"Notes"
A Phantom of the Opera Phanfic
Summary: A young woman named Faye Lavonne, originally raised in the countryside of Provence, France has been discovered to have a remarkable singing voice. She enters the world of the Opera Populaire a bit shy and reluctantly, but finds herself growing up very quickly, becoming accustomed to the ways of the stage. She receives notes from a strange presence once she arrives, which provide her with some sort of solitude in the harsh world of the theater. The notes lead her to curiosity, and she tries to find out who the mysterious writer is, only to enter yet another dark world where her dreams and nightmares mingle majestically on the brink of some fantastic secret.
Setting: (In relation to Andrew Lloyd Webber's The Phantom of the Opera) This phanfic is not based on any of the books, but chiefly on the 2004 movie interpretation of the stage musical. Forgive me any inaccuracies. The time of this story is set a few years before Andre and Firmin are instated as the new owners along with Raoul le Vicomte as the patron.
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Chapter One: A Prologue
Intolerable. Feisty. Incorrigible. Hopeless. Stubborn. A nuisance. These were all terms I grew accustomed to in my childhood. Instead of sewing or playing with dolls, as perhaps I should have been, I was off fencing with the boys in town, or climbing trees in the orchid. As long as I could remember, I'd never exhibited a wish in being a lady. It drove my family crazy, and watching them try to tame the wild child I had a tendency to be, was beyond amusing. Little did they know that I did have a lady-like side; my soft spot developing over time into the elite form of young, attractive men.
I suppose it happened to every young girl. For me, it didn't really hit until age 13 when I watched my friends slip away from me one-by-one, completely losing interest in the childish games we'd indulged in for so long. Perhaps for too long, but I often found myself sitting in the orchid at sunset, staring off at the horizon almost morosely thinking, 'They'll be back…someday, they'll be back.' And they never came back.
It's not to say that I was never a dreamer. I did have a weak-spot for music, literature, and dance. But such activities were always meant to be practiced by those involved in the middle to upper class. There was always Paris, but I never had the proper ambition or motivation. I needed to get my head out of the clouds and start thinking about reality.
Needless to say, I began to take my responsibilities upon myself, transforming into the lady I needed to be. One day the farm would be mine, and though I was expected to have taken a husband to run it (I had no brothers or sisters), I felt the need to learn how to do it on my own. I was still independent. My mother used to chide me, saying that I was acting out of my place in the world. A woman's place was in the home, she always told me. I disagreed. I was beyond my time.
By age 15, my parents had seen to securing me some lessons with a local, in exchange for the woman's valuable services, free food to her disposal while she stayed in a nearby town. "Culture our little girl," they had stated. I had blatantly told the woman, Mademoiselle Duprey, that I was not their little girl. She had laughed and commented on my vibrant spirit, before stating that I reminded her of herself when she was a little girl. I never did quite understand how she meant that…
Days became weeks. Weeks became months. Then she introduced me to song. She took me to a small town nearby to see an opera, and I fell in love, completely and utterly, with music. I was worried that it was too late for me to do that, at the age of fifteen, but when Mlle. Duprey took me back to lessons, she informed me that it was never too late to learn song. She explained to me that song was something only the Heavens could gift a person with and that if I couldn't sing, I likely never would be able to. But she also said that if I could sing, there might be a future in this industry for me.
I remember well when she sat at her piano and smiled at me, opening the sheet music with delicate fingers. She played the piece for me first, deftly, humming the notes like a gentle songbird. I closed my eyes and listened, before opening them again and glancing almost breathlessly at the window. The only time I'd ever sung was in church, and no one had ever noticed anything spectacular. Then again, that had been long ago… But what if I couldn't do it?
She stopped playing. "Miss Lavonne. The aria." She called my attention back. I wanted very badly to please her then, staring at her aged face, her gray hair pulled back in a taught bun at the back of her neck, her black cotton day dress completely wrinkle-free. She was perfect, and looked like an angel despite her dark demeanor. I forced out another disenchanted smile. "Mademoiselle?" She was frowning.
"The introduction," I stated. She moved to say something about my stance, and I waved off her words politely, shifting to the proper singing position that I'd seen in the opera. I'd heard the piece before, of course, so I knew what I was singing. She shook her head, a bit irritated with me. Her fingers moved like fluid over the piano keys again and I was enraptured by the beautiful sound that came out of the instrument. It inspired my song and I took a deep breath.
