Author's Note:If anyone (especially the Daft Penguin, Lestat, or Raven) reads this they better review or I'll... Well we've already discussed this. I can't do anything, so, oh well. Review, pretty please, and I might consider letting you see Erik again. (gestures to room now disguised as torture chamber, but is really in-house suite with everything and then some) (crosses fingers and hopes for reviews, or at least a few hits)
Disclaimer:I don't own PTO (except on CD, and DVD, and the book, and...)
Chapter 2: The Worth of a Music Box
Erik moved up toward the ground floors of the Opera. It took several hours for his unsteady feet to go from the lowest extremities of the Opera to the main stage.
He realized that he was still holding the rose. He slipped it into a pocket in his coat. The funeral could wait. He could resign himself to death when he had stayed this curiosity.
He headed to box five, his box. As he approached he heard a voice filtering down the hall.
"Lot 125…"
He crept silently into the box and peered over the edge. An auction! There was a small crowd gathered, bidding for the various objects. The Phantom pulled up his footstool and settled down to watch.
A few of the faces were familiar, though all worn with age. Of the few he recognized he noted Mme. Giry, Meg.
Erik recognized almost every piece that was being sold. This was his life, this was almost all he had ever known, and now, like his lair, it was slowly being torn apart.
Almost halfway through the 600s, another familiar face came. It was him, the only man to have opposed the Phantom and won. Raoul. Erik bit his lip. He then realized that he held no hate for this character now. He had fulfilled his wedding vows, and more, to his love, the love still shared by Erik.
His thoughts were interrupted by the auctioneer. "Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen: a poster for this house's production of 'Hannibal' by Chalumeau." Ah, Hannibal. Erik remembered this play very clearly. It had somewhat annoying music whose true beauty could only be brought out by a certain few.
The auctioneer continued on, and Erik witnessed the inevitable eye contact between Meg and Raoul.
The next lot caught his attention. "Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mâché musical box, in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order."
"Showing here."
The bidding began. "May I start at twenty francs? Fifteen, then? Fifteen I am bid. Thank you sir, twenty. Twenty-five, thank you madam. Thirty, selling at thirty then, thirty once, twice—. Sold for thirty francs to the Vicomte de Changny. Thank you, sir."
Erik felt the irony hit him in full force. He was worth the same amount as a music box. The small thing, which could play but one song with its tinkling notes was of equal value to him, the great genius, the composer? As a composer and singer he created music. It welled up and flowed from his soul. As its creator, he was not its angel, but its god.