Author's Note: Salut again! Just one more little reminder that I am very poor and have more debt than I would ever like to admit to...needless to say Erik and Co. are not mine or else the debt wouldn't be mine either!
The Patron of the Opera – Chapter Four
Erik had seen Poligny angry before. Hell, he had made Poligny angry before just for his own amusement. But despite his greatest plots and schemes, he had never seen Poligny act like this before. The man was practically spitting fire and even the placating Cusset, armed with a large decanter of vintage cognac, was having no effect on calming this raging inferno.
"The little whore wants to use the Conservatoire students! The students of the National Academy! Who the fuck does she think she is?"
"Well, Monsieur," Mme. Giry started "we do use the younger students in some productions that require child performers..."
"And," Cusset chimed in "it will give them an edge when they come to work full time at the opera. They will have already performed in a major stage production. It will be profitable to us in the long run. You see, M. Poligny? Very profitable indeed..."
Shaking his head angrily, Poligny yelled "What the hell is wrong with our chorus as it is? Can't she be satisfied with the finest opera company in Europe; a company run by the finest directors in the bloody world?"
It took all of Erik's self control to hold back a snicker at the last comment.
"She merely wants to add a few dancers to the ranks...nothing major, monsieur, but just five or six girls who have enough training to be hired by us next year. She wants to use them specifically to learn certain dances so that they can focus on the Russian technique without hampering our other productions. I personally agree with her idea." Mme. Giry replied in a calming tone, signaling to Cusset to not refill the brandy glass. Despite her intentions, Cusset complied with Poligny's request and filled the crystal class to the brim.
"See, Monsieur Poligny, it gives the rest of our staff a chance to focus on the other productions this season. Isn't that a good idea?" Cusset added, handing Poligny the refill of his brandy.
"It's a bloody impertinent idea, that's what it is..." he gulped down the glass and handed it back to Cusset with a signal to refill the glass for the sixth time in the last fifteen minutes.
"Well, Monsieur..." Mme. Giry continued, "it would appear that O.G. also approves of this idea and you are aware that..."
"I am perfectly aware that I have to listen to the bastard. Marrsait was right..." Poligny shook his head regretfully. "He was right and I should've never allowed this. Never should've allowed this..." He downed his brandy and fell into a fit of coughing as the brandy burned its way down into his gullet. Erik couldn't help but laugh at the display of the rotund man hacking himself red and his ghostly laugh echoed throughout the office.
If possible, Poligny turned even redder than before and his fat cheeks began to quiver with barely repressed anger.
"I am putting a stop to this immediately!" he shouted and slammed his glass on his desk as he stormed out of the room.
Erik hurried to follow from his hiding space behind the back wall of the manager's office; he was extremely curious to see exactly how Rose would respond to Poligny given his drunken courage and her natural inclination towards the explosive.
'God knows, the woman gave me more trouble than anyone else in ages...this might be quite entertaining!'
Three nights prior...
Erik and Rose were glaring at each other with a mixture of extreme hatred and disgust and it was impossible to say exactly which of the two's eyes were glowing with more fury. She stood before the tall phantom with a threatening aura about her as he looked down at her and fingered the coils of his Punjab lasso under his cloak. In the back of each of their minds, they absently wondered exactly how a simple meeting could have soured so quickly, but both had squashed the thought to focus on how to better intimidate the one before him.
They stood locked in their hatred for what seemed to be an eternity, he stroking his lasso and she grabbing at her skirts in a death-grip that left her knuckles white with the strain of restraining herself. Both watched the other as a hunter watches his prey; each waiting for the other to move before striking.
Of course, the strain of suspense was too great for the proud Mme. Giry and she promptly gave into the hyperventilation that she had been holding at bay. After about three breaths, she fainted into an ungraceful on the floor.
The sound had been enough to distract Rose and Erik from their glaring contest and Rose rushed over to the figure of the fallen ballet mistress while Erik remained in the shadows, forcing himself to regain his composure.
"Bloody hell, she's gone and fainted." Rose exclaimed while examining Mme. Giry's unconscious form. "You wouldn't happen to have smelling salts about you, Monsieur?" she asked coldly to the man lurking in the shadows.
