A/N: Whew! -fingers crumble to dust- Five hours, and I'm finally done with this (insert favorite adjective) chapter! This is a loooooooong chapter, people; it will probably take awhile to read. So get comfy, buckle your seatbelts, and pretty pretty PRETTY please let me know my work was not in vain, and drop me a review!
Disclaimer: Yes. I own Phantom of the Opera, alright? Why are you all taking my story?My characters! My beautiful characters! -lapses into Gollum mode- (S)He WUINS it! (Honestly, these formalities are pointless...)
Firmin's tall, dark form approached the mail room briskly, his cane and heels clicking rhythmically on the marble floor. I heard his gruff mumbles in response to the rushed formalities of the cleaning staff, and smiled. This would be very entertaining, indeed.
The key jiggled in the door, and swung open with a creak of rusty hinges. Silently cursing Madame Giry and her snide comment from earlier that morning, I held my breath, suddenly extremely aware of the volume of my breathing. Firmin sighed in relief at the sight of the Sunday paper, and snatched it up with the rest of his mail, flipping immediately to the critique section and momentarily ignoring the large white envelope with the familiar skeletal seal. Reading as he walked, he exited the room and headed for the grand staircase. I followed silently, taking a little-known stairway and trap door combination to the tiny, closet-like space above the chandelier in the main entrance. Luckily, Buquet was occupied with rehearsals for the performance that night; he was one of the few crewmen who knew of the room, and whenever I needed to use it I constantly worried that we would have another of our unpleasant encounters. I was growing rather tired of his insatiable curiosity, and had convinced myself by that point that if he were to bump into me again, one of my infamous disasters might be unavoidable...
But he was not in the room, nor anywhere near, so I settled on my stomach above the chandelier, peering down at the preoccupied manager through a peep hole I'd fashioned a few years ago for just such a purpose.
Firmin's stride had slowed considerably, and his dark eyes had widened at the bold headline. He murmured the first few lines under his breath, then tucked the paper under his arm and began to sing loudly (and extremely off-key, might I add), apparently to the few servants who paid him no heed.
"Mystery after gala night," it says,
"Mystery of soprano's flight.
'Mystified,' all the papers say,
'We are mystified-
We suspect foul play!'"
Bad news on soprano scene-
First Carlotta, now Christine!
Still, at least the seats get sold;
Gossip's worth its weight in gold...
I nodded. The cover story was predictable; of course, the papers wouldn't dare mention the mysterious Phantom of the Opera... "foul play" was simple enough. The reporters were not yet desperate enough to rely on a ghost story for an explanation, and such a statement would leave room for questioning suspects and making yet more headlines. Firmin and Andre would now stand their first test of time, as each manager before them had done. I suspected that they wouldn't last much longer; soon they would be running for the exit, their hypothetical tails tucked between their legs, begging to return to their precious junk business.
I hoped that Firmin had finished his horrible little excuse for a tune, but to my utter exasperation he continued even more boldly than before, ascending the stairs with a slight bounce to his step:
What a way to run a business!
Spare me these unending trials!
Half your cast disappears,
But the crowd still cheers!
Opera-
To hell with Gluck and Handel,
Have a scandal and you're sure to have a hit!
I rolled my eyes. "Amateur," I mumbled. Just as I received my fill of the off-key troubles of junk-business-turned-opera-managers, Andre burst into the room, his plump face flushed in fury.
Damnable! Will they all walk out?
This is damnable!
Trying to stifle the amusing thought that Andre resembled a ripe tomato with a mustache, I focused my attention back on Firmin.
Andre, please don't shout;
It's publicity! And the take is vast-
Free publicity...
Andre's face only reddened further. But we have no cast! he yelped.
Firmin shook his balding head, placing one hand on his partner's shoulder.
But Andre, have you seen the queue? His beady black eyes suddenly settled on the large white envelope crushed in his partner's sausage-like fingers. Ah, it seems you've got one too...
I rubbed my hands together like a small child, a gleeful smirk splitting my face. Now the fun would truly begin...
Andre snatched the letter from his friend's hands and began to read aloud in a singing voice twice as horrible as Firmin's.
"Dear Andre, what a charming gala!
Christine was, in a word, sublime.
We were hardly bereft when Carlotta left.
On that note: the diva's a disaster
Must you cast her when she's seasons past her prime?"
I found myself mouthing along with the words to my letter, a smug grin still pasted on my face. "Amen," I whispered to myself as he folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope. Aside from Meg Giry, the chorus girls all resembled a flock of hens, flapping their arms and legs in a vain attempt to call as much attention to their unremarkable selves as possible. And, of course, the worst of them by far was La Carlotta, that screeching, self-absorbed, pigheaded excuse for an Opera singer that the aforementioned chorus girls looked up to with shining eyes and incessant compliments. The woman's ego was almost as bloated as her blubbering, drunken assistant, Piangi, whom I cared for almost as little as his mistress. And yet these two fools Andre and Firmin insisted blindly on maintaining the atrocious cast that had plagued my Opera House for the past two years! It was high time I did something to drag the Opera Populaire from its sunken depths; I had turned a blind eye to the floundering performances during my intense training of its upcoming star, focusing solely on Christine's progress. Now I saw my errors quite clearly, and fully intended to return everything to normal just in time for Christine's rise to stardom.
