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: un Procédé Maladroit

Acknowledgements: LostSchizophrenic, thanks for keeping up with the story! You're always one of my first reviews. Laura Kay, you were right about the phrasing in that passage; I changed it as soon as I realized. Thanks for the tip! Please let me know if you see anything else of that sort again. Kristiana Marie, you were also right – I changed the subcategory to humor. I love good advice. Also, thanks for the review from Gigi, and I believe that covers it!

Sorry it took a while to get this one up. I've been having trouble using any of my free time to study, rather than write, and I'm afraid the tests I've gotten back this week have proven this habit unwise. I will not leave you, though, my lovely readers – I just might only update once every one-and-a-half days, or something.

In this chapter… not much happens! It feels a bit like filler, but it was necessary filler. Forgive me, please!


"Don't tell me you don't know how to tend a simple head cold," he half-asked, sounding incredulous.

I regarded him with a fierce, offended glare, then dropped it despondently. "No."

He seemed to be on the verge of rolling his eyes. "All the more reason to leave me alone!"

I propped my hands on my hips stubbornly. "I can help," I insisted. "Tell me what's wrong with you."

He sighed heavily, closing his eyes and pressing his left palm to the uncovered side of his face, with the heel of his hand resting in the hollow beneath his eyebrow. "You'll need to brew tea with the herbs hanging in my cabinet – the third shelf has approximations that I've labeled, look there. That should clear the sinuses. You must either cool la fièvre or sweat it out."

"Vous avez une fièvre?" I echoed, aghast. At his slow, hesitant nod, I leaned forward, pushing his hand away from his face to feel his forehead myself. Yes, it must be a fever: he was simply emanating heat, and yet felt clammy. I clucked my tongue sympathetically. "Pauvre garçon," I cooed, feeling a swelled spot at the side of his neck. "Is that bad?" I asked, pressing the slight swell investigatively.

He let out a low hiss, and I abruptly withdrew my hand. "Yes, it's bad." He glared accusingly up at me.

"Vraimont pauvre garçon," I repeated apologetically. "What would you have me do first?"

"Take the towel cloth from the washbasin and dip it in the lake, to try and bring the swelling down in the glands." I noticed how he refused to refer to himself, stubbornly taking on the semblance of recitation. "Then boil some water at the pit, and boil the second cloth, then let it steam a bit before placing it across the forehead to bring out the fever. Next, make a weak tea to soothe the throat and clear the senses. Then, the patient must fall into a light slumber supervised if possible, to make sure that the fever dies, or at least does not rise."

Sinking my teeth into my lower lip in thought, I turned from him to fetch the towels. In the small shaving mirror, I saw him lean his dark head back – ever-so-gently – on the satin pillows, eyes sliding closed once more.

I hurried about the tasks, wringing the icy water from the slimy towel before returning to help le fantôme wrap it around his neck. I responded to his soft groan of discomfort with another croon of sympathy.

When I returned with the steaming towel and tea, he was fast asleep. Frowning, I laid the towel over his forehead and set the frothy beverage on his table de nuit, then sat on the far side of the lit de cygnet.

I will not – though it is tempting – fail to mention that I was positively aching to peek behind the mask. Wouldn't anyone? But I was able to restrain myself by considering what might happen if I accidentally woke him up. So I sat.

Boredom is exhausting. I was dozing within the hour, sprawled across the velvet comforter. I think that my head was on the shoulder of le fantôme. By the time I'd lay down, however, I was too drowsy, and the warmth of the velvet was like a drug. There was no hope of movement.


"Mademoiselle Decker!" A whisper sounded from somewhere quite far away. "Mademoiselle! Mireille, you pouffiasse, get up!"

My pillow was moving. I forced my eyes open.

Le fantôme was kicking at me halfheartedly; glaring. I noticed detachedly that his left hand kept his head still. I sat up slowly, wincing as a horrendous cramp in my neck made itself known. "Ugh," I frowned. "Feeling better?"

"En bref... non." He glowered as the sour reply emerged from his still alluring mouth. "You must leave now."

"But you are sick!" I argued immediately. "I can't simply-"

"Madame Giry will wonder where you have gone," he pointed out. His triumphant smirk was frustrating, yet extremely attractive…

Dear God, I frighten myself sometimes.

I paused, and nodded reluctantly. "I shall return tonight?" It was only a question in name.

His dark look told me that he realized this as well. "I'm really in no position to argue, as I'm sure you have realized."

As I splashed wearily through the labyrinth of stone and icy water, I ripped thin shreds from my apricot sous la robe to leave signs of my affirmative progression.


Translations:

Le Visage dans le Miroir – The Face in the Mirror

Un Procédé Maladroit – An Awkward Procedure

La fièvre – the fever

Vous avez une fièvre? – you have a fever?

Pauvre garçon – poor boy

Table de nuit – night table

lit de cygne – swan bed

Pouffiasse – censored consider interpreting as 'crazy woman'

En bref... non – in short… no

I know: it's short. Very sorry. I'll do better next time.

However, I will tolerate any sort of complaints, if they come in the form of a review!