That Monday evening, Mme Giry woke to an unearthly voice echoing through her bed chamber. She quickly decided that she was either dreaming or going mad, and stuck her fingers in her ears. Though the sound was muted, she could still hear it calling her name. It was beginning to sound irritated.
After a moment, she sat up straight, summoned her courage and answered, tremulously. "Who is there, and what do you want?"
There was a pause, followed by a low chuckle. At first, the sound seemed to come from the corner beside the window, but when the voice spoke again it seemed to issue from the chair directly beside her bed.
"I am the Opera Ghost, Madame," it whispered huskily, "and I want your services. We may be useful to one another, you and I."
"If you're hiding and playing tricks on me, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for violating the privacy of a lady's bedroom." Mme Giry courageously jumped up from her bed and began searching the corners, behind the drapes, and beneath the bed frame.
"Giry, you try my patience. And that is a very unhealthy thing to do ." The growling voice spoke directly in her ear. "Now sit and listen!"
It was too much for the good lady. She sunk down on her divan, made the sign of the cross, and repeated a few "Our Fathers".
"Thank you. I am pleased with the way you direct the affairs under your jurisdiction, but I am not pleased that my needs have been so ungraciously overlooked."
"Wh-what needs, monsieur?" In her current state, Mme. Giry could not begin to imagine what sorts of needs a ghost might have.
"Now you are being sensible. I wish to watch the Opera in comfort. See to it that a box is reserved for me each night."
"The managers would nev…"
"To Hell with the managers! If they cannot comply, I will see to it that we have new managers." The voice was filled with ire, but suddenly subsided back to its original calm tone. "I think box five would suit my needs best. Also, you will quell these rumors that are being spread about me. It is really best that the ignorant not discuss things of which they have no knowledge. Oh, and speaking of the ignorant; I will be employing you as my messenger to the managers, once I have given them proof of my existence. I do not gladly suffer fools. Your reward will come with time, if you serve me faithfully. Can you do these things? Or must I lose my temper…" The voice moved around the room as though the speaker were impatiently pacing about.
Halfway through this speech, Mme. Giry resigned herself to the idea that she really was speaking to a ghost. To THE Ghost. She fervently wished M. Le Fantome had chosen anyone else to reveal himself to, but as he had chosen her she supposed there was little to do but obey him. Considering the feats attributed to him in the past, including the terrifying ordeal of the bumbling pianist, he she did not doubt his will or ability to follow through on any threats or promises made.
"I will do my best, Monsieur Ghost. I need little in the way of rewards, but if you would consider the welfare of my little Meg, I'd be most grateful." It was a bold move to ask anything of the strange voice, she knew, but if the Ghost could truly dole out rewards, then her fondest wishes were for her daughter's success, not her own.
"Consider it done. Madame, it was a pleasure to deal with you. Bonne nuit."
Silence echoed in the little room. After a few moments, Mme Giry decided it was safe to rise from the divan, but she did not go to bed. Instead, she made her way to the staff kitchens and partook of a glass of sherry. Her nerves had calmed a bit by the time she swished the last rich swallow between her teeth, but she was far from deciding this was all a bad dream. She would reserve Box 5 as requested. How to stop the staff from gossiping about the Ghost was beyond her, though. She looked to the corner of her room where her walking stick leaned innocently against the wall. Well, there at least was one idea…
Erik returned to his lakeside home satisfied with the night's accomplishments. Giry was a good, sturdy woman in his estimation. Though her official title was Housekeeper, her actual duties and importance went well beyond that. The managers, drat them, would give her some trouble with regards to his requests unless he could convince them that it lay in their best interest to look the other way. With a deep sigh he bent over his desk with the fine-nibbed fountain pen he had taken and began his letter to the managers.
Dear Messieurs…