"Of course I do not have smelling salts. Don't all good ladies of breeding such as yourself carry them constantly?" he replied with a strong sarcastic tone in his voice. Rose looked up and fixed him with another glare before returning her attention to Mme. Giry.
"I confess that I am not one normally given to fainting fits. Another extremely unladylike behavior on my behalf; you can blame my bloody Irish constitution. Of all the blasted times to faint, she would pick now..." Rose muttered as she checked for the pulse and smoothed the hair and skirts of her patient.
Erik was now extremely grateful for his mask; even after all of these years he still blushed when women, especially ladies of breeding, used expletives. He was removed from his thoughts when Rose announced with a sigh "I suppose you'll have to carry her to my dressing room..."
"What!" Erik exclaimed, inwardly cringing as his voice betrayed him and allowed the word to come out as a squeak.
She sighed again and looked over at him with an expression of tired resignation on her face. "You'll have to carry her. It isn't too far from here...at least I think so..."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"You don't intend to leave her on the bloody floor do you?" she asked with a note of exasperation in her voice. "We haven't any salts, so we've got to move her to where I can get some."
"You expect me to carry her through the opera house? How do you wish for me to do that?" he asked angrily. 'How stupid can this woman be?'
"You pick her up in your arms and walk slowly towards your destination. Honestly, it isn't as though I asked you to carry Carlotta! I can't carry her and I refuse to drag her. You have to help me."
"How the hell do you propose that I, the Opera Ghost, manage that? How am I to explain why I was seen carrying our ballet mistress!" he shouted at her.
An expression of confusion crossed her face as she asked "The Opera what?".
"What did you think "O.G." stands for? Olivier Garfunkle!"
"You mean to tell me that they think you are a ghost."
"Yes."
"And "O.G." actually stands for Opera Ghost? They actually refer to a patron by that name?"
"Yes!"
The first thing to show the crack in Rose's composure was the trembling of her shoulders. The corners of her mouth began to lift into a smile and she bowed her head, the shaking of her shoulders growing in intensity and her breath began to come in quick gasps. She contained herself for a moment but was powerless to resist the utter irony of the situation and, before she could stop herself, erupted into gales of laughter.
Erik could hardly believe it. One minute ago, the woman before him was glaring at him with an intensity that would've done him credit and the next she was kneeling on the dusty floor and laughing as if there were no tomorrow. 'The bitch is insane...'
"Surely you jest! You have to be kidding me...I've been summoned by a ghost! This is truly ridiculous!" she stammered in-between her chokes of laughter.
"I fail to see exactly what is so humorous, mademoiselle."
"Oh that's simple, Monsieur...you are! You're supposed to be a ghost and now it's no wonder why they're all wary of you! This really is just too hysterical!" By this point, she was wiping away the tears that were running from her eyes and down her porcelain cheeks.
"If you would bother to compose yourself..."
"Don't you mean to decompose?" and again, she doubled over in another fit of laughter.
Erik's patience was wearing quite thin and since Rose was showing no inclination to cease her merriment, he stepped forward and lifted the slight form of Mme. Giry into his arms.
"Would you please be so good as to tell me where your dressing room is, mademoiselle?"
Rose stood up from where she had be kneeling on the ground and wiped the remainder of the tears from her eyes, still trying to get her breathing back to normal.
"I am not sure where it is in respect to this location, but it's the one with the obscenely large mirror in it at the end of the one hallway. The one they say is haunted...I suppose you'd know all about that, Monsieur Garfunkle."
Erik's golden eyes glared at her in the darkness before he dignified her remark with a response. "I'm well aware of the room you are referring to. You must go ahead of me to warn me of passerby. I will not be seen, not even for the sake of Mme. Giry."
"Very well, Monsieur. Just give me directions as we go along then; I'll stave off the enemy!"
Considering the likelihood that she had never participated in such a stealthy endeavor, Rose did quite an admirable job of keeping the employees of the opera away from the very-much-alive opera ghost. In fact, Erik could easily imagine the multitude of pranks that he could arrange provided he had an accomplice of this caliber. As they rounded the last bend to her dressing room, she waved for him to stop as she went ahead and addressed the two managers who had 'camped out' at her doorway. She deftly swept them away to an unknown destination down the hall under some false pretense after she had been certain to unlock her door. Once they were out of sight, Erik swiftly moved into the dressing room and laid Mme. Giry on the chaise.
