The Phantom of the Opera II

By Disgraced Angel

Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera was originally written by Gaston Leroux or something like that, and I in no way shape, fashion, or form own his characters or the captivating music created by the man who did such a splendid job on Cats The musical…you get the picture.

(This story takes place two years after Roual and Christine have fled from the said Opera Ghost. Christine would be eighteen, Roual is twenty, and the phantom would have been around thirty six…….?)

Chapter I

Over time, over a long period of time, dust coated over memories, whether good or bad, and for a while, at least, he could forget that someone or something may have been where that dust now lies. When things remain undisturbed, his memories often faded into the deepest depths of his twisted soul. Dust only blankets sad remainders of his life; it acts as a cold barrier to reality. And that is how it felt when you entered the Opera Popular.

The dim atrium was dusty of course, since no soul had entered it in two long empty years. The red and gold walls that had once reflected the prestige and wealth of the opera now were crusted with char and stains from the water that leaked into the room from the enormous holes in the roof. The tile floor was all that remained unscathed. Yet it too screamed out from neglect with the half burnt tapestries that littered it, and the headless statues that were broken and strewn around. Yes, it appeared as though nobody had indeed entered into the Opera in years…

"It's quite dismal, is it not? I can not scarcely believe how anxious those two gentleman were to sell it. From what I've seen on the outside, only the stage and the front atrium were damaged. There is still a whole five floors to be used, my dear, and mark my words, we shall use them well indeed."

For the first time in two years, the doors of the Opera Popular were thrown open. The soft smell of clean rain, untainted rain, filled the atrium that still held lingering smells of the fire. The middle aged man and his young wife stood on the threshold of the room, taking in the sad sight that greeted them.

"Oh darling, it looks oh so very awful. You can't mean to fix it up, can you? After those wretched tales we've heard," cried the young lady, who was not yet in her mid twenties, was tall, and yet looked so small in comparison to the older well dressed man at her side. Her full lips held a perpetually petulant pout. She had long blonde hair, rich furs, and, had she been a tad bit taller, Spanish and red haired could have easily been mistaken for La Carlotta. Almost. Perhaps this countess was not quite as evil, simply young and annoyed. She glared up at her husband expectantly, who, with his lightly bearded face gave her a pensive look. He patted her on the head, and then strode into the room.

"I fully mean to fix the place up, my dear. I am sending out invitations to some of the best names in Opera to come. We shall scourge this place of all the horrid rumors that have been flying on idle tounge. I know full well this was one of those confangled electric accidents. These things happen when you meddle with new contraptions. There is plainly nothing here but a bit of dust and dirt." He smiled at his wife, and held his hand out to her. "You really should come in, Cecelia. You'll ruin those new furs I bought you."

Cecelia sighed, and cautiously stepped to where her husband, Count Joseph Le Dupree, was gazing calculatedly at his new Opera house. "See, darling. No Ghosts here…"

Above them, perched upon Apollo's Lyre, on the very topmost floor, a cloak whipped in the onslaught of rain and wind. The dark satin blew like an ominous flag, signaling the utter chaos that was sure to follow. The cloak's owner was nowhere to be found….

Construction began days after the count and his countess left the "empty" opera house. Soon, men were surrounding the place, filling in holes, repainting and repairing. Everyday the count came to watch their progress, ever eager to start up the business. Cecelia always stood glumly by his side as he supervised the construction.

Meanwhile, all of Paris was alight with gossip as the day grew shorter and shorter until the world famous Opera was to open. The wagging tongues found the few that escaped the opera's fire, including the two Giry women, now nestled in Poverty in northern France.

The little brown house was on the outside of town, cold and care worn. A small fence pretended to protect the house, but no one had dared venture too near besides. With little money and unemployment, Meg sat Inside a room down at the end of the creaky hallway where Madame Giry was asleep on her bed. A slight draft blew in the window, but as Meg closed it, a rattling cough rasped from her mother's throat, and Meg forgot all about the bone creping chill settling into her soul.

"Tell me the story just once again mother. Tell me another one about him."

The old woman smile disappeared and the wrinkles that appeared like magic in the face of the tragedy stretched and crinkled. Madame Giry waved a bony hand and took a shuddering breath. Meg drew closer to her dying mother, and held back the tears she shed angrily when she thought of the man she was in love with…the one who had also ruined her chances at fame and her and her mother's happy life.

