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: la Nuit Indique sa Magie
Acknowledgements: to La Foamy, Collins, UNSEENxGENIUS, Laura Kay, Phantom of the Fedora,and TheSiriusSparrow: Thanks for your reviews! Yeah, I was wondering about the shaving thing, so… I decided to improvise. It's my story. If I want them to have razors in my story, they most certainly will! More controversial items, such as televisions or wristwatches, however, will not be so exploited.
Shirl and LostSchizophrenic: I am working on a 'beta edition' of what I've already written, to send to you for some preliminary advising. I intend to continue posting future chapters as soon as I finish them, in order to continue updating every few days, but I will be revising them with suggestions you two might give me, and then reposting them. Of course, if you think this unwise, please let me know, and I will reconsider.
Lastly, to A.E. Hall: dear, let me assure you that I really do appreciate your advice. Though you probably won't read this, I'd simply like to point out the subcategory: humor. I know that Mireille is ridiculously immature for her age. If I intended to professionally publish this, which I most certainly don't, I woulddefinitely reform the entire persona. But I'm not. I began writing this for my own enjoyment (you lovely reviewers aresimply incentive to continue) and I'm not 27; I don't know, nor do I really care, how mature a 27-year-old thinks that he or she is. Also, I plan to explore Mireille's forced realization of her age in the future, when she needs it. Right now, she's a teenage ballerina who forgot to grow up – because I said so, and because it's what happened when I started writing her. I really didn't plan Mireille, love. She just happened. And as for 'stereotypical romance'… you don't know the half of what I have planned for these two! cackles
I didn't mean to rant. My apologies. I certainly don't accuse A.E. of any flaming – I've gotten real a flame before, and I know what to expect.
Anyway, it's about to be Spring Break, so I'll have lots of time to write – yeah, I wish. I'm being dragged off to Steamboat, Colorado to ski – I do not have the 'enjoyment of skiing' gene – and I have not even been assured that I will have internet access at all! I won't be gone for too long, though, my dear reviewers, and I will try to write even when I cannot post… I will miss all of you terribly!
Well, not really. But I'll miss getting reviews. grin Just kidding. Of course I'll miss you guys!
Anyway, here's Chapter Sixteen.
"That hurts!" I wailed, jerking my leg away from the offending cloth.
Erik glared halfheartedly at me. "Mademoiselle, if these cuts are not cleansed, it is very possible that they will become infected and…" he paused, before curtly finishing, "scarred."
I froze. Then delicately offered him my still-throbbing ankle.
The masked man had turned away from me, and was removing his gloves. Well, certainly he would want to – wouldn't alcohol damage such obviously fine leather?
He wrapped his bare hand around my slender ankle – all ballerinas have slender ankles, after all, it is a requirement – and I hissed, but not at the shriek of objection emanated tacitly by my wounds.
I really was impracticable, at times.
But honestly, his hands were magnificent. Long, slender fingers and broad palms… a musician's hands, of course. He simply grew more enthralling, the more I saw of him.
Actually, that sounded terribly wrong. We'll forget I thought that, shan't we?
I squeaked as the wicked substance invaded a nasty gash across the bone of my knee, and Erik's mouth twitched grimly as he pressed the cloth to the incision.
He was enjoying my frustration. How dare he!
The next sound I involuntarily emitted was an irritated growl, which earned an outright chuckle from him.
"Don't laugh at me!" I whined, offended. Erik raised his brows at me, those lovely eyes mirthful and mocking. I glared at him mulishly.
He schooled his expression to one that was classically stoic. "Would you object to bandages?" He asked tonelessly, eyes still laughing at me.
"I most certainly would!" I resolutely ignored his disparagement. "How am I to earn the respect of the corps de ballet if my legs are covered in bandages?"
He snorted. "How are you to earn the respect of the corps de ballet if your legs are hacked to ribbons?"
I paused. He had a point. "You're not allowed to be right twice!" I wailed theatrically.
