This is a fly-by updating between classes…. So to my lovely reviewers: N.G., CelticStorms and Aulizia- Just a quick thank you for the reviews on the previous chapter, and I am glad that all of you are enjoying it! Oh, and there just might be a place in the story yet for Messieurs André and Firmin, Aulizia.
Chapter 3- Notes
One long week passed Constance by as Olivier finalized the transference of the deeds and trusts for the purchase of the Opera Populaire. However, that short week had also allowed her to see to hiring contractors and other workers who would start the day her brother took over ownership of the theatre. After a day of meeting with these contractors, she found that it would be much more difficult for other to see her as an authority figure amongst a world of men who thought women the most fragile and even somewhat dense creatures who only cared about the people they held company with and to which galas they were invited. Not that she could quite blame the men for that, though. The upper crust of society always placed a certain amount of importance on women who they could see and not necessarily hear, and that eventually carried down to the lower classes, because they tried to model themselves after the rich people. She had no doubt it was quite a surprising thing to be invited into the Duc de Louvois' home for a business meeting, only to find that it would be a woman running the show.
She could not wait for the other large players in French society to take notice of her new career, and frown upon it. But she truly did not care. They could shun her from their circles all they wanted, for she was finally beginning to see the light at the end of the long, dark tunnel she had been passing through the past few years. Of course her grief was still present, and would forever be there coupled with her loneliness, but the challenges she had been presented in just the past, short week, were enough to take her mind off those things.
Truthfully, while this proposition from her brother had not really sparked an interest in her in the first place, after walking through the theatre and seeing it for herself, she found herself intrigued. The majesty of the theatre was still breath taking, and it certainly would only need the repairs to the stage and front rows of seats, with the refurbishing of other things. As she walked through the backstage area, however, she could not help but find herself overcome with a certain sort of mystery surrounding the Opera Populaire. It was as though the people who had lived and worked there previously were still living within the walls and props scattered about. The atmosphere of the backstage area had so much character and told so many stories of happiness and love, and yet not all it was of glorious performances on the stage, or exciting cast parties, or the thrill of the yearly masquerade. There was a slightly ominous feeling present as well…
She had heard the tales… heard tell of the grotesque Phantom that had killed many and that had caused the disaster of the chandelier all over some ballet dancer whom he had supposedly taught to sing. Constance found the stories all quite ludicrous, and imagined that they spawned from the overactive imaginations of bored crew workers and performers. Of course, she had yet to meet the people with the names that the previous managers had left, but she had heard enough from outsiders about it to find the mystery particularly interesting. Perhaps she would one day find enough peace to write about these particularly fantastical stories, because they would one day make a rather interesting piece of literature. Someone had to write them down, or they would be lost forever.
Even though she did not believe in this elusive Phantom, she was slightly worried that the contractors would show up to work at their appointed date in times. So it was a huge relief that the contractors she hired had shown up on the day they were to start, seemingly not the least bit worried about the stories of the Phantom either. At least she hoped that.
"Well, it looks like everything is under control here," came the voice of her brother.
Constance glanced up from the piece of paper she was reading, "I told you that you did not need to come."
"I know, but…" he sighed and looked at her.
"But now you are wishing you had more of a role in the restoration of this Opera," she smiled slightly, brushing a wisp of hair from her eyes.
Olivier laughed softly, "You know me too well."
"You have not changed much since I left France," she replied. "You always have to be in the middle of things."
"Tis my curse," he said.
Constance nodded, "And you should not worry, I am sure I will need your money."
He rolled his eyes, "I figured that much… well, I am off if you do not think you will need me anymore today."
"No, I believe I shall be fine," she replied. "Now, please go, you are annoying me."
Olivier shook his head in a mock dismay, and tipped his hat to her, walking out of the building. She chuckled lightly and glanced around the opulent foyer of the Opera, the window now uncovered and illuminating the room with such brilliance, it seemed to make each of the colors in the various marbles to light on fire. That inadvertently lightened her spirits and made her feel slightly alive for the first time in many months. Today was a good day. Finally, it seemed that she might be able to continue… but only time would tell.