The large mirror showed him his reflection and even now, he cringed at the sight; he had always loathed mirrors and just because this one had another purpose useful to him did not make him loathe it any less. 'Though it is quite ironic that they'd place her here...at least I can keep an eye on her from the Communard passage..."
Instead of focusing on his shortcomings, he looked around the dressing room in search of the smelling salts. This task, however, proved to be much more difficult than expected as every surface in her dressing room was covered completely with papers and books. There were no toiletries save for a lone perfume bottle to be found anywhere, not even in the drawers in the dresser that had been provided for her. He absently wondered how she had managed to create such disorder after being at the opera for merely a few hours.
He had checked the dresser and had turned his attentions to the small bureau also provided in the room before he had made his first discovery of the evening. Like the dresser, the bureau was covered with paper and books, but these were a mix of scientific as well as musical natures. He examined the scientific ones and found them to be pertaining to chemistry principles and he uncomfortably noticed that feminine handwriting completely covered the margins of the page with technical side notes that even he could not comprehend. Looking at the musical ones, he noticed that again her handwriting in between the staves proved that she did in fact know how to arrange music and might actually be a master at the art.
The coup de grace came when he cracked the lock on the bottom drawer of the bureau and shifted through its contents; inside he found a large musical manuscript and some weathered photographs and line portraits. He uncomfortably noticed that most of the pictures were of an unattractive man of about 35 years in a poor suit and later, in an American soldier's blue uniform. Even from the line portraits, he could see how the man's angular features did nothing to soften the overly prominent nose and the almost lack of an upper lip was out of harmony with the fullness of its lower mate. His hair was pulled away from his face in the posed photographs but hung loosely around his face in the line portraits. The most striking feature of the man was his eyes which even in the drawings, Erik could tell that they were a dark brown or black.
Upon inspection, the manuscript was written completely in Russian in a sloppy male's hand and was apparently the first version of 'Czarina Catrina'. He saw that the scraggly handwriting encompassed almost the entirety of the manuscript except for the last large chorus scene at the finale; at that scene a distinctly feminine writing appeared, the same as in the chemistry journals, and ended the opera. He swallowed uncomfortably as he examined the remainder of the contents of the drawer; tied in a bundle with an old silk ribbon were several letters addressed to Rose O'Connor and also written in the same sloppy hand. The last thing he examined was a telegram dated three and a half years prior that pronounced a Lt. Enoch Ardenson missing in battle.
The sound of a key in the lock shook Erik out of his reverie and he stuffed the contents back into the drawer, closed it, and rushed back to the side of Mme. Giry. Rose walked in and quickly fastened the bolts to the door before turning to him and asking in an exasperated voice "You haven't revived her yet?"
"I was unable to locate the smelling salts, mademoiselle." he answered quietly, still somewhat embarrassed to learn that her story had in fact been proven to be legitimate. She threw up her hands and walked over to the perfume bottle and brought it over to Mme. Giry.
"You intend to revive her with lavender scents, mademoiselle?"
"For one with such an intimate knowledge on the habits of noblewomen, you should recognize that the salts are kept in the bottom half of this bottle."
Keeping his eyes averted from her, Erik muttered in a low voice "Before you revive her, mademoiselle, I believe I owe you an apology..."
Rose looked up at him with something akin to surprise. "I didn't believe your story...it seemed to be too coincidental for everything to be true. I didn't think that it would be possible for a soldier and a noblewoman to be so well educated as to collaborate on this masterpiece. I'm afraid that I suspected that you were taking the credit for another's work..."
"And how, pray tell, did you determine that my story was true?"
"I just...I..." Erik cringed as his voice betrayed him yet again this evening.
Rose looked over to the bureau and saw that the papers and books had been moved from their prior locations and, walking to the desk, opened the formerly locked drawer before fixing Erik with another glare. "Apparently you did not know that you need a key to lock this drawer once it was opened." she stated coldly. "I would very much like to hear your explanation of why you felt compelled to search through my private things, especially this locked drawer."
"I...I was looking for the salts, mademoiselle. You have no toiletries in this room and I thought that they might be located there. I apologize for my misconduct..."
