A/N: Heavily Leroux-inspired Mme. Giry piece. It's meant to fit within the timelines and confines of Leroux's story, for better or worse. Please read & review!
Madame Giry, having just deposited the magic envelope filled with twenty thousand francs into M Richard's tail-coat pocket, allowed Mercier to guide her firmly by the elbow from the dancers' lounge to the directors' office. The two figures did not hurry down the hallways and up the stairs, but instead Mme Giry shuffled slowly in her worn slippers; it was all Mercier could do to keep himself from lifting her up over his shoulder and carrying her the fifty remaining paces.
They reached the directors' door and Mercier held it open for the lady in the soot-coloured hat with its two long black feathers. One was bent and ragged and the other curled softly in the form of a question mark. She thanked him and bowed her head to avoid crushing the remaining intact feather.
Mercier indicated the large wardrobe that stood at the back of the office, "In here, if you please."
"You can't expect me to crawl in there," she blanched. "M. Firmin was clear that I was to remain in the office. Not the … the wardrobe."
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Mercier looked nervous, "but you are to be locked inside the wardrobe, so that the directors can be assured that you will not try to communicate with your accomplice by way of sliding notes beneath the door."
Mme Giry stood up to her full-height, which sadly was not very tall, and shook her head from right to left in quick succession. Crossing her arms firmly across her withered bosom, she planted her feet shoulder's width apart, and refused to move.
"M Jules would not allow this to be done to his wife if he were alive!" she managed without raising her voice or moving to tears.
Mercier simply shrugged, "I knew you'd be too proud, but it's for your own good."
He easily picked the woman up. Skirts billowed, feet kicked, and determined arms pounded, but to no avail. Shortly, Mme Giry found herself locked neatly behind the heavy oak of the wardrobe's doors. She threw her frame against them; they remained tightly barred. The piece of furniture did not even shake a little when she again banged her shoulder roughly against the wood.
"Please, madame," she heard Mercier's muffled cry, "you'll be quite safe there. Don't hurt yourself."
Light seeped in from the smallest of spaces between the main frame of the wardrobe and the doors. Nothing could be seen but shadows dancing in the faint light. Instead she heard Mercier drag something heavy and place it directly in front of the leaves of the door.
Without the aid of her vision, Mme Giry tried to feel around the small space that engulfed her for something that might assist her in opening the door. The door panels were smooth. Neither a keyhole, nor a handle was discovered on either panel. She ran her hands along the sides and back, but they too yielded nothing. Her chest began to constrict and she tried calmly to tell herself that there was plenty of air. She was not entirely sealed off from the world.
To keep her mind from the reality of her position she recalled the letter that proclaimed her Meg would one day be Empress of France. "1846," she recited, "La Sota, dancer, marries a brother of the king of Spain … ."
Shaking herself, she continued the search of her tiny prison. Nothing. She knew she was biting her lip too hard, but she could not tell if her eyes were opened or closed. There was no air. No air at all.
"1847," she continued, her voice unsteady, "Lola Montes, dancer, marries morganatically King Louis of Bavaria and is created Countess of Landsfeld."
Something sounded on the other side of the door. All at once the lights went out and she was bathed in the full inky blackness of night. "Phantom of the Opera," she whispered to the darkness around her, "if you can hear me, let me out. I know you're clever with locks. Please, please, let me out."
No response.
Her body slid down the side of the wardrobe and she found herself at once gasping for breath. "Jules, Jules, where are you?"
Of course, Jules had been dead for nearly half of little Meg's life.
Suddenly, without warning or cause, the walls of the wardrobe seemed to slide even closer together. The fragile lady, in her worn black taffeta dress, beat her fists against the walls and kicked her feet as hard as she could. It only seemed to consume the last remaining oxygen from the space.
She could remember her childhood so clearly now that she was back in a locked and constricting wardrobe. Had she misbehaved? Had she done something to anger Papa again? Tears streamed down her face as she desperately tried to remember what it was she had done. All her chores were finished. She had been a good girl. A good girl!
Gasping and coughing, she clawed her fingernails against the doors. Deeper and deeper she scratched. The scrape of fingernails against hard wood combined harmoniously with her screams to make an almost familiar melody. Pain, like she had not know since childbirth started under her nails and spread through her hands to her wrists and up her arms. Something warm dripped down then off her elbows. She continued to run her fingers up and down.
Last time she had been locked in the wardrobe it was because she had forgotten to fill the lanterns with oil. Yes, that must be it. For why else was there no light at all. It was as dark as any moonless night she had spent growing up on the farm. Did she forget, in her haste to play with friends, to lock the gate behind her? Papa would be so angry with her if the sheep got loose again.
Numbness came, and still she worked her hands against the grain of the wood — desperate to rectify her most recent misbehaviour. Her voice had long since become gravelly from the constant screaming. Consigned to die alone at last, she ceased her fruitless task and crumpled against the bottom of the wardrobe. Gently, and a little fearfully, she brought her left hand to her face. Without being able to see anything, she used the tip of her tongue to assess the damage. Nails were horribly bent back, on two of her fingers they were completely missing, and the coppery taste of blood was in her mouth.
Now she would really make Papa angry. He never liked her ruining his things; she already had an awful habit of burning his meals and over-starching his clothing. Is that what she had done? No, the wash was always done on Tuesday. Today most certainly was Saturday. Wasn't it?
Again the walls that surrounded and bound her seemed to move in. Once more she screamed until the blood that had been on her tongue ran freely down the back of her throat.
"Papa! Papa! What have I done? Papa! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you! Papa, please let me out. Please."
Just beyond hearing she could almost make out his answer, "Another cup of ale, girl. Bring me another cup of ale!"
And she wept. The sobs that threatened to rack her body brought only more pain to her worn muscles and strained psyche. Still, she could not remember exactly what it was she had done to deserve being locked inside again. The light had come streaming back in through the cracks. It must have only been out for a moment. Not enough to be thrown into the wardrobe.
The air ceased to pass smoothly in and out of her lungs. She passed out inside the blackness of memory and oak.
When she awoke, she found herself inside the directors' office at the National Academy of Music. How ever had she gotten here? Mercier sat holding her and wiping her brow with a cool cloth. MM Richard and Moncharmin were near pressing upon her their deepest apologies. Her hands had been washed and bound in strips of cloth, but they pounded beneath the stark white bandages. Blood spots dotted here and there, and then she remembered at last.
"You locked me inside the wardrobe?" she fumed. "You locked me inside because you didn't believe me? I never lie. Ask anyone!" The faces of the directors turned tomato red and they shuffled their feet and tried not to look Mme Giry in the eyes.
Glancing toward the wardrobe she saw the deep gouges her own hands had made in the back of the doors that now hung open. "I could have died in there," she whispered. "And all because of twenty thousand francs! Gentleman, good night!"
M Richard tried to offer some words of condolence, but she shot him a look that silenced him where he stood. M Moncharmin could only let his mouth hang agape and blink his eyes a little too frequently.
Never again would she allow someone to put her inside such a space. Never again would she allow a man to hurt her like that; soon she would be the mother of the Empress of France. She held her head up high and tried to smooth her wrinkled skirts. Then she left, only limping slightly, and slammed the door on the directors and the wardrobe forever.
The End