As Andre slipped his letter back into its envelope, Firmin produced his own, and continued to read it in that same monotonous, infuriatingly repetitive tune:
"Dear Firmin, just a brief reminder:
My salary has not been paid.
Send it care of the ghost by return of post.
P.T.O.: No one likes a debtor,
So it's better if my orders are obeyed!"
The two managers looked at each other with furrowed brows, and began to strut along the main hallway with as much grace as the Italian snob herself. Their voices mingled in a hair-raising duet, and I struck my forehead with the palm of my hand in disgust.
Who would have the gall to send this?
Someone with a puerile brain...
I scowled down at them, my temper flaring. I had been called many things in my life, many of which were true, but puerile? Most certainly not! I had refrained from the use of foul language in my description of the dancing, and had asked in a very gentlemanly, courteous manner for the continued favors that really shouldn't have cost them a second thought. And now I was puerile?
I fingered the chain to the chandelier, putting a considerable amount of thought into dropping it onto their bloated heads and ending my troubles then and there, but decided against it, merely for the sake of making my point. I was not a spoiled child; they had yet to receive my final note and warning before I took action. I never went back on my word.
So I merely sighed, mimicking Madame Giry's gesture as I massaged my throbbing temples. Perhaps she was right about the migraines...
Meanwhile, my obtuse managers continued to squabble over the origin of their letters:
These are both signed O.G., Firmin noted, glancing from one letter to the next. I had to fight very hard to resist clapping unenthusiastically for his discovery.
Who the hell is he? Andre demanded. I looked at him, nauseated. He had to be joking!
Opera Ghost! The two exclaimed at the same time. I banged my head on the wooden floor quietly. What had I done to deserve this torture? Had I not run my opera splendidly up until this point?
It's nothing short of shocking! Firmin insisted.
He is mocking our position, Andre added indignantly.
In addition he wants money, Firmin observed. I threw my hands up in the air. Ah, so they did get the hint!
What a funny apparition, Andre chimed in before their voices melded once more:
To expect a large retainer;
Nothing plainer-
He is clearly quite insane!
Seething with hatred for these thick-headed morons, I drew my sword and prepared to slice the chandelier from its support, damned be coolheaded patience; I couldn't stand it any more!
Fortunately for those two blockheads, the vicomte burst through the front doors a moment later, distracting me from my task. He was short of breath, his forehead damp with sweat, and he clutched a familiar white envelope in his hand.
Where is she? He demanded. The surprised managers exchanged confused glances.
You mean Carlotta? Andre suggested stupidly.
I mean Miss Daaé! Where is she? The vicomte repeated, marching up the steps toward the two men; they shrank back visibly at his apparent outrage, while I smirked.
"Afraid of a little bit of competition, Monsieur de Chagny?" I whispered, my mood greatly improved at his indignation.
Well, how should we know? Firmin protested simultaneously.
I want an answer! The vicomte insisted, brandishing his letter in front of the managers' bewildered faces. I take it that you sent me this note?
I fought back a sudden onslaught of nausea. Good God, I was surrounded by idiots! How in the world was I supposed to make Christine into a prima donna with these imbeciles running my Opera! None of these men could even be bothered to read the signature, let alone take the hint of the seal...
What's all this nonsense? Firmin demanded, oblivious to his conspicuous hypocrisy.
Of course not! Andre croaked huffily.
Don't look at us! Firmin reiterated.
She's not with you, then? The Vicomte took a step back, frowning. My body shook with silent laughter; this freak show was undeniably obnoxious, but his outrage was enough to brighten even the darkest of my moods. I did not appreciate the way he followed Christine, the way he looked at her, the way he embraced her, the way...
I stopped myself before leaping off into a brooding monologue, contenting myself with observing his current situation, not past ones.
Of course not! Firmin echoed his partner.
We're in the dark, Andre insisted. I grinned, fingering the chandelier's golden chain.
"Not yet, you're not," I breathed in a sing-song voice.
Monsieur, don't argue, the vicomte barked, flailing his note relentlessly in front of their increasingly perplexed faces. Isn't this the letter you wrote?
And what is it that we're meant to have wrote? Firmin asked, snatching the letter from the vicomte's clenched fist. He peered quickly at the letter, then with an aggravated air, corrected himself: Written!
It was Andre who began to read my note aloud: "Do not fear for Miss Daaé; the Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again." The two managers exchanged baffled glances, then looked helplessly at their patron.