The notes came as easy as speech, or walking, and then progressed into a steady but amorous flight. I'd never felt so free before in my life, although I knew that in front of anyone else, I would have been embarrassed to be singing like that. There was passion in my voice then, and some kind of magnificent release that unleashed the wings of my vocal chords, sending me flying in high-pitched sweeps and trills. Here there were no hordes of eyes to watch me should I make a mistake; just a dead silence for me to freely fill.
The song was fast progressing to a high point at which Mlle. Duprey tensed, slowing and softening her piano. She stared at me through her half-moon spectacles as if telling me to stop, but I did not. I kept going up and up until the notes were almost unbearable in their pitch, and yet, astoundingly inhuman and beautiful. As I descended, she picked up the piano again and I did not look at her as she finished her part. My job was to finish it off with and intricate scale sequence, moving up and down as if I were a human flute. I executed it perfectly and then looked to her for approval, a wide smile stretching across my features.
"Mon Dieu…" She whispered, staring at me, her eyes wide behind her spectacles.
"How was I, Mademoiselle Duprey?" I asked worriedly. The expression on her face frightened me and I had begun to think that I'd done something wrong. I hoped I hadn't failed her. I don't think that I could bear that… She stared at me more, speechlessly, before rising and grabbing me by the wrist.
Before I knew what was happening, we were taking off across the fields to my family's farm. I never knew the old woman could run like that. Breathlessly, we emerged on the front porch, and the door was flung open. In an incoherent babble, Mademoiselle Duprey talked to my mother. None of us could understand her for several minutes.
"Your daughter!" She finally cried at the confused look she was getting from my mother, "Your daughter! Madame! How could you not know!?" There were tears in her eyes and I stared between the two nervously. My mother gave me a stern look I was well accustomed to and I inched away.
"What has Faye done?" My mother asked. I saw her eyes drift to the back of the room where she kept the paddle. I winced with the thought. Mademoiselle Duprey shook her head most extravagantly and clutched my mother's shoulder with an iron-grip.
"Madame Lavonne! Had you any idea that your daughter's voice was blessed by the Heavens themselves? It gave the angels cause to weep and the earth to tremble!" She whispered urgently. At that, my mother laughed at her, and then laughed at me. She was always laughing at me. She thought me a runt--an unfit child. I tensed and felt tears coming to my eyes as I turned away. My mother would never believe such a thing. She was convinced I was worthless. But Mademoiselle Duprey almost hissed at her in reprimand and then seized me. I let out a short cry as she dragged me into the sitting room.
"Sing, Faye!" She commanded of me. I gulped and nodded slowly, glancing between the two nervously. Mademoiselle Duprey nodded at me. "From the beginning of the aria, dear," she said. My mother stood in the doorway, arms crossed disapprovingly. Her face was drawn in a tight frown and I flinched under that woman's look. She was everything I should have aspired to be and yet she was not. A mother should not be rigid or cruel. A mother should be tender and loving. "Faye!"
"Yes, Mademoiselle," I said. I focused, trying to blot out the fact that my mother was in the room. My eyes fell upon a vase and I stared at it before taking a breath and starting the song again. I did not falter. In my mind, I believed that my mother was not there. It was the same as the first time, just without the piano accompaniment. When I finished, I looked first at Mademoiselle Duprey. She was smiling at me. I then dared to look over at my mother.
Her lips were parted halfway in disbelief, eyebrows raised upon her forehead. Her arms were no longer crossed, but she had a steady hand on the doorframe. She looked from me to Mademoiselle Duprey. "Far from perfect, of course," stated Mademoiselle Duprey quickly, "But with training, she could be a great opera star!"
"She's a country girl," my mother stated. She was always being realistic.
"Maman, please!" I found myself saying.
"You be quiet, girl!" My mother shot. She glared at Mademoiselle Duprey. "Is it your desire to take my girl and put her into some grand show in Paris for men to gawk at her and treat her like scum? The theater is a dangerous, dark place!"
"Not the Opera Populaire," Mademoiselle Duprey retorted. She was a hard woman. I could tell she would stand her ground against my mother, and it gave me comfort to know that someone so reliable was standing up for me. My mother snorted.
"The Opera Populaire? And what makes you think you can get her into that?" My mother snapped.
"She doesn't need me to get her into it," Mademoiselle Duprey stated evenly, "All she needs is some training and a means of transport. I will provide both."
"You are not sending my daughter to Paris!" My mother raged. I felt tears spilling out onto my cheeks at this point. I didn't understand what I wanted anymore and I was forced to hold my tongue.
