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: Il ne Peut pas être Humain

Thanks to Laura Kay and LostSchizophrenic for your reviews of chapters 3 and 4!

Sorry guys, this one is a bit short: only a single kb longer than chapter 3. Ah, well. If I'm going to post a new chapter as often as I have been (basically every day), they're not going to be much longer than 35kb on Microsoft Word. Just so you know. Unless, of course, it's a chapter that requires lots of description, on which case you might find yourself bored.

Also, I say I'll be posting every day, but let me warn any future faithful readers that I will never, ever update on Wednesdays. I'm not at home until at least ten, and then: a girl has got to sleep.


Dear Lord Almighty and Jesus and Mary and... Saint Geneviéve...

I hadn't even written my will yet!

Of course, I didn't have anything to leave. Or anyone to leave anything to, on that note. I didn't even have any money, as I'd spent it all on that bloody food.

Knowledge that the end of my life was imminent did not keep me from a full sprint down the hall, towing my basket along haphazardly.

It struck me, eventually, that I had no idea of where the costume rooms were.

Luckily, I knew where they might have been. At L'Opera de Rouen, the costume rooms were very near the stage, and if that was the case here at L'Opéra Populaire...

Success! The number '2' was carved carefully onto the door. Suddenly hesitant, I silently twisted the door handle, and pushed it open, light spilling through the crack, into the pitch-hued room.

I stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me so that I might see. I let my eyes dart as they wished, seeing piles and piles of costumes… but no fantôme.

He was not there.

I don't know what I had expected, exactly. A pale, ghastly man, perhaps, with blazing red – no, orange – eyes, white hair that stood out on ends, a hooked nose, and lips pulled back in a permanent snarl. He would approach me silently, with only the sound of his breathing audible, for mine would have stopped at the sight of him, and hold that poignard de merde, star of my most unfathomable nightmares, high above his head, and bring it down-

I was distracted by my imaginings by the sudden slamming of the door. The room went black immediately.

"Ça fait chier."

I don't like to mention it, but… I've a sort of fear of the dark…

"Language, Mademoiselle," a low voice chided me.

I spun. Oh my dear. He was here, and I couldn't see him, and I couldn't see the door, and I couldn't see my hand – here I waved it before my face, just to assure myself – I couldn't see anything. I felt my eyes began to water as I stepped forward, blundering in the direction I thought I remembered being towards the door.

My hand hit something that was not a door. Nor was it a ceiling. I'd bet it wasn't window-glass, either. It was silk.

Silk… over flesh.

I drew breath to scream, but a gloved hand pressed sharply over my mouth.

"Now, now. We'll be having none of that." He continued to mock me in that low, melodious voice. That voice... "Calm yourself."

The hand was slowly drawn away from my face, and words I did not want to speak emerged from me in a whimper that I would later wince at for its pitiful hue. "Please… the light… the door… please…"

I felt him hesitate, though we were no longer touching; could almost hear him weighing the situation. "If it is absolutely necessary," he finally said, in an arrogant drawl that made me wince.

I heard him move, and the door opened only a sliver, bringing the room from complete darkness to shadowy outlines, and illuminating the two of us, for our nearness.

Mon cher Dieu.

His eyes were beautiful. A light, clear green, with flecks of gold which complemented the former, but stood out in their boldness. His skin was naturally somewhat dark, but it had the faded, mellow, dust-colored look one achieved by an unhealthy lack of sunlight. His hair: dark brown, or perhaps even black, and smooth, tied back with black silk. The left side of his face was masculine and sculpted, with a high forehead, aquiline nose, and angular jaw. And his mouth… dear Lord, just looking at his full, sensually curved lips made me want to drag him off into a dark corner and… well, never mind, he didn't seem the type for such antics. In the corners of his eyes and mouth, and across his forehead, there were lines of age too deep to match my guess at his years: a certain sign of a hard life. Another hint: the pristine porcelain mask that hid most of the right side of his face from view.

"If you're quite finished gawking," he said, and I was caught rather off-guard at the scorn in his voice, "perhaps you would not mind telling me why you were not here at the sixth hour, like I had instructed?"

I'm sorry to say that I did cower a bit. "Veuillez agréer mes excuses, Monsieur. I was working on choreography with Madame Giry, and I was not able to go and fetch your goods in time to return by six. I tried to find the most suitable foodstuffs for you, if you would like to inspect them?"

His face was unreadable, and his eyes were rather cloudy. Lovely eyes – have I said? Oh, dear. "That will not be necessary," he grunted, near snatching the basket from my hands and earning a reproachful glare from myself, who was still feeling a bit like a cornered rabbit. "Do not be so irresponsible in the future."

"But I-" I began to protest, but he grabbed my shoulder and gently shoved me through the doorway, closing the door in question behind me.

Well.

That was interesting.


Translations:

Le Visage dans le Miroir – The Face in the Mirror

Il ne Peut pas être Humain – He Cannot be Human

Poignard de merde – bedratted dagger

Ça fait chier – this is really bad

Mon cher Dieu – my dear Lord

Veuillez agréer mes excuses – please accept my apologies

Reviewing is good for your health. And mine. It lets me know whether I ought to continue. Cheers!