"You had better apologize! How dare you search through my things? I suppose you read through the letters as well, are you going to mock me now?" she spat as she spread out her arms and approached him. "Are you going to tell everyone how I still cherish the steamy words of love from a man now frozen in his grave? Does it give you pleasure to laugh at my misfortune, at my misplaced adoration in a man who loved me enough to leave me and die for a worthless cause? The society columns will adore that tale; a noblewoman of reduced circumstances falls in love with an ignorant musician and then turns to the arms of a family friend for comfort in his wealth and in his bed. Perhaps you'd like to ruin William with this knowledge as well; let the world know that the woman that he adores is still madly in love with a ghost!"
She fell to her knees with tears streaming down her cheeks and sobs shaking her small frame. Erik searched desperately for something to say, something to stop this tide of emotion that he had unleashed. He wished that he could offer her a handkerchief, but given the lack of usefulness of such an item to himself, he had none to offer. He instead opened one of the drawers where he had found a few of the items and picked one that was not covered with streaks of ink or lead. Handing her the small square of cloth, he knelt down alongside her on the floor and in his most calming voice whispered to her "I never intended to insult you or his memory. I looked through your drawers, but did not read a single word of the letters. And I swear that I shall never tell a living soul about how much you cherish his memory. I give you my word."
"You swear this to me?" she choked. "You did not read the letters?"
"No, I did not. And I will not tell a soul about how you keep his portrait near your heart. I swear...besides, who would listen to me; I'm just the opera ghost!"
She laughed weakly at this last comment and moved to rise from the floor. She straightened her skirts and walked back over to the drawer, lifting out one of the line portraits and examining it closely. "I loved him dearly, Monsieur Garfunkle... I did these line portraits while he worked on the opera after our lessons. The army took great pains to return all of his effects but didn't send the one piece I held most dear besides this opera...God, how I miss him..."
His curiosity was unexplainably piqued. "What didn't they send?" he asked quietly.
"A locket. I had given him a small, gold locket as an engagement gift. There were line portraits of us inside. It wasn't worth much more than its sentimental value, but it had been my mother's and I cherished it. He also claimed to love it dearly and wore it next to his heart until he died. I suppose it made its way into a grave robber's pocket, or perhaps the loincloth of one of those savages..." her voice died away as she contemplated her lover's final fate.
Inexplicably, Erik found himself moved by her tale. Searching for an appropriate response, he whispered "I am very sorry for your loss, mademoiselle."
Wiping the tears from her face and patting her hair back into place, Rose just sighed and muttered "So am I..."
They had revived Mme. Giry with the smelling salts and when she had awakened, she was quite surprised that Rose and Erik both managed to get along quite well with each other considering how frightening they both were acting before she lost unconsciousness.
The two had come to a truce and in the last days had forged a friendship out of respect they had gained for other. They had never spoken since, but Rose was very appreciative of the support that Erik had garnered for her from the managerial staff as well as the chorus and ballet and Erik was forced to admit that Rose's skills as a musician and director were quite well developed. Many times in the last days, she had proven herself to be proficient on several instruments and could even dance better than some of the ballerinas. But above all, she was a fantastic director.
She ran circles around Monsieur Reyer and Monsieur LaFalle, the music and acting directors and never considered herself to be above any job that needed doing. Without complaint, she had basted seams alongside the costume master and mistress when the demand for costumes exceeded what they would be capable of producing on their own. She had taken over the accounts along with Cusset and, in true form with her unofficial nickname, helped the other washerwomen clean the stage and theater in preparation for the gala. Despite her status as a woman, she had garnered the respect of the opera company at large, save for its head manager and prima donna.
Poligny could not stand her know-it-all attitude and now stormed out to the auditorium with his drunken bravado. He was prepared to shout when Mme. Giry grabbed him from behind and stifled his mouth with her hands.
"Listen! Listen to them! They sound better than they ever have before. And it's because of her. She's done a better job with the chorus and orchestra than anyone else we've hired. Even the ballet rats look wonderful!"
And his words were true. Instead of the sopranos screeching their parts and the brass and percussion's habit of being overpowering, the chorus and orchestra were perfectly balanced. With the sopranos divided into two separate groups, the altos could actually be heard and with their part added into the mix, there were complex and intricate harmonies that had never been possible with this ensemble before. The basses added a depth that caused the sound to become an almost solid entity; one that flowed around the listeners like water and tempted one to reach out and touch it.