"Your daughter will send herself to Paris whether it be your will or not! And I certainly will not stand here to be her teacher and watch her talent waste away in this tiny worthless village!" Mademoiselle Duprey shot in a flame of anger. My mother seemed to be taken aback. Mlle. Duprey flashed me a face and left in a flurry, leaving me behind.
"Don't you dare get any ideas!" My mother almost roared at me.
"Yes ma'am. No ideas," I answered softly, before retreating to my bedchamber in a fit of tears. I just wanted to sing. Remembering the feeling I got when I was singing made me feel better. My submissive stage ended that night as I packed up what little belongings I had and deftly slipped out the window. I left a note under the front door on the porch, stating that I was gone and she had better not come looking for me ever again. I did not detail where I'd be, and felt a twinge of guilt. This meant she would no longer send food to Mlle. Duprey. No matter. I'd find a way.
I arrived at her house late, and was not surprised to find the lights still on. I knocked on the door and she met me in her bedclothes. "Faye!" She exclaimed. I looked at her seriously for a moment and forced back the tears that wanted to break free.
"Mademoiselle, forgive me, but I will not live like this anymore. Please, Mademoiselle…teach me how to sing and take me to Paris," I asked. There were no questions asked that night. She had too much faith in me, and I had too much hope in her. And my mother never came looking for me after that night either, for which I was somewhat regretful, but thankful.
For two years I lived under the care of Mademoiselle Duprey, eventually taking on a job at the local tavern to keep food on the table. It was the only thing she expected of me outside of lessons. Other than that, I was to study until perfection was achieved. And then, she took me to Paris as promised.
It was everything I'd envisioned it to be and more; a spectacular city of lights and architecture. It was so big and open, so unlike home, and yet so intriguing. I felt terribly odd dressed in country fashion, but Mademoiselle Duprey pushed me onward. She didn't wait for me to try out my talent in smaller theaters. She marched me straight to the Opera Populaire, where they were in the process of holding auditions for "Zampa."
"Let me do the speaking," she stated as she walked me up the stairs, "The audition piece for this show is the first song you ever sang. If you can sing it the same as the first time you sang it, which I know you will do better, they will at least give you a small part." Her assurance was well received. The theater owner sat in the front row with his patron, and a panel of pre-selected judges. They looked up as we entered and then bent to whisper amongst each other. Mademoiselle Duprey was unwavering and held me firmly by the arm, well aware that I was intimidated and I might run.
"Messieurs," she addressed formally, "This is Miss Faye Lavonne. I have brought her here from Provence to sing for you." Some of the judges smirked and stifled laughs, but the owner looked intrigued, raising an intrigued brow.
"And what makes you so confident as to travel all the way from such a small country region to this great expanse of a city?" The patron inquired. Mademoiselle Duprey tilted her chin and glanced at me. Her gaze moved to the theater owner.
"Monsieur, may I?" She asked.
"Go on ahead Mademoiselle," the theater owner responded. She all but dragged me up onto the stage, centering me. I was rigid, and terrified of the looks that the panel was giving to me. She hissed at me softly.
"Have some confidence! You are a woman!" She chided. She pulled from me and before exiting the stage, motioned to the orchestra. "Maestro!" She called. The orchestra director moved his baton and nodded to the musicians, who lifted their instruments.
I'd never felt so alone and terrified in all of my life, eyes darting around the vast expanse of the red seats and gold workings, up to the grand, glass chandelier. Then my eyes fell upon Mademoiselle Duprey. I could not fail her. I'd come so far. The orchestra was playing and the faces of the judges turned to stone; except for the theater owner, whose face was frozen in a soft smile, eyes twinkling from the hordes of stage-lights.
So I sang that melody which I had become so fond of, and familiar with. I sang it perhaps, the best I had ever done. It may have been the opera atmosphere, which, during the course of the song, I had grown to adore. My heart had already moved in. Towards the end of my aria, I noticed Mademoiselle Duprey chatting with another woman that I had never seen. I finished with a glorious trill and stopped, looking at the panel of judges. The theater owner, then, began to applaud, standing almost gingerly from his chair and clapping. He was joined by the rest of them and Mademoiselle Duprey sent an approving wink my way. I smiled and took a half-bow, all confidence instilled within me. Somewhere in the rafters of the place, I could have sworn I heard another applauding, soft "Bravos" trilling through the shadows. But perhaps it was only the echo of those before me now.
