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: Oubliez que Tous que Vous Avez vus
Acknowledgements: First and foremost, I must thank the wonderful LostSchizophrenic for reviewing less than an hour after I'd posted chapter seven! Yay! And to Laura Kay: I love getting reviews from you! bounces They like me! They really like me!
On a more literary note, I am pleased to announce that I have decided on the chapter titles up until the twenty-eighth! These are subject to change, but this is as close to an outline as I have, or ever will, come, and so I am feeling very proud of myself, at the moment. Do not think so little of my happiness, foolish mortals!
I pulled the rickety bateau onto the steps, detaching my single remaining lantern (the other had been lost at sea) as I found the mirror-door on the wall, and trotted up the steps towards it, wringing my dripping hair as I went.
When I pushed open the mirror, I met the eyes above the pursed lips of Madame Giry.
"Merde," I murmured darkly.
"Indeed," the small, prim-looking woman's brows arched, and her thin lips twisted into an almost-smile. "Have you been making social calls, then, Mademoiselle?"
I paused, and then replied hesitantly, "You might say that."
She sighed, and motioned for me to close the mirror. Silently, I did so, then leaned against it as I faced her.
"Notre fantôme has rarely accepted callers, you know," she said casually.
I nodded, not following her. Blinking, I tactfully supplied, "I was not invited, Madame: I… happened upon his... lair."
Her eyebrows shot up, and I knew there was no hope in convincing her of such a tale. "Well… I happened upon it because I was looking for it – because he had not come to fetch the things he'd sent me for, you see," I explained quickly. "And, as it turns out, he is rather ill, and I made certain that he was in a state of recline before returning – which turned out to be a harder task than it ought to have been. He is dreadfully stubborn, Madame, even when weakened by illness."
The ballet mistress was surveying me with narrowed eyes that held no certain anger, but very thorough analysis. I fidgeted helplessly.
After what seemed like an awfully long minute, she looked away from me, frowning. "Not well, you say? What ails him?"
"He said 'a head cold,' Madame, but he was able to instruct me on treatment," I replied obediently.
"Well, he would certainly know," the auburn-haired older woman muttered.
"Madame, I'm terribly sorry to have worried you – was there something you were needing me for?" I asked politely.
"Yes, Mireille, I was hoping you would not mind meeting Meg at that bookstore on the other side of town – she spoke as if she thought you would be there. Anyway, I have heard from one of her friends that she has a prétendant éventuel there, and I must make sure she is behaving appropriately. Of course, she would not behave in my presence as she might in, perhaps, yours, and-"
I nodded sympathetically. "Most certainly, Madame. I was intending to visit anyway, it shall be no trouble at all."
She sighed, "Oh, thank you, my dear. I would hate to impose, but I am Meg's mother before anything, and I worry for her, with such a career in her future."
I knew of what she spoke. "Madame Giry, I shall do my best to act as a mentor to her, if she will have me."
Her shoulders sagged, and her smile was weak. "Oh, if you would… and please, call me Antoinette."
I returned from the bookshop weary, but cheerful. Meg's suitor was but a lad, neither bold nor dashing, and I had little fear that she would so much as develop affection for him, let alone act unseemly in his presence. He was an awkward boy, and constantly blushing, but from the awe with which he regarded her, he was obviously smitten.
Each time that look surfaced, I felt a pang of jealousy shoot down my spine.
How embarrassing, really, that a woman of twenty-seven, and not a terribly bad-looking one, at that, should never have had a lover? But the possible suitors that might have frequented l'opéra de Rouen were not of the marrying sort, and I was a Christian woman, in title at the least.
On a morecheerful note, I'd picked up half a dozen books I'd never even seen before, and I was terribly excited.
Horse was left with Édouard the garçon de cheval, and I returned to my room, munching cheerfully on a freshly baked cookie I'd purchased from a young vendor on the corner. I rarely allowed myself to indulge in sweets, but the girl had procured my weakness – oatmeal, with no raisins.
When I warily mounted the previously mentioned bateau mauvais de sort malheureux, I was able to arrange myself in a kneeling position. This made navigation a near impossibility, but, to my delight, I was – for the most part – dry when I reached the phantom's cavern… several hours later.
He was sound asleep again. I took a moment to coo at the sleeping form – even in sleep, he seemed rather dangerous, but it was only part of his charm.
And that mask… I curled my fingers into fists at my sides, resisting the itch at my palms to simply peek… but I mustn't, I knew…
Ok. I was over it now.
I set a mug of water to boil on the fascinating contraption which resembled an oil lamp with a large, flat surface on which to place things needing to be heated. Brilliant, really. As I blundered through the bags in the cabinet in search of the correct tea bag – completely disregarding any order they might have formerly been in – I saw him stirring, in the corner of my eye.
"Don't go back to sleep, I've seen you!" I blared triumphantly when I caught him peering over at me.
The dark-haired man's voice was slightly off-kilter from drowsiness, but his eyes were sharp. "What have you done to my things?"
I stared at him; then glanced at the disheveled cabinet. Oops. "I was… making some more tea?" I squeaked hopefully.
With an enormous sigh, he fell heavily back on the pillows. I turned back to the cabinet and tried anxiously to restore it to some sort of order. Hmmm… the drying things had been hanging at the top – yes, most of them were still in place, and the little pieces of paper had been stacked right there – hopefully they hadn't been in any particular order, as they certainly weren't anymore. The different tea bags had been in the labeled boxes, but they were jumbled now, and…
"Ooooooh."
How pretty! In one of the boxes, among the tea bags, was a little silver ring, clearly made for the hand of someone very slight, with an enormous, shiny stone-
No. It was glass. How peculiar.
"Did you know this was here?" I asked the still form of le fantôme, holding up the ring as I stepped towards him, positively entranced by the facets. Yes, I am a stereotypical lover of all things shiny. I am female. Hear me giggle ridiculously.
I registered him lifting his arm from across his eyes, and then, suddenly, he was at my side, grasping my wrist so tightly I detachedly wondered if my hand would simply pop off of my arm. That would be interesting.Sort of.Excepting the pain that might be factored into the situation.
Wait. Wasn't this guy supposed to be sick? He didn't look especially ill, only very, very, angry, and very, very as if he was about to kill me.
And yet still attractive. How unfair!
The look in his brilliant grey-green eyes was rather 'I am about to strangle you with my bare hands,' but then something like 'common sense,' or 'she's just a stupid girl' flashed through them, and he released my arm, snatching the ring from me. I hadn't let it go when he grabbed me, I realized.
And would you blame me? How could I let something so pretty shatter on the floor?
"Leave," he growled, voice thick with restrained fury, and something else. Hurt. The poor dear, what was wrong with him? "Never come here again."
I may not have been keeper of an abundance of good judgment, but I am not completely brainless. I ran. Fast.
I saw him bury his face in his hands as before my little, evil boat turned towards the labyrinth.
I remembered the water I'd been boiling, belatedly, but dared not warn him.
That salaud foutu, scaring me like that. He could make his own tea.
Translations:
Le Visage dans le Miroir – The Face in the Mirror
Oubliez que Tous que Vous Avez vus Forget All You Have Seen
Bateau – boat
Prétendant éventuel – prospective suitor
Garçon de cheval – horse-boy. Stable-hand
Salaud foutu – censored
It's short, but I'm not going to apologize, as I was ordered not to by a higher power. If you want an apology, I will be happy to email you a private one, if you request it in your review.
