He idly swirled the remaining brandy in his glass as he hunched over the hundreds of daguerreotypes littering the tabletop. He lit another lamp.

The Academy archives had once again opened their doors—and vaults—to him generously. The thick glass photographs were blurry and some were terribly scratched, but Gaston's eye roved tirelessly for the one face he could not forget. Hers.

Yet, with a chance and perfunctory glance, he found a pair of cool eyes gazing at him. A woman in her early middle-age years, with a very erect poise and serious expression; dressed in pristine black, and carrying a short cane, her hair intricately plaited in a long braid over one shoulder. Younger and somehow newer-looking, Gaston immediately recognized Madame Giry. He searched for a name on the corresponding list, until he found Madame Marie-Louise Giry, ballet mistress. He checked the dates; yes, she was employed during the years of the "strange affair." One child; a daughter named Marguerite. The woman died four years ago.

Gaston shivered, despite the temperature of the archive, and the additional warmth of his drink. He turned the page.

An address?

Yes, there was an address for a Madame la Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac ... who, in a portrait beside her mother's, looked to be a pretty young girl with sparkling eyes and soft blonde hair. This must be the daughter, Marguerite! Swiftly, Gaston scribbled down the address, intending to send the Baronne a polite letter of inquiry.

It was, once again, getting late. He thumbed through the thick index, all the way to the end where, in small, neat handwriting, someone had written, "Note: here follows the list of missing portraits."

Gaston pushed his spectacles up onto his nose, and bent closer, realizing that his pulse had taken a wild turn. There were two names listed. But it was no use; someone had accidentally smudged the ink before it dried, and all that was left was a blurry series of letters. He leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes briefly. His gut was telling him that this was important. He knew that one of the missing portraits would certainly show him the mournful ghost of Dressing Room Six.

He gathered up his belongings, and put away the multitude of daguerreotypes. Carrying his portfolio tucked tightly beneath one arm, he strolled down the wide hallway to the lobby. He was about to call out a "goodnight" to the staff, when something caught his eye.

An ensemble portrait. The whole opera company stood gathered on a stage, some grinning and looking exuberant, some looking placid. Moving to take a closer look, Gaston noted the over-done, opulent costumes. Very Meyerbeer-like. In fact, he recognized it; it was Hannibal by Chalumeau. There was a mechanical elephant behind the cast. Tall, proud Signora Carlotta Guidicelli stood center-stage, flanked by stout Signor Ubaldo Piangi, who had died untimely, shortly afterward. The chorus was somewhat ridiculously dressed, and the ballerinas scantily-clad. Off to the left was pretty Petite Giry, and farther to the side was her stern mother.

And there she was, right beside Little Giry, dressed in the slave-girl costume, brunette curls drawn back from her face. She was one of the serious-looking members of the group, except for a tiny, secretive smile. Gaston stared. A chorus girl?

"We're nigh on closing for the night, Monsieur," warned the aging Chief of Surêté, approaching him.

"Yes, thank you. I will be leaving shortly. Tell me, monsieur, what do you know about this portrait?" Gaston indicated the portrait casually.

"This one? Why it's the old cast's production of Hannibal. A stupendous triumph it was!"

"I'm sure La Carlotta was magnifique."

"Carlotta? No, Monsieur, it was the Vicomte's future wife who performed the lead."

"Whom do you speak of?" He kept a calm demeanor as the journalist in him was screaming, A lead!

"Why, the Opera's patron, the Vicomte de Chagny. A few months after her great triumph, they were engaged, and they wed right after the—" The poor old man suddenly stopped short, as if he had caught himself chattering on a forbidden topic.

"After the chandelier incident?" Gaston prompted quietly.

"Oui. Yes, and they left Paris. The De Chagnys have an estate north of here."

"Oh? Whereabout, Monsieur?" Gaston quickly jotted down the information, thanked the old man, and absently stuffed the slip of paper into his coat pocket. Perhaps this patron may recall a beautiful young chorus girl ... with a voice that did not belong to this world.

He hurried out, intending to go home for the night, but his feet turned him in a different direction: the opera house.