"You did very well," the woman I did not recognize stepped forward, the clapping having ceased, "But tell me, Miss Lavonne. Has Mademoiselle Duprey taught you the art of dance?" There was some stern tone to her words, but her eyes betrayed her. She knew I could dance. I grinned almost sheepishly at her before motioning shyly at the orchestra to start up something. I removed my rigid bustle for the sake of movement and listened to the rhythm before prancing across the stage knowingly. It was an unknown choreography to me, and yet seemed so natural. Toe, heel, shuffle, step, twirl, pirouette… I leapt and twirled across the stage with exaggerated arm movements, strong in nature but graceful as a swan.
When I stopped, the unknown woman looked pleased and nodded to the panel of judges. She moved up onto the stage and laid a gentle hand on my arm. "Gentlemen, you would do well to cast her," she expressed. One of the judges seemed outraged.
"She has no name!" He protested. The rest of the row murmured in response.
"He has a point," Mademoiselle Duprey cut in, moving down the aisle toward the stage, "But she will certainly have a name after her first performance."
"This is insane!" The same judge stated.
"Why not let the Opera Ghost decide?" The unknown woman suggested. A murmur shot through the people again and the theater owner gave her a look.
"Madame Giry," he chuckled softly, almost mysteriously in a way. It made all of my senses alert at once. "Not everyone in this room holds belief in the Opera Ghost." Madame Giry (so it appeared her name was) bowed her head to the theater owner.
"You are right sir. I apologize," she answered.
"Oh, don't," laughed the theater owner. He shrugged off the incident. "We will contact Mademoiselle Lavonne as soon as the casting is complete. Perhaps we can offer her a spot."
"You would do well, Monsieur," nodded Madame Giry. Mademoiselle Duprey motioned to me. I nodded respectfully to all of them.
"Thank you," I said, before following after the beckoning Mademoiselle Duprey.
"Madame Giry has been kind enough to offer us staying accommodations in the dormitory for the evening, as the casting shall be done by morning," she said. I glanced once more back at the opera house before traveling down some corridors with her.
"Have you been here before?" I asked.
"Yes. I was one of the choreographers and vocal coaches. I used to work with Madame Giry," she answered swiftly.
"What of this Opera Ghost?" I asked, an edge creeping into my tone.
"Do not speak of him!" She snapped, whirling on me suddenly. I stared at her wide-eyed, confused. She shook her head. "There is more to the Opera Ghost mystery than some would allow it. But it is not your place to inquire of it."
That night, I settled down in a bed close to the windows. I looked out into Paris with a soft smile on my face. And for some reason, I thought of my mother. She would have never taken me here. Mademoiselle Duprey had forced me to overcome my fear, and I had conquered it in a way. The candles were burning out. I sighed softly and moved the drapes to cover the lights of Paris, before my hand fell against the nearby table and felt a piece of parchment with something soft and bulging on top. I picked it up and found that it was an un-addressed note, and there was a red skull seal on it. My fingers trembled a bit at that seal and finally braved to open the paper.
Greeting my eyes was a beautiful handwriting that flowed across the page like some type of ancient art.
'Mademoiselle,
Your audition this afternoon was entrancing. It is clear to me that your voice, however, still needs a great deal of work. You are young and new to the theater, and it shows. If you would like, I offer you my services, such at this, to improve your skills and better prepare you for the stage.
I realize, of course, that you already have a teacher, but I am willing to take you beyond her mere experience, therefore subjecting you to true music. I hope that you will accept, and even at this, I will see that you are given a part in this production, as my ties with the theater owner are infallible.'
The note ended then, with no signature. I stared at it for a moment. Who would send such an odd letter? How was I to respond to someone who did not openly approach me about these matters? Raising a brow, I set the note aside and looked around my dark dormitory room. I pulled out a bit of parchment and some ink, sitting at a nearby desk to write a response.
'Dear Monsieur, ou Madame,
You are most kind to offer me these tidings, but I fear I am not one to jump very quickly at such offers. I am not certain as to your identity, but I must say that you seem most intriguing. Beggars can't be choosers. I am not sure on how you plan to teach me, or what gives you the right to infer that you are any better than Mademoiselle Duprey, but I would never turn down lessons for the world. So, if you please, leave instructions.
Sincerely,
Faye Lavonne
P.S. Thank you for guaranteeing a role; it is rare that I've come across such acceptance in the world.'
I folded the note and sealed it with a drop of wax from one of the candles, glancing around the room once again. Moving back to the window, I placed it exactly where I'd found the note and paused, looking at it. Shaking my head with the thought that it would still be there in the morning, I turned in for the night.
I barely noticed in my dreams, the walking shadows of my room. Restlessly, I turned over and thought I saw a figure stooped over by the window, but I immediately drifted back off to sleep; some haunted melody resounding in my head on the sweetest voice—like an angel of music.