"Monsieur Leroux?"

Gaston gaped. The woman standing upon his home doorstep was Madame Giry! Or―not quite. Her hair was pale gold, threaded with dove-white, and fashionably curled and coiffed beneath a wide-brimmed felt hat. She was dressed in an ornate traveling gown of delicate lavender velvet. But her face was almost sisterly to that of Marie-Louise, except for its agreeable and friendly air.

Cautiously, he answered, "Yes, Madame?"

"I am here to respond to your inquiry, sir." She held up a small letter, that Gaston barely remember penning.

"Ah, Madame la Baronne de―"

"Oh, please, Monsieur, call me Meg," she interrupted with a warm smile.

"All right...Madame―er, Meg. Please, do come inside."

He led her to the study, realizing that she was tailed by two nondescript porters, carrying a heavy, ancient-looking leather trunk. He drew in a breath at the sight of it. It's very presence seemed enveloped in mystery. He found it difficult to tear his eyes from the dull, stained, dark red leather surface.

Decorum screamed at him; he sputtered, "Can I offer you anything, Madame? Coffee?"

"No, no," she answered evenly and politely, glancing down at the trunk. "I really cannot stay. I have brought you my mother's old things ... things from the opera house. There are some artifacts in here that have been locked away since ... the night we left Paris. I can only hope you can extract the truth from all the legends and tales...something I myself can hardly do. Please, keep these items safe. Presently, I leave them with you for your investigation, sir."

"I―" Flustered, propriety left Gaston without anything to say.

"Please. I would like to know, as well. I... I lost a good friend in the circumstances." A look of sadness lighted upon her face, as she handed him a small, tarnished key. "Alors, I must go. My husband will wonder where I am."

"Merci, Madame." He saw her and the porters out the door, before shutting it decisively and turning back to the old trunk.

Lighting an extra lamp, he unlocked it carefully, his hands shaking with suppressed excitement. He was about to examine actual artifacts from the days of the strange affair! Instantly, he felt dread, triumph, and anticipation, much like an explorer on the brink of a major discovery. Or was he a tomb robber? He held his breath as he pushed the lid open, unsure what to expect.

Inside, it was lined with aged, print linen, and smelled musty. There were many piles of paper, tied with maroon ribbons. By the uneven way they were laid on the top, he could tell there were several other items hidden underneath. Gaston tentatively lifted a sheaf of papers. They were covered with small, neat handwriting. He glanced over their contents superficially: The Devil's Child ...less than half a score of years... a dirty sack with eye-holes cut out ... caged like a beast... Beneath a few more sheets was: ...Cannot find him anymore ...deep in the cellars... stories of a ghost ... He gently pushed them aside, eager to see everything hidden away.

He saw a sheet of parchment beneath Giry's papers; it was half-burned and scorched in some places, and notated complicatedly in red ink. At the top was half of the title, in a familiar hand: Don Ju

Exactly like the score Edmond Lequesne kept in a locked drawer of his desk.

He reached back inside, and his hand touched something cool and smooth. Withdrawing his hand, he saw that his fingertips were blackened. Removing the object from the depths of the chest, he found that it was a sooty daguerreotype. Wiping it off with a handkerchief, he found himself staring at the face of a handsome, dark-eyed man with wavy dark hair. Turning it over, he read the name inscribed on the back: Gustave Daaé.

There was the music box, half-buried by the documents! The monkey figure sat stoically, a mysterious expression on its simian features. Gaston gently opened the lid, and gingerly touched the ebony velvet lining. Without warning, a lovely melody started up. Hypnotized, he listened, growing ever more spellbound. He realized that the song was the same one from his dream, forever etched in his memory. He pictured the scarred, broken man, singing. Certainly a remarkable object like this, still in working order, belonged in the opera house vaults. He would ask Mme la Baronne to donate it later.

A mask.

Gaston stared down into the trunk, just beside the music box. It was a white half-mask, expertly formed of fine kidskin leather. It gleamed dully; it had graceful, sweeping curves on the cheek and across the half-nose, and a down turned brow. This gave its smooth blankness a stare of bitter anger. Everything in the chest had been touched by age, except this mask. It was still bright white, as if it had just been made, or purchased at a whimsical costume shop. He reached out to pick it up ... and let out a yelp of startled terror.

Within the eye hole, he saw an eye. There was a single eye staring up at him from behind the mask. It was stormy green, and veritably glowed with an intense gaze.

Quickly, Gaston threw the chest cover shut and backed away. Non. C'est impossible.

Nevertheless, he did not dare open the chest again.


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Author's Note: Sorry this chapter is so short! I wrote it a couple of months ago, when the story was originally outlined to be only seven chapters long.