She sighed and folded the paper up, walking toward the entrance to the theatre. Everyone still seemed to be working happily at their jobs, so she continued back to the managers' office to tackle the task of cleaning up the mess of papers and dust there. The least those managers could have done was clean their working space up a bit more, but then again, they were men. Stepping into the room, she reached over and turned the gaslight up so she could look about the room. It was a rather drab setting, even with the intricate desk and furniture set about the mahogany wood-covered room. She was sure that as the rest of the Opera Populaire, after the dust and the clutter straightened and removed, it would probably seem a great deal more inviting. And even if it did not, it would still suit her needs for the work she needed to do.
With a small puff, dust blew out from the chair behind the desk as she set herself into it. Adjusting her seat then, she scooted closer to the desk and began her perusal of the documents spread about. The pages were mainly of contracts and deals the previous managers made with certain contractors and performers during their short stay in the Opera Populaire, and also were of contract work release pages, dated after the supposed tragedy of the theatre. Nearly finished sorting them out, she lifted the last piece of paper from the desk, to find an envelope beneath it. It was an odd note, the envelope outlined in black, addressed to André and Firmin. Women used these strange envelopes often, and men sometimes, for periods of mourning after losing a close loved one. After all, she sent many recently, so she would know.
But who would have sent this to the managers?
Constance picked up the enveloped, and turned it over to find the red wax seal broken, but still in the prominent shape of skull. Her curiosity aroused, she could not resist the urge to extract the note within the envelope. So she did just that, and began reading it.
Gentlemen,
I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Christine Daaé has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of Il Muto, you will therefore cast Carlotta as the Pageboy, and put Miss Daaé in the role of Countess. The role which Miss Daaé plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the Pageboy is silent - which makes my casting, in a word, ideal.
I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.
I remain, Gentlemen, your obedient servant,
O.G.
Who was O.G?
Christine Daaé?
She could not make heads or tails of this inauspicious letter to the managers. Who sent this? O.G? There was only one thing she could think of that could remotely be linked to those initials, and since it was in the context of the Opera Populaire, she could only surmise it meant Opera Ghost. Who was playing such games with the people here to worry them like this? What was this person's fascination with this Daaé girl? Was this O.G. just some crazed admirer who had gone to such lengths to see her in the spot of Prima Donna, that he masqueraded about as "The Opera Ghost" to scare everyone into submission?
Oh, it was all just rubbish. There could be no such thing as a ghost, or a phantom… or whatever they liked to call the menagerie of odd happenings in the theatre, which probably had absolutely no connection at all. But one thing was unsettling to her. Why had André and Firmin not said anything about this to begin with? Constance rolled her eyes and knew she was jumping to conclusions that probably were not worth jumping to… there was no Opera Ghost. If he was a ghost, how could he pen this most foreboding letter?
She crumbled the paper up and tossed it into the rubbish bin, sitting back in her chair. Closing her eyes, she pushed away the thoughts of this mystery for now. She had many other, much more important things to worry about at the present time than this dreaded legend of the Opera Ghost. But as she sat there in the silence, she heard a fluttering of paper and opened her eyes in time to see and hear an envelope land with a soft plop on her desk. The heavy red wax seal, which had caused the sound of the paper falling on the desk, was stamped with the shape of a skull.
This was not happening.
Sure, she may have been one for mystery and intrigue, but not one with obviously sinister overtones. Not one involving a ghost. Hoping to spot someone who may have dropped this letter, she glanced up toward the rafters. But she saw no one. Not even a flash of quick movement. Someone had to be up there… there was no other explanation. With slightly shaking hands, she reached over and picked the envelope up from the desk, splitting the seal. Taking a deep breath, she reached her fingers into the envelope and extracted a familiar looking piece of stationery like the one she had just thrown away, but this one was addressed to her.
Dear Madame Manager,
I extend my fondest welcome to my Opera House, Connie, and would also like to give you and your brother my sincerest gratitude for so graciously taking over management of the Opera Populaire. It was neglected for far too long in the hands of those who were here before you. The previous managers were, how should one say, so imbecilic that they were unable to see the beauty of the friendly advice I extended their way. I hope that you will be more useful to me when abiding to my wishes, and that your touch here, as well, will heal the woes in these still fairly new walls.