"Oh lets hear something different, whispered her mother sadly. "How about the day when little poor Christine Daae came to live with us. Weren't we so happy…the three of us?" This time, Meg did let a few tears fall as she remembered her dead friend. "Yes mother. Let's hear of Christine…" Meg for a moment thought bitterly of how even in death, Christine managed to charm her way into everything. As she stared at her tired looking mother, however, the anger dissolved, and she let out a silent reprimand at herself. It is not Christine's fault he loved her…

As Madame Giry told her grief stricken daughter the tale, outside little droplets of rain began pouring onto the little house nestled beside the town's cemetery. The wind tore at the wooden slats and seeped through the ceiling. As the story came to a close, Meg was on her knees in front of the fire place setting up the last of the wood, and reaching above her to grab the flint. Silently, she got the fire started, and managed a smile as her mother gave a satisfied sigh.

"I'll go, mother. I need to go retrieve the clothes. They are probably awfully wet by now," Meg said as she moved towards the door. She was about to leave when her mother's usually cracky voice stopped her. This time it was strong and fluid, dripping with emotion. Meg turned around in surprise.

"Promise me when you go back, Meg…Promise me that you will claim that which is rightfully yours. You were always the best, always…and he will give it to you now that dear Christine is gone. He always hated to be alone…"

Meg looked at her mother with widened eyes. She had no need to ask her mother what she meant. With a nod, she turned and left her mind as cold as the rain that beat down on her as she hurriedly tore the clothes off of the line. When she returned to the room, her mother's lifeless body lay still on the bed. Her hand flickered in the firelight as Meg noticed she held his mask….

By the end of six tedious months, there was no hide nor did hair find of any "ghosts."

The architects and stone masons worked tirelessly day in and out to repair the damage, repainting, replastering, and hanging a new chandelier. This chandelier, silver and colossal, was the pride of the Counts, since he had it imported all the way from India. The new stage, even larger and more proportional, gave the room better sound, and it was designed to carry the sounds further. The audiences chairs were replaced, the statues in the atrium replaced with newer, more lavish designs. Every room down to the second floor below was touched up until every trace of the fire had left.

When Cecelia had asked why no one dared down into the fifth, or fourth, or even third floor below, he merely replied with a condescending glance at her, "We need not waste efforts or time down there. I want this place fit for business by November." Cecelia, however, was more often than not in the mind that all those rumors were true, and was always in half a mind to believe the gossip she heard from the scullery maids.

The count and the countess slept in their quiet home near Manchester until August arrived and the re furnishing was complete. They took most of their fancy belongings to the Opera when it came time to move, and finally settled on the third floor where Mm. Fermain' and Mm. Andre's office had once been. Cecelia's parlor and botanical garden were where Mme. Giry's room had once been on the second floor. Yet strangest of all, her instrument room, where daily she would toil over her harp, was in Miss. Daae's old dressing room. The servants and cooks and grooms were all placed in the first floor. The ballet dormitories were still on the second floor, and in time, little Jemmies came to fill them up, and minor actresses and hopeful chorus boys came to sing for the Opera. But not a soul came to try for the leading female or male parts. It seemed the idle tounge did have some influence on the Opera's success.

The count and countess were discussing that particular annoyance over tea one morning, when a mysterious letter had appeared on the counts table. It was addressed to him, and written; it seemed, quite recently. The count, taking notice of it, impatiently snatched it from his wife's hand as he wiped his face with a damp cloth.

"Dear Count, you appear to be in dire need of leading roles, no? For the male part, such an important role cannot be filled with just any chorus boy…But I have a perfect match. It seems very few have not been discouraged by the strange incident of three years ago. I have here, however, an ambitious young sir who would do quite nicely. He used to be affiliated with the English Opera in London, and numerous singing troupes. Barnaby FitzHenery will do well, I think. But for the female role, I fear, you need someone our Parisians are comfortable with. You cannot entirely change the Opera, do you understand? The name Giry shouldn't ring too far from the mark, if you catch my drift, sir. Perhaps if you could find the time to inquire about these two, you would find it very worth the effort…Sincerely, the Persian."

As the count read this aloud, a deep crinkle appeared in his brow. Giry…where did that sound so familiar, he thought. "Giry…Giry…," he muttered, casting the note aside. As he looked up to the equally confused face of his bored wife, he mused, "So, some Persian is interested in my efforts, it would seem. How curious." At this, Cecelia snorted, something she rarely did, and smirked at him ominously. "Maybe this Persian is the Opera Ghost in disguise. You heard tales about the notes Mm. Andre used to receive? Ah…I grow weary with this whole business."

"I shall inquire about these two, My dear, and in the meantime," he said, ignoring her remark, "I suggest you try doing something you are good at, like being seen and not heard…Why don't you go observe the ballet girls, or go help the kitchens? Make yourself useful, for you are annoying me." At this, he stood up, and with the letter in hand, left his glaring wife at the table.

