Title: le Visage dans le Miroir
Author: Rancid Melody
Summary: A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of L'Opéra Populaire to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?
Disclaimer: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.
Warning: I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story. Enjoy!
Chapter Title: Votre Domestique Plus Humble
Ha-ha! Two chapters in two days? 'Nay!' You exclaim, 'It cannot be!'
But it is!
Voila!
I woke the next morning in a daze, but was quickly able to remind myself where I was, and why I was there. I had been doing so every morning since I had left L'Opera de Rouen. After all, I had spent 17 years of my life there, not having left for a single night – to wake up in a bed that was not my very own, slightly mildewy, bunk in the barracks of the ballet de corps de Rouen.
As I slowly reviewed the astonishing events of yesterday, I slowly woke my limbs from their heavy, warm drowsiness. I then spent another few moments making sure I had not missed any conspicuous reasoning.
I finally – reluctantly – cracked an eye open. With a weary groan, I opened its mate, eyes drifting purposefully to my writing desk as I propped myself up on my elbows.
Yes, there was the letter.
How predictable.
I sat up, rather stiffly, and stretched my arms above my head, a keen escaping my throat with the meager exertion. Back still arched, I swung my feet out from under the fluffy coverlet, sliding out from underneath it, and then flushing slightly as I pulled my sous la robe down from around my hips. I then lifted my chin, just in case I was being watched, and banished the roses from my cheeks, stalking towards the table with an unnatural poise which was only possible - for me, at least – by years and years and years of careful training, which now forced me to consciously intend to walk normally in order to avoid the short, eloquent steps taken on the balls of my feet.
The note was short and impersonal.
Salutations again, Mademoiselle Decker,
Your acceptance of my offer has gladdened me. Your first task shall be the obtaining of foodstuffs: I will need bread, cheese, and fruit - enough to last for two days: no more, no less. It must be of the finest quality you can acquire. If reimbursement is necessary, I will consider supplying you with accurate funding at a later date.
Your Servant,
O.G.
Ooooh, O.G. I'm sooooo scared.
Actually… he killed people, didn't he?
After I had chosen my garb – a simple, mauve, linen dress, with an errant chain of embroidered white roses slinking across the left sleeve – I hurried out of my room, down the hall, to the left, straight, then left and a quick right, into the staff entrance, into the orchestra pit.
I wasn't late, thank all things holy. Madame Giry looked up from papers spread across the meek, rickety desk which had been squeezed into a corner. She offered me a smile, and beckoned me over. I did so, but not before wincing at the sound of not-yet-tuned instruments.
As the music progressed, Madame Giry followed notes she had already taken, scratching something out here; adding a detail there. I closed my eyes, noting the swells and trills – opportune moments for a flouncy twirl, or a saucy gesture – the music had a sly, smooth feel to it – it was the accompaniment of un morceau de ballet: a celebration, of sorts – it felt rather… ritualistic, by the sound.
As the director began to tap out the chorus' opening notes on the polished piano, the ballet mistress and I relaxed into our stiff-backed chairs, waiting for the next nombre de ballet.
It seemed years later when we finished, but I was not bored. On the contrary, I was sure that my cheeks were flushed; my eyes shining. I had known that I would be good at this. But it was extremely satisfying to finally be able to recognize that not only could I be good at choreography – I was good at it, and I had been. Madame Giry and I conversed straight through the noon meal, trading ideas, and had finalized them by the end of the second orchestra rehearsal. The approval in her eyes whenever I made a suggestion was nearly intoxicating: I had never shone as a ballerina, but perhaps my talents were better suited to the sidelines.
I arrived at my room in a distracted euphoria, but the feeling solidified, then crumbled into a dead weight in the pit of my stomach as I met the eyes of that le joint mauvais de crâne de merde.
Dear Lord.
Five minutes found me on the back of some poor horse, riding as quickly as I dared – a very gentle canter. I was not a horsewoman. I clutched the saddle and reins tightly, feeling my eyes nearly pop from my head, but not able to blink.
If the market was not open, he would kill me.
But, as the unfortunate dappled creature beneath me skidded around the cobblestone corner, I saw a light on in the building I had received directions to, from the stable-hand I'd demanded a gentle, malleable horse from.
The sigh that emerged from my lungs nearly deflated me, and I slid from the saddle of the grey, not even considering that it would need to be tied up, and rushed inside.
"Monsieur," I breathed hastily at the man who looked up at my entrance, "Je dois achéter des pains, fromages, et fruits…s'il-vous plait?"
He raised his eyebrows to accompany a smile. "Oui, Mademoiselle. Une segande."
The shopkeeper aided me in selecting items of good quality (and great expense), but I was all too grateful, and paid him from my savings purse, refusing to consider the sudden lightness of it in my hand, once the appropriate amount was removed.
The stable-hand was a gem, I decided, as I exited the building to find the grey beastie primly nibbling at the grass that was sprouting from the cracks in the cobblestone. "Oh, bon cheval – beau cheval!" I praised the creature thoroughly before climbing astride, setting the basket of food in my lap.
Then the clock tower struck six. I realized that the shop had most likely been closed when I'd arrived, and considered tipping the clerk, but decided against it when I remembered that Horse and I had been near galloping back to L'Opéra Populaire, and were already quite far away from the shop.
I dropped Horse off at the stables, meeting the same stable-hand, tossing him a coin pulled haphazardly from my purse with a broad but hurried smile as I trotted indoors.
When I arrived in my room, I put down my basket and snatched the yellowed parchment from my desk, ripping a corner off in my haste. With a soft scream of frustration, I held the errant scrap to its greater body, and – thankfully – was able to read it nonetheless. The script was much more informal, and the handwriting was even worse than usual, looking distracted.
Mademoiselle-
Please leave the foodstuffs in the second costume storage chamber at the sixth hour. Please be prompt. Do not force me to resort to warnings of the harsher sort.
-O.G.
Translations:
Le Visage dans le Miroir – The Face in the Mirror
Votre Domestique Plus Humble – Your Most Humble Servant
Ballet de corps de Rouen – the ballet company of Rouen
Sous la robe – under-dress; shift
Un morceau de ballet – a ballet piece/song
Nombre de ballet – ballet number/song
Le joint mauvais de crâne de merde –the bedratted evil skull
Je dois achéter des pains, fromages, et fruits…s'il-vous plait? – I must buy loaves of bread, cheeses, and fruit… please?
Une segande – one second
Bon cheval – good horse
Beau cheval – beautiful horse
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