told me all about you."
"Has he?" I inquired. Firmin played with the lapels of his coat, ignoring my inquiry. "I'm afraid he has told me nothing of you."
"Well, shall I regale you?" he asked, holding out his arm for me to take hold of. Reluctant as I was, I smiled inwardly at the opportunity of someone attempting to charm me all evening. I took his arm and he led me into the auditorium, with Firmin and the rest of the audience close behind.
I must admit the House looked amazing—probably close to how she looked the night she first opened. The lush red curtains were drawn over the stage, billowing softly against an unseen force—a soft breeze from outside or backstage, or maybe members of the company brushing up against it. As we headed toward our box—with Monsieur Emeroy telling his life story to an inattentive ear—I watched as people took their seats: Barons and their wives, Dukes and their friends (all of which fighting for the seat next to the esteemed one), and townsfolk at their first and only show. With all the blinding gowns of the women in the house, I advanced unnoticed.
It was a welcome change.
Box 4 was positioned directly across from box 5 and sandwiched in-between boxes 2 and 6. Inside there were seven seats—four in the front row and three in the back. The benefactor led me to the front third seat, as he took the second and MM Richard the first. MM Emeroy was still talking my ear off as the lights dimmed and the curtain went up.
If I could remember the name of the show I half paid attention to that night I would regurgitate it. But the fact of the matter is I cannot. I was much more interested in the box opposite ours; it was the only empty seat in the house. And not just one empty seat, but seven. The entire box was empty, while the rest of the auditorium was filled to maximum capacity.
As the ear-piercing singing and half-hearted acting went on below me, I kept my eye on box 5, remembering to keep one ear open to those around me, so I would not forget to clap when they did. This made it seem as though I was somewhat paying attention.
At one point near the end of Act One, I managed to get a hold of MM Emeroy's binoculars and stole a good look at the empty box.
"You won't find him in there...not yet, anyway."
MM Moncharmin had arrived.
Taking the empty seat next to mine, he stretched out his long legs so that they hit the box wall that kept us from plummeting into the seats below. I jumped, snapping the glasses down into my lap.
"I beg your pardon?" I whispered.
"If he comes, he never shows up until after Act One. He hasn't been around much these days but rumor has it he's back in town." He watched the situation below as he spoke, while I watched him. What on earth was he talking about?
"And just who is he?" I asked. Andre raised his brow at me and I knew; I remembered what Firmin had told me the previous night. I inhaled sharply before continuing.
"And just why exactly do you assume I am watching for him?" I hissed.
"Shh!" came a voice from my other side. MM Emeroy patted my arm and pointed to the stage. I rolled my eyes; the most talkative man I had ever met was telling me to be quiet.
I turned back to André, who threw up his arms in defeat.
"Forgive a fool for his assumptions?" I settled back in my seat and smoothed out my dress.
"Very well. You are forgiven." He smiled in the darkness, taking the binoculars from my hands. I watched as he looked down at the stage, then to the rafters above, and finally out to the audience. When he was finished, he placed them back in my lap.
"Marvelous invention, those are. I bet you can see for miles out in the open." He folded his arms and shrugged his shoulders, relaxing back into his seat.
Suddenly applause broke out all around us—the first Act was finished. I clapped politely along with the rest of those in box 4.
"Well, what do you think, Jocelyn?" Emeroy asked.
"It's wonderful. I've never had this much fun sitting in one place for such a long time." The man blinked at me, not fully understanding my sarcasm. I smiled at his dumbfounded expression, then rose from my seat.
"Where are you going?" I stared at him, thinking of an excuse.
"To the ladies' room, of course." As I passed by André, I dropped the binoculars in his lap and winked. He just shook his head and smiled.
I tried to get this out fairly quickly, I apologize for any grammatical/spelling/usage errors. If they exist, please let me know (in a review)!