Erik actually rolled his eyes. "Mireille, discontinue this infantile behavior at once. I am not known for my patience, and you are forcing me to regret offering my aid at all."
I immediately fell silent. Then broke such a blessing, speaking softly, "I – sorry."
He said nothing, drawing more linen from the dark mass of his discarded cloak. How did he know all this of medicinal matter? And where all of those bandages come from? I had not bought them for him!
My leg was soon swathed in white linen, pinned with a few hairpins that Erik filched from my dressing table. The second soon matched, though only the ankle was bound. I'd become more familiar with the process by the time I'd mangled my left leg.
When Erik had completed his ministrations, he rose and replaced his elegant cloak about his shoulders. I watched him awkwardly.
"You can stand in those bandages?" he half-asked. Experimentally, I slid off the bed, prepared to catch myself. But I didn't fall. I tried bending my leg beneath the bandages. No luck.
"I'll have to remove them before rehearsal tomorrow." I announced.
He shook his head. "It would be wiser to simply loosen them in the joint area."
I blinked. "Alright, then."
Erik paused, then nodded. "I will return on the morrow, to be certain you need no assistance in the replacement of your bindings."
That was a valediction, then. As he raised a hand to the mechanism on the mirror, I was filled with a rather strong sense of isolation, and… my goodness, he was handsome. I couldn't just let him leave, could I?
Well, yes, I could. But I was rather desperate for companionship. Particular companionship.
And how was I going to get him to stay? Well, obviously, I'd play damsel-in-distress. It had worked so well before, after all, when it had been unintentional!
I neatly pulled my legs out from under me, falling loudly.
Actually, maybe that wasn't such a good idea. "Ow," I whimpered breathily, feeling my eyes well up as I felt a bruise distending my hip.
He was at my side in an instant – those 'catlike reflexes' were something to be appreciated. "Mireille, are you well? Are the bandages disconnecting your circulation?"
I blinked. "I'm alright, I think. I must have… tripped, I suppose. I'm not accustomed to not being able to bend my legs properly, after all." I made a face.
His eyes followed mine to my bandages after he helped me up, and into a sitting position on my bed. "What on Earth possessed you, Mademoiselle, to so injure yourself? Are you suicidal?" His tone told me he certainly didn't think I looked the part. I decided not to be offended by that – rather, I was embarrassed.
"I… was trying to... shave my legs…" I blundered timorously, cheeks flaming, "Mademoiselle Giry didn't explain it… fully, and-"
"Shave your-" Erik looked faintly pink as well, from what I could see of his face, which lightened my discomfiture somewhat. "Why?"
I raised my eyebrows at him. "It is fashionable to do so, Monsieur, and Meg has assured me that I must, or I will never attract a suitor worth my salt." What did that expression mean, anyway?
He blinked, looking somewhat stung. I returned his slightly confused gaze.
"Well," he said stiffly, straightening, "Good luck on attracting this… suitor." And he turned to leave once more.
Hang on.
What?
"Wait a moment," I said slowly, but he was already leaving. I slid from the bed. "Erik-"
I stumbled truly this time, squeaking as my stiff legs tangled in each other and I toppled forward-
He caught me.
I paused until I could keep my eyes from a size so wide I was unable to blink.
"Wow," I whispered into his face, which was rather close to mine. "You're good at that."
He snapped out of superhero mode, neatly pulling me to my feet and replacing me on the bed as if I were a feather. I wish I was a feather. I could probably do well to drop a few pounds.
Oh, dear – what if he noticed?
"Anyway," I chirped, stone-faced, "I don't understand – have I offended you, somehow? Should I not have a suitor if I am to be in your service? Because I assure you, Monsieur, I was not being serious – I know of no man who would have me, and I am too old to find one in a manner that would suit polite society…"
"Old?" Erik seemed taken aback. "You're not old. You are but a child."
I smiled wryly, "Only in my spirit, Erik, though you're sweet to say so. Have you even looked at me enough to guess my age?"