"Perhaps I shall indeed make myself useful, dear Count. Perhaps I shall do some inquiring of my own…"

Chapter II

The little Meg that had once been as innocent as Christine stood stock still in front of The Opera Popular. The outside looked as though not a day had passed since the tragic fire. The fire that only the two managers her mother, and herself had escaped from. Tears pooled in her eyes as she thought of her Christine, the only sister she had ever had. With a shudder, she tried not to think of the bodies, the skeletons that might still lurk un- aware in the opera. She had a brief memory of Joseph Bequet for allowing herself to push back all those terrible memories and proceed to enter through the tall imposing oak doors.

Meg was taller now, a woman, and she carried herself as such. Behind her she wheeled in a large suitcase, full of things she had half hazardly packed in her haste to return. The rythematic groan the wheels made disturbed the silence that should have prevailed.

Now that she was here, vile memories threatened to overwhelm her. The inside, where last she remembered fleeing from as the flames grew higher, was now busy with maids waxing the floors, or ladies and men exchanging whatever business they had with this mysterious new manager. New tapestries lined the walls, none bearing the unmistakable smell of smoke or death that still lingered on certain of her things. The grand staircase was full of oblivious people in a hurry to ready the opera house for its first Gala in three years. The only remainder of that terrible night was whatever lurked down in the bottom depths of the opera, down past the boiler room, with the men like devils shoveling coal all day and night, past the dark cellars, until finally, past the very lake Christine had once sailed across with the dangerous Phantom.

Meg, never timid, never shy, suddenly found herself tense and without words as she made her way down into the depths of the Opera. What she had hoped to find, was the charming Madam Giry ushering all the Jemmies to the practice, or absent minded Andre giving them wan smiles, or even that odd Persian lurking near the kitchen, always thinking, never speaking. She walked briskly up the stairs until she found herself in front of the Ballet hall. AS she furtively glanced down the hall, she saw little ballerinas scurry towards the main dance room, and with a wistful glance at her suitcase, followed them.

The ballet teacher was no Madame Giry. She was younger, vibrant, and red haired. With some twenty students under her care, she took the task in stride, and with authority assembled the girls into a line. "First position little ones! First position," She said softly, taking no heed of her visitor. Meg settled herself in the shadows, attentive and somber as she saw what a poor job the ballet was doing already. She resisted the urge to correct a little girl named Margaret with her foot work.

For an hour Meg stood apart from them, taking note of how awful they were. The older ones, the best they had, made her clumsy Christine look like Meg at her finest. With a tut, she finally strode forward, and found herself face with the ballet instructor. "You are teaching them wrong, Madam. Please allow me to show you how it is done," Meg said quietly, meaning no offense. She was dressed in a raggedy muslin shift, not the appropriate dress for it, but offered all the same. The class went silent as the red haired woman examined Meg with raised eye brows and an astonished smile as Meg began to stretch.

"Oh? Well, I would welcome any help I suppose, if you are up to it?"

Meg only smiled back, acknowledging the challenge. She could be looked down for her poverty, for her lack of riches, but never for her dancing. Within a beat, she was doing a piece from Hannibal, her favorite, and in no time, the count was there beside Madame Faya, nodding approvingly.

"What is your name, my little strumpet," he asked as Meg gathered her breath and smiled at Faya. The ballet teacher gave her a reassuring smile as Meg turned around in her fading ballet shoes to inquire at the man addressing her.

"Meg Giry, your new leading Soprano."

The Gala was one month away, and finally, the Opera house was complete. The manager, quite a bit less tolerant that the last two, had done a good job indeed in filling each position. He allowed Meg to help instruct the Jemmies, and his wife to do all the tedious arrangements of introducing and finding a patron. His maestro, a very well taught man, took his job seriously and with pride, and before long, had taken up the impatient articulate attentiveness that Mm. Lefavire had done. The little Jemmies were always replicable, and so were the maids. That Barnaby FitzHenery had also come, and with him the approval of Paris. Suddenly, with no word from any Opera Ghost, the old suspicion that had surrounded the Opera left, and a new hopeful generation arose. Paris had indeed missed its world renewed Opera Popular.

Meg stood, uncomfortable in her tight blue taffeta dress, on stage surround by little Jemmies and stage hands. Her eyes shone with that usual over brightness that being the lead had given her. As she stared around, she noticed with satisfaction that Christine was not here to steal her glory. She was the best.

