Chapter 7

Andre and Firmin sat alone in their office. Twenty thousand franks had been placed in Box Five, which was empty. No one entered the deep cellars. No one defamed the Ghost, teased him, or otherwise annoyed him. The best of the sets, costumes, and talent had gone to Don Juan Triumphant. Christine was to be reigning diva, forever. They had even composed a very polite letter to the phantom asking how much of the Don Juan funds he wanted. They had left the note in Box Five with a bottle 1865 Sicily Claret (a very good year), and a new pair of opera glasses. However, all these kindness were performed to no avail. The phantom of the opera was no where to be found, and the managers were learning to face the fact that there was a very good chance that their ghost might never turn up again.

"This is all that blasted Viscount's doing!" Firmin grumbled.

"Yes, that plot to capture the ghost was the straw that broke the camel's back, as it were," Andre agreed.

"He's gone, vanished!" Firmin sighed miserably, "And now we'll never prove that we didn't steal Don Juan Triumphant! Oh, we should have staid in the junk business"

"Scrap metal!" Andre corrected.

"What does it matter?" Firmin asked, tossing a cigar butt on the floor.

"Suppose," Andre said as if hitting upon an idea, "Suppose that our ghost and the Viscount's rival are not the same people at all? Suppose they are, in fact, separate entities?"

"And?" Firmin pressed.

"Well, only one of our ghosts could have written the opera," Andre went on, "If it was the rival, then we must search for a man. A man is probably off in the city someplace and not in the opera at all."

"And if it's a ghost?" Firmin asked.

"Well, considering the way our composer reappears and disappears at will, I'm thinking that we really did receive our libretto from beyond the tomb. If this is correct, all we must do is summon the dead."

"What? My heavens, man, you must be joking!" Firmin ran his fingers though his hair.

"No! Really!" Andre assured, "We'll have a seance!"

"We'll burn in hell!"

"No, don't be silly," Andre sniffed, "We're simply trying to ask a composer permission to use his work. Is that so terrible?"

"Yes!" Firmin snapped, "Terrible! We'll be visiting a witch! A bloody, burn-them-up, caldron bubbling witch!"

"A medium, Richard," Andre reasoned, "Not a witch."

"Where would we even find a medium?" Firmin asked.

"Why, with the gypsies, of course," Andre replied, lighting another cigar.

Dadada! Like this so far? Do tell; I am new to the whole "serious" fic thing. Critique is accepted! Do give an honest opinion! Smiles and cheers! PS, I have a new computer and I'm not used to it yet, so if this is odd looking, I am not at fault! Oh, and I'm not telling if Phelan is Erik's half brother or not. The fellow is a liar, just so you know. Well, tally-ho! Oh and PLEASE review, I have hundreds of hits!