The vicomte's blue eyes filled with a panicked desperation. "If you didn't write it, then who did?"
I waited for one of the managers to share their wondrous, apparently brain-wracking revelation, but the explanation never came. Just as Firmin opened his mouth to speak, the front door flew open again with a painfully familiar screeching.
Where is he? La Carlotta demanded, bursting through the door with a puffing Piangi trailing at her heels like one of her many ribbon and ruffle-clad poodles. Both managers brightened visibly at the return of one of their starlets.
Ah, welcome back! Andre offered with a smile and a bow.
Your precious patron, where is he? She belted, stomping up the stairs. The vicomte turned steadily to look at her, his expression mirroring my own dislike of the Italian diva.
What is it now? He sighed, his cold blue eyes boring into her. In that single moment, I liked him. Only for a moment, mind you, before I remembered that his irritability was caused by his unsettling worry for my Christine. However, no one else dared to talk down to La Carlotta, and I was impressed that this boy had the nerve to do so.
The diva, however, was unfazed by his contempt; she stormed directly up to him and waved her own crimson-sealed envelope in the vicomte's face. I have your letter– a letter which I rather resent!
Firmin and Andre glanced at each other briefly, still oblivious to my little motif.
And did you send it? Firmin pressed.
Of course not! The vicomte half-roared, growing more and more exasperated by the moment.
As if he would! Andre snorted.
You didn't send it? Carlotta squawked.
Of course not! Now it was the vicomte's face that reddened in fury. Meanwhile, I was beside myself, laughing to the point that tears streamed down my cheeks. I rolled onto my back and then back onto my stomach, clutching my aching abdomen and gasping for air between wheezing bursts of laughter.
What's going on? Firmin wondered aloud. His tone and expression reminded me vividly of a whiny, spoiled child whose vision of a spectacle was obscured by a taller man's head.
La Carlotta would have none of what she believed to be the vicomte's lies. She took a step closer to him, her piercing brown eyes narrowed vindictively. You dare to tell me that this is not the letter you sent?
And what is it that I'm meant to have sent? The vicomte sighed, seizing her letter. He unfolded the thin paper irritably, and began to read the notorious red scrawl aloud. "Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Christine Daaé will be singing on your behalf tonight. Be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take her place." As he read, La Carlotta began to cry, casting a pouty glance at the managers. As soon as the vicomte finished reading, the two men leapt to her side, each taking her comfortingly by an arm and throwing vitriolically suspicious glances at the patron before bursting into song again:
Far too many notes for my taste–
And most of them about Christine!
All we've heard since we came
Is Miss Daaé's name...
Fortunately, before those two idiots could throw either the vicomte or me into a raging fit, the Girys entered (with perfect timing, as usual).
Miss Daaé has returned, Madame Giry announced, stopping at the foot of the stairs.
Firmin rolled his beady eyes. I hope no worse for wear as far as we're concerned... The vicomte and I both reached for our swords at the same moment; unfortunately Andre interrupted with the question that burned on both of our minds before we could do anything foolish.
Where precisely is she now?
All eyes were now on the ballet mistress. I thought it best she was alone, she explained.
She needed rest, little Meg chimed in.
May I see her? The vicomte asked, his voice tinged with desperation.
To my utter relief, Madame Giry shook her head. No, Monsieur, she will see no-one.
I punched the air in a gesture of triumph. "Take that, my dear vicomte."
Will she sing? Will she sing? Carlotta demanded, and all of them leaned forward to hear the fateful answer.
Predictably (although by that point it would not have surprised me if they had all gasped at the sight of the now extremely familiar envelope), Madame Giry produced the letter that I had instructed her to present at just such a moment. Here, I have a note.
All of them moved forward, their hands outstretched. Let me see it! They chorused together.
Firmin added a curt "please" as he snatched the letter from Madame Giry's hand. He began to read my final note aloud as everyone else leaned in to follow along. "Gentlemen, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theater is to be run. You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance. Christine Daaé has returned to you, and I am anxious her career should progress. In the new production of 'Il Muto,' you will therefore cast Carlotta as the Pageboy, and put Miss Daaé in the role of Countess. The role which Miss Daaé plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the Pageboy is silent - which makes my casting, in a word, ideal. I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which will be kept empty for me. Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur. I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant, O.G."
I rose slowly to my feet then, so as not to draw their attention. As entertaining as La Carlotta's nasal bawling was, I had received my fair share of alternating amusement and utter disappointment from my staff for one day. Massaging my now throbbing head, I retreated into the sacred silence of the Opera's cellars. I paused for a moment behind Christine's mirror, watching her chest rise and fall gently as she slept. It would all be worth it if she held the limelight that night. And if not...
My lips curled in a mischievous smile as I hurried down to my lair to continue working on my opera.
...If not, then I would have a remarkable amount of fun making all of them suffer. And it would all begin with La Carlotta.