He straightened, and stoically studied me, as one would study a very famous painting, to form one's personal opinion of it. I immediately began to fidget.
"Thirty," he announced after a very long two minutes.
I gasped, clapping a hand to my mouth as my eyes dampened.
Erik blinked, looking worried, and rather panicked, for a moment. "No?" he amended helplessly.
"Twenty-seven!" I cried, mortified. I slid from the bed once more, and when Erik jumped to catch me, I half-dragged him to the enormous mirror, stiff-legged, to meticulously inspect my reflection.
He was right. I did look thirty. I'd developed light creases in the corners of my eyes, and there was a faint line between my brows; across my forehead, from narrowing my eyes in concentration. My lips looked thinner, my eyes dimmer, my cheekbones more pronounced…
"I'm old!" I wailed, collapsing into tears against the black silk of Erik's cloak, "I'm old and single and poor and I'm going to die a poverty-ridden spinster with no family and eighteen cats-" I broke off into sobs, and could hardly breathe until I felt his chest heaving beneath me.
Erik was cracking up. I was shocked out of my distress. I'd never earned any more than a nice chortle from him before, but now he looked beyond simply amused.
He caught me staring, and sobered instantaneously. Which made me snort in derision, and then, overcome with a wave of exhaustion whose likes could only be achieved by a plethora of emotions covered in a very small amount of time, I dropped my head back onto his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist and leaning into him heavily in an embrace that was not romantic in the slightest. I let out an enormous sigh, and smiled into his cloak. This was nice. He smelled good. Like…heavy mist. A sort of almost-sweet, liquidy smell. More masculine than it sounded. Like fog.
By all things holy, he even smelled mysterious.
Erik was very still. I ignored his discomfort obdurately.
A knock on the door had him springing away from me, and me collapsing towards him, having been unprepared for the sudden movement. He seized me awkwardly, and pushed me back onto my feet.
"Mireille? It's Meg. You'll never guess who's here!"
I blinked, then froze. "Une segande, Meg," I called, voice suddenly hoarse, "Let me make myself presentable."
Erik was headed for the mirror, but I yanked him back sharply by his collar. "Oh, no, you don't," I hissed. "I've guessed who's here, and She will recognize that sound!"
He stilled.
I pointed. "Under the bed."
He gawked at me.
"Well, where else is there to go?" I whispered in response, "Hurry!"
He slid beneath the tall bed frame, but I heard him growl softly in distaste.
I grabbed my morning dress and slipped it over my shoulders, cinching the laces in a single movement before pulling the door open. "I'm terribly sorry, Meg – and who is your lovely friend?"
I was suddenly amazingly conscious of my damp, unbrushed hair and my bandaged legs – though at least the latter were hidden beneath my skirts.
"I'm sorry to greet you in such a state of disarray, Mademoiselle," I addressed the second woman, "I had not expected guests."
"Please, I am no Mademoiselle, but you may call me Christine," the young woman said in a rosy tone.
"Ah, the Vicomtess de Chagny, then. Meg had told me about you," I said politely, forcing a smile and a curtsy.
"Oh, please do not use such formality! It makes me feel old!" Her light tone made a mockery of my earlier woes, for certainly this woman could not be a day over twenty.
Indeed, all I had heard of her seemed accurate. Christine de Chagny was a petite woman with soft curves on a slender frame; with lush chocolate curls pulled back to the nape of her arched, ivory neck, upon which poised a head with delicate features: full lips, a small nose, enormous doe-eyes, and a broad, youthful forehead. She had the grace of a ballerina, and the classic beauty of an opera diva, but the innocence of… the roses of which she smelled.
I felt like vomiting. Who had allowed this woman to exist?
Translations:
Le Visage dans la Miroir – The Face in the Mirror
La Nuit Indique sa Magie – Night Unfurls its Splendor
Review please! Could you tell I had a short bout of writer's block about halfway through?
