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.
Chapter Title: Votre Main au Niveau de vos Yeux
Acknowledgements:
I am so happy I cannot breathe! I have planned through chapter twenty-eight! I never thought that this day would come! Amazingly, rather than draining my muse, as planning usually does, I have only been inspired and filled with excitement-osity! I will do my best to refrain from committing grammar errors, but inspiration often leads me to such sins! I am using too many exclamation points! Please read!
"Mireille! What are you doing out here? Wasn't yesterday your day off?"
I turned sharply from the book I was inspecting, and grinned weakly at Meg Giry, who was smiling perplexedly at me. "Your mother said I wasn't looking well." I explained, voice feeling rather heavy as I forced it from my throat. "She told me to go and buy myself something."
Meg grinned, tossing her golden curls. "You are looking a bit tired." He grinned broadened as she jumped to conclusions as only a girl of her age could. "Is it a man?"
I stared at her, and felt a giggle emerge from me, unbidden. Astounded, I clapped a hand to my mouth, but my shoulders continued to shake for a moment. "Oh, if only…" I said, rather wistfully, leaning against the bookshelf in the very image of a little apprentice ballerina lost in a fantasy. "It's not so pleasant as that, but yes, there is a man involved."
"Ooooh tell me!" Meg squealed, neatly hooking arms with me and leading me to one of the small tables in the corner of the bookshop.
"It's not like…" I began uncertainly as she sat across from me, propping her flushed, youthful face on her hands.
"Mireille." The young blonde flattened her hands on the table, fixing me with a friendly glare. "I do not care if it's not exciting. Just tell me who it is or I may die!"
I raised my eyebrows. "I'm not in a relationship with this man, Meg, and I can assure you that he isn't interested-"
"But you are?"
I blinked. "That's an uncertain subject-"
"Oh, is he married? Oh, Mireille-"
"Meg!" I said sharply; loudly. She closed her mouth quickly, and for a moment was comical as she struggled to keep from speaking. I lowered my voice to just above a whisper and said, "I would not allow myself into a relationship with le Fantôme d'Opéra!"
She gasped theatrically. "You mean Erik has gotten you into such a state?"
I blinked. "Why do you know his name, and yet no one has told me?"
Erik. Ooooh. A perfect name, for such a handsome... ahem. I was just telling Meg I wouldn't be thinking like this anymore, was I not?
Meg clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes enormous. When she lowered her palm, she whispered, "I'm not supposed to know!"
"What?" I raised my eyebrows. "Then how-"
"Christine told me. But mother has not. I do not even know if she knows."
"Oh…" I paused, before a thought struck me. "Would you tell me what Christine has told you about… Erik?" Erik… it was so nice to have a name for him now…
And so she did. I did not expect the tale I heard.
Christine Daaé had found a place on the top of my 'Most Strongly Disliked People' list. And rightly so.
How dare she be so selfish? That conniving, manipulative, selfish little putain, using Erik's affections to twist him, mutilate him, force him to release her from a fate she had brought upon herself?
Mutilate. Hah. I could be clever, when I wasn't trying.
Actually, I think I'll refrain from using adjectives like that in the future.
Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes. Christine Daaé was the epitome of all evil, and she needed to die a terrible, painful death. Unfortunately, I seemed to be the only one who thought so. Meg, I noticed, was terribly sympathetic to the vixen's sob story, and only my keen senses could pick out the actual truth among the overdramatism.
Keen senses. Right. I was on a role, today.
Ahem.
Meg had mentioned a ring, in passing, as she told me of Christine's 'trials.' I leapt upon the information, casually inquiring after it. She explained that Christine had given Erik her engagement ring, as a token of her… farewell, or something. Anyway, it was a gift from her.
So that was why he was so angry that I'd found it.
Which was rather unfair of him, really. I mean, how was I to know? And even then, how was it my fault that he only had the stupid ring, instead of the girl herself?
Not that it was Erik's fault. It was Christine's. Why she would have given up the literal worship of such an attractive man…
… Was… unimportant! What was important was that I now knew that I owed Erik an apology for my childish, inconsiderate behavior. And also a warning, that such actions were the norm where I was concerned, and that he'd better get used to it if he wanted me to continue playing secretary for him.
And so I had to return to the labyrinth. Though he'd expressly ordered me not to. Well… too bad for him.
Too bad for him, indeed! That fils de putain had taken down all of my markers! I was in quite a state when I reached the cavern, near roiling with frustration at the hours I'd lost trying to remember my route. I docked the boat at the stone steps, next to its partner, which I supposed was for his use. My guess was that the boat I had claimed was a spare, to be used if the other one met an untimely doom.
Looking around for the black-garbed man, I clambered up the stairs, trotting hesitantly towards his bedchamber, around which the curtains had been drawn.
I froze as something solid wrapped around my neck, near burning the skin, and remained.
A rope.
"I thought I told you, my dear, that you were not to return." A low growl sounded from behind me."
Oh, my.
Translations:
Le Visage dans le Miroir – The Face in the Mirror
Votre Main au Niveau de vos Yeux – Your Hand at the Level of Your Eyes
No other translations necessary! All the rest of it is, um… censored. Even though, technically, it needn't be, since the rating encompasses a certain amount of cursing. However, I don't say curse words, and thus do not write them, and so it makes me feel better. The rating is for… future situations.
So, do you think he's going to garrote her? No? Yeah, I didn't really think you would – where would the story go without its prima? But what is going to happen?
I'm so excited that I know – because I planned through chapter twenty-eight! Which I've already mentioned. And you'll know soon – I'll post on Monday or so. Ciao for now! Ooooh, I rhymed!
I should not be up and writing at midnight. It is bad for your health. Mental health, that is.