The ballerinas were flowing gracefully along with the music rather than their usual habit of prancing about the stage. Their fluid arm movements and steps were exquisite to watch and even Erik, who had followed Poligny to the auditorium, was completely surprised by the quality of this performance.
Rose directed the orchestra and chorus from her chair in the pit and after sustaining the last note of the piece, she signaled to cut off the sound.
Without speaking, she hoisted herself up onto the stage and stood before the chorus, looking out at the people with no expression on her face.
"Well, what do you think?" Carlotta spoke out.
Rose turned and glared at her and Carlotta visibly flinched, but then her glare softened and a smile spread across her face.
"Wonderful, you all did wonderfully. I confess that I've never heard a performance of this quality before, especially considering that it is only the third day of rehearsal. I thank you for your work...I truly thank you."
And the orchestra and chorus broke out into cheers and applause; thrilled with their hard-earned success.
"Hold on, everyone...hold on!" Rose announced. "Just because you sound lovely today doesn't mean our hard work is finished. We must continue to work even harder to ensure our success at the gala and this part will be harder than just learning the music...we must master the lyrics."
"The lyrics? In Russian, I presume?" Carlotta spoke out again, harboring a bit of a whining tone in her voice that grated on Rose's worn nerves.
"Yes..." she hissed between her teeth. "For the last time, we are singing this in Russian! The composer asked for Russian and Russian he shall have! If he wanted it in French, he would've composed it in French. If he preferred for his piece to be in German, then it would've been in German. But imagine this, signora," she rasped, her green eyes flashing fire at the Spanish woman, "the composer was Russian. His Czar and Czarina are supposed to be the rulers of Russia. Can you guess what language he wrote his lyrics in?"
She walked a complete circle around the chair where Carlotta was sitting, which, incidentally, was located in front of and apart from the rest of the chorus. She preferred to display her diva status in every method she could possibly conceive of. However, this did not sit well with the Irishwoman who could not bear the childish behavior of the prima donna and Rose decided then and there that she could not stand any more of the trouble the prima donna was instigating.
She leaned over Carlotta's shoulder and in a low, threatening voice began to whisper something inaudible in her ear. Carlotta lost the rosy red coloring in her cheeks and her mouth hung open with shock. But then Rose straightened and faced the rest of the artists; another wide smile on her face.
"So, signora, do you have any more objections?" she asked in a sweet voice. When Carlotta shook her head in the negative, Rose's smile widened and satisfaction flittered across her face for a brief moment.
"Then we are decided and will proceed. Are there any questions from anyone?"
"Madame O'Connor?" a timid voice from the ballet called out.
"Yes, mademoiselle...you're from the Conservatoire are you not?"
"Yes, madame. I am Meg Giry, Mme. Giry's daughter. I was just wondering how we would learn the language in less than a week..."
"You won't be learning the language; you'll be learning the lyrics. I will be helping, especially with the ladies and two of our other artists also are fluent in Russian and have graciously agreed to help."
"But, madame..." Meg asked "Christine told me that they use a different alphabet than the French one. How will we learn to read the language in this short amount of time?"
"Don't worry, Megan; I'll explain everything. But first, which of you is Christine?" A petite blond woman in the back row of the ballet slowly raised her hand. "Oh, another Conservatoire student. And you are correct, mademoiselle. But that is why I've taken the liberty of writing them with French pronunciations so everyone can understand how to say them. So let us take a break for lunch and meet again in an hour to begin chipping away at these lyrics. Conservatoire students, please see me for a few moments."
"She took them already? Who gave her permission to take them? Who the fuck gave you permission?" Poligny shouted from his place in the back of the auditorium.
"And a good morning to you as well, M. Poligny." Rose called out. "Will you excuse me for a moment, ladies?" and she walked to the back of the theater.
Cusset always prided himself on his foresight and now was no exception; he had brought along the brandy decanter and a glass in preparation for the battle of wills that would ensue. He shoved a glass in Poligny's palm as Rose approached with head held high, starched skirts rustling, and green eyes flashing fire.