Now that formalities are out of the way, I would like to draw your attention to a few areas which should concern you. My monthly salary is 20,000 francs, and when the theatre reopens, I expect Box Five to be kept open for my usage at all following operas. As for the reconstruction of the Opera Populaire… I have the original plans to the building of this magnificent structure should you require them. And finally, for actors and crew… for now I ask that that Madame Giry, the ballet mistress, be reinstated into her position. You may do as you see fit with her daughter, she is not the best ballerina or chorus girl, but they usually come together. Monsieur Reyer would be a good choice for conductor. When the subject of actors arises I will send more instructions, but will not worry much for now. After all, we see eye to eye on the problems caused by Carlotta… your other casting should not be too horrible, especially if you have Reyer helping.
You may think this demanding, dear Madame, but I assure you that it is for the best interest of the Opera Populaire, of which I have called home for more than half of my life. I do truly hope that this is the beginning of a fruitful partnership and rebirth of this palace.
Your obedient servant,
O.G.
She dropped the paper on the desk, and found that she was more enraged than she was scared of the obvious overtones of the letter. How dare this man… this creature… demand these things? Demand them and threaten her if he was not given them? And a salary for what? Harassing the people who worked in the theatre? Oh, he needed to be taught a lesson. How did he know the pet name her brother and husband had always called her? Or that she was Madame and not Mademoiselle?
Was it a he?
A she?
It?
Could she even respond to a letter when she had no idea where she should take it or leave it? But one thing was certain, it was a living thing, because not in all the stories of ghouls and goblins she had heard about in her relatively short life did they say a ghost could write or even hold a pen.
She rummaged through the desk and found a piece of paper and an envelope. Picking the nib pen up from the desk, she placed it to paper, and took a small breath before composing her response.
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To the Infamous O.G.
I have heard of your supposed presence in this opera house, Monsieur, but I do not deem it at all acceptable. What gives you the right to demand these things you seek? It is my Opera House, good Monsieur, not yours. If you live in it, you may continue to do so, but without the intention of ruining my brother and me, like you did André and Firmin, or going about tormenting others. And if you do try to destroy us in any manner, conceivable or inconceivable, I will see to it that you are not only found, but also have the highest level of justice served upon you.
However, I do not wish to start this relationship off in this direction. If you wish your advice heeded in any small degree, I suggest a meeting where I can see you face to face. I do not take orders from strangers, least of all strangers who hide in the bowels of this theatre and have a supposed history of murder and torment. I must ask that you continue correspondence with me in person. I would also ask how you know my name and of my position on La Carlotta, but I imagine you would not tell me even if I asked, because that gives you an aura of mysteriousness that has allowed you to make people believe you are a Phantom.
If we should have a meeting, I will then see if you are an asset to the Opera Populaire or not, which will, in turn, determine if I should listen to your advice and give you a salary for you consultations. As for Madame Giry, she has already been contacted about the position, as has Monsieur Reyer for our chorus director. Now, all powerful Phantom, who has haunted too many people for too long, I must bid you farewell and hope that you heed my wishes.
Your undaunted manager,
Constance, Marchioness Whitehall of Montrose
He laughed at her letter, and set it down in front of him to read over again. He did not know if he should be angry at the insolence of the tone in which she wrote this litter, or if he should be impressed by her ability not to be deceived by his equally threatening tone. Truly, he had never met a woman who could so stand up to someone like him. And aMarchioness, no less!
Of course, there was no one else like him, but most of the time women or girls ran from the thought that there was a ghostly entity inhabiting the same place they lived and worked. Others were also easily frightened by his threats and his mystery, but this Constance, Marchioness Whitehall of Montrose, did not seem the least bit impressed the bit of ultimatum waving he had done in his letter. She was definitely not one to go with the grain of things, fearing confrontation.
Though she was not impressed with him, he was impressed with her ability to put him in his place, even if that only lasted for a fleeting few seconds. He had never met a woman before who could do that to him, besides, perhaps, Giry. And yet, he had no idea how to handle such a head-strong woman. He had not the practice needed to accomplish such things.
But he would give her this meeting she so needed, and he would see how she reacted with him in person. Would she be scared of his masked face, and what would be beneath it? Would she then become nervous? There was only one way to find out.