As she thought this, however, her heart ached inside. She knew she should weep for her friend, but in the midst if success, it was hard to toil over what was gone. Beside her, the suave Barnaby, clad in a rusty red tunic flashed her a smile that she felt made her blush, and as the maestro called for attention, she let those memories slip. "The Gala is in two months, Ladies and gentleman. Just two short months! Mademoiselle…please, stop making calf eyes at the young man and concentrate," The Maestro muttered. A general laugh went around as Meg further blushed, and Barnaby muttered, "Make them all you wish, Madam." But it was not him she was thinking of…

Meg took her place on left center stage and cleared her throat. It was a pity she was not Christine in singing. She would not awe, but she would suffice, for now. As she sang her aria, Barnaby smiled, and far across the room, the count watched with equeal satisfaction at his new leading lady. "Ah…business is good, indeed."

Chapter III

The Countess was slumped in a high baked chair with a full bottle of Sherry as her midnight company. From down the hall, she could hear the high notes from some aria being sung by Meg Giry. The orchestra was accompanying her, and together the music penetrated the young ladies thoughts and left her feeling tired and annoyed. No matter where she was, the happenings and the obsessions of the opera surrounded her.

She thought scornfully of her husband at this. It had been many days since she had even spoken with him. Wherever he was, he was always to busy to acknowledge her. Cecelia sighed, and opened up the sherry. Without her husband to chide her, she swung the bottle high and drank the fiery liquid down. Her mother always told her marriage was lonely. "I am too young to waste away my days as an old maid…"

Life was lonely in the opera for Cecelia. The only thing that even gave her drab life half of an existence was the mystery she was determined to solve. Every day she went about, searching and trying to uncover the identity, or at least the story of the famed Opera Ghost. She went to the townspeople, and asked what they knew. Most of the time she received a horrified glance and a quick piece of advice to not snoop. That had only made her more determined.

What had made all it worth while, however, was when she spoke to Meg Giry about it. Everyone remembered the little blonde angel that had been Christine Daae's constant companion in the glory days. And no one knew more that little Meg about the events of the opera.

As it had happened, Meg was very reluctant to say much of anything about him, except to tell about the events that led up to Ms. Daae's death. Once Cecelia had heard the tale, she was filled with an indescribable feeling. She was obsessed to find more about him, but Meg finally concluded one day, that The Phantom was dead. When Cecelia heard the same from anyone who knew anything, she felt as empty as before. The last feeling remaining in her was that of rage. Rage aginst her husband for his neglect…and utter rage aginst the little Meg Giry who was the center of her Husband's world.

As she took another drink from the Sherry bottle, Cecelia let the wicked thoughts run through her head. The velvet bag next to her called to her angry thoughts. "Some days I wish this Phantom was real. Then perhaps he could carry me off into nothingness…"

Meg was sweating in her dress as she stood alone with her reflection in the dressing room. The mirror that had once opened and admitted Christine into the Phantom's home was cemented shut, and Meg gazed longingly at it. "Oh…why can you not sing and comfort me as you did Christine? Where are you Angel of music? Have you truly died my dear Phantom," Meg whispered. No body answered, and so she got up and left.

As she made her way through that silent passage way to the back of the stage, she felt all the excitement of the audience run through her. This is what I wanted…to be the best….I want this, she thought. As she came up to the stage, she received a look from Barnaby that she didn't dare contemplate. The cast took their spots as the orchestra started up.

The performance ran smoothly as the count watched with glee behind the stage. Young Meg was singing softly to Barnaby, and the little well taught ballet was running their steps perfectly. Without missing a beat, the song finished and the orchestra took over as Meg left the stage for a costume change.

When Meg returned, she smoothly glided around the stage to where a makeshift door was standing. Behind it was the stage where the actor playing her husband would enter. A light rap expectantly took her to the door, and she called in her soft singsong voice, "Why who could this-a be?"

The count smiled and turned to face the audience as he waited for the familiar voice of all those long days of practice to fill the room. Instead, he heard nothing, and the audience that was smiling and laughing a second ago now stared back on stage with looks of horror. The count spun around and suppressed a shout as a figure loomed on stage, slowly advancing on the open mouthed Meg. The figures cape whipped behind him, as a blood red rose fell from his long fingers. The white mask that covered his face gleamed in the candlelight of the chandelier.

The count was quick to react and he called a stage hand to his side with a sharp gesture. "Quick Mortimer. Go to the prop room and fetch me a blade or a pistol. Be quick, man!"

"Erik," A woman's voice moaned. Meg could not mistake the beautiful yet haunted woman that ran from the stage. Another gasp racked through Meg's body as she fainted to the floor with a scream.

(Please REVIEW and I will write another chapter and will be so happy! Please?)