Scandal outshines disaster.
It doesn't matter the severity of which; if the disaster is catastrophic and the scandal a whisper only, it will still be a no-contest. On this particular occasion, however, the scandal and the disaster were like Parisian Titans, gunning for the summit of tongue-wagging from East to West Bank.
They spoke of little else that summer. De quoi s'agit-il ? Well, the disaster led to the scandal, naturally. We needn't talk of the disaster; you know it well, I'm sure – how the chandelier came down and men were murdered, and how the Fantome de L'Opera had his bloody, mad triumph. The Opera Populaire closed. M. Firman and M. Andre fled their managerial posts, bankrupt and broken.
But there is another story you know, non? Of the Ghost himself, and his l'affaire tragique. You know of she, of Christine Daae, and how he tendered her freedom even as the tattered mob of the opera came down to seek their vengeance. And you know, do you not, of his disappearance. That is where the tale left you, on that poor dénouement.
I have come to take you back there. The story is not over.
Not by any means.
We spoke of the disaster; let us now speak of the scandal.
It was only three days before the Opera House was sold. Old mothers gossiping on the Seine's banks swore their own blood that no soul would touch the cursed place, and they ate their words in three days. Speculation ran rampant. No one could imagine who would be so foolish as to buy the Opera Populaire. What money could be made; what investment bear fruit? No one would attend galas hosted in a cursed theater. Whoever had bought the place was dooming himself to failure.
Oh, how the tongues wagged. And when Corrine Sawyer arrived, Paris ignited itself with gossip.
She was a woman.
And she was…Americain.
"I want the place cleaned in two weeks. Do you understand?" Her voice was clipped and flawlessly articulated for someone from New York. The steward nodded feebly. It would be a Herculean task, what she asked, but the money flowed like wine and she had steel in her gaze and carriage. She was a sterling sight – not yet twenty-five, with burnished copper hair and eyes a stormsea grey. Her complexion was light and clear, her frame willowy but surely-formed. Her hands moved over the desk and collected the paperwork that Firman and Andre had not even bothered to tidy or take with them. She turned in a slow circle, gazing about at the lush, velveted office suite that was to be hers. My God, she thought, this place isn't closed. It's abandoned.
She dismissed the steward and slowly took her seat behind the sprawling, gilded desk. For a moment, she was simply still. Mother, I could scream at you and your romantic notions of Paris. But I'm here – yes, I'm here…
Suddenly, she heard a faint rasping sound, as though furniture were being slid over wood floors. Her head snapped to the right, but there was nothing to be seen. A mirror hung, huge and ornate, against the wall, and a hat stand rested near it. Nothing moved. The office was still.
"No."
She rose and moved to where she had heard the sound. A hand laid itself on the mirror. "I've heard. Are you listening? I've heard. Either you exist or you do not. If you don't exist, I'll hardly suffer any more gossip by talking to myself than I've garnered simply coming here. If you do exist, your swansong has come and gone. This is my opera house now. Your forfeited it with the dropping of the chandelier."
Moving back to the desk, Corrine eased down into the plush seat and opened a sleek attaché case, removing papers and a fountain pen. As she wrote in a beautifully-rendered script, she continued to speak. "I know how you conducted yourself previously. It will not be acceptable with me. You wish a salary? Good – you will earn it. You want a box reserved continuously for your use? Very well – arrangements can be made for you to purchase season tickets." Corrine continued to write, not looking up. "You dredged out compliance because the French are terrified of the supernatural. New Yorkers are not." Punctuating the last with a strike of the pen tip to the paper, she straightened. "Your Firman and Andre invited catastrophe because they refused to believe in you. This time, you have a manager who does believe in you, and doesn't give a damn anyway."
To the mirror she went, folding the paper as her steps carried her there. Laying the letter at the mirror's base, she straightened and nodded, faintly. "These are my terms and conditions. I suggest you agree to them." The pointed silence seemed to be wrapped around a presence, and the presence seemed to be asking…"Why?"
"Because there's nothing worse to be done to me," she answered, and there was a shadow in her voice. "My life's torn to shreds; you couldn't make one single new rend." Corrine started for the door, but paused once there and sighed. "And there's nothing worse you can do to this sorry place, either. Is there, Ghost?" She piqued a brow and took her leave.
He stood, a palm grazing the backside of the mirror, his form stooping to unlock a small panel and reach into the room to retrieve the letter she had written. Righting himself again, he didn't open the paper. He stared at the door through which she had exited.
She had made demands. She had given orders. To he! To the Phantom of the Opera! To the ghost who had wreaked ruin on the Paris Opera House and destroyed its glory! His fist clenched, crushing the letter inside of it as his eyes burned…burned…and then closed. There would be no retribution.
She knew he was tired. She knew. When she had said there was nothing worse he could do, she said it not because the Opera was brought as low as it could be brought, but because she knew he was as low as he could be brought. Tired. Done for. Heart empty, eyes dry. Hate dead. How had she known?
As he withdrew and slipped down the familiar passageways, a thought occurred to him. She knew because she felt the sameShe was tired as well. Somewhere, in New York, she had left behind her own ruins, her own wake of destruction. Somewhere across the wide Atlantic, a different chandelier had crashed down.
Gently, he smoothed the crumpled letter and slipped it gingerly into his breast pocket.