Yes, folks, just as you thought this story had been abandoned altogether, this little chappie came to me. I was "inspired," shall we say, by the chance to tour l'Opera Garnier in Paris two weeks ago, with my good pal and phellow phan, Ripper.

So this chapter is dedicated to Ripper, in thanks for being such a gracious hostess and generally being such an all-around fun person when you meet her IN person. Cheers, luv!


Downstairs in the study, Philippe poured himself and Gerard some drinks and sat down in the green leather armchair with a pleased look.

"All right, Philippe," Gerard challenged. "What is this idea that has you so excited?"

Philippe grinned, a mischievous grin that Gerard recognised from every time Philippe had made a new conquest in the chorus. "Well, I don't know whether you've ever noticed, but I have rather a lot of money," he said.

"It hadn't escaped my notice," Gerard said. "What of it?"

"I also have a respectable title," Philippe added.

"I repeat: what of it?"

"Well, one thing I've noticed over the past few years since I inherited both the money and the title, Gerard, is that not only can the titled nobility get away with things that others can't – because their quirks are simply labelled eccentricities – but others eventually begin to copy them. Why, already I have noticed several of the other opera patrons getting their suits cut the same way as mine, and Anatole and Georges have even started wearing their hair the same way I do."

"What are you getting at?" Gerard demanded, frowning.

"Simply this: suppose, in the wake of the phantom's supposed death and all the news coverage in the papers, I and a few of my friends began wearing masks? In the wake of the Phantom's demise, it would be considered daring, titillating, and even a little naughty—which practically guarantees that no one would be surprised by the men of my set enthusiastically starting the trend. It would become fashionable within a week to wear a mask in public, and by the time he is ready to join society, your son would scarcely be noticeable in a crowd."

Gerard's jaw dropped as he envisioned Philippe's new fashion.

Philippe went on, "He would be able to move about freely, to conduct business as he sees fit – if you were interested, you could even hire him openly, and he could be seen about the opera."

With awistful look in his eyes, Gerard said quietly, "I could tell everyone that he is my son." He took a sip of his wine, and swallowed, his eyes distant.

Philippe let him have his moment of reverie, and merely nodded.

Within a minute, Gerard's gaze sharpened. "What about when the fashion becomes passé?" he demanded. "A trend such as that could not possibly last for very long – what would Erik do once it had passed, and he was once again the only man on the streets wearing a mask? How could I employ him then, or even openly claim him as my son?"

Philippe frowned. "As for the trend, it would serve well enough for him to become accustomed to the demands of society above ground. He has grown up in a theatre; he could easily have a mask made that would look like a scarred, ugly, human face. Once people saw that, they would think it his normal face, and no one would be surprised by his covering it withhis usual mask. They would have no reason to ever see his real one, and he could go about openly masked.

"But, Gerard," he fixed the older man with a stern look. "Erik's mask should have no bearing on whether or not you employ him, and especially not on whether you can openly claim him. If you cannot freely claim Erik as your son, masked or not, then you don't deserve to have him as such. Erik's acceptance into society may be made or broken by how easily he is accepted by you. If you can accept him, employ him, and claim him with confidence as your son, then that confidence will influence how well others accept him as well. Much of Erik's success depends on you."

Gerard grew pale and looked away. He carefully set down his glass and walked across the room to the window, where he gazed out, scowling at the street below. Philippe, fearing that he had said too much, started to get up and go to him; then, having his courage desert him, he settled uncomfortably into his chair again. He sipped his wine nervously, and wiped his palms on his trousers.

Moments passed, and Philippe kept an eye on Gerard's hands. When he saw them open up from their from white-knuckled fists, he relaxed a little. After what seemed like a long time, Gerard turned back to him, shamefaced.

"Thank you, Philippe," he said, sounding tired as he accepted the rebuke. "You are absolutely right, and that cannot have been easy for you to say."

"You have no idea!" Philippe replied with a long, relieved, and gusty sigh. "I was afraid you were about to call me out or something, and I'm afraid that I am very much a lover, rather than a fighter."

Gerard smiled, grateful for Philippe's attempt to lighten the tension in the room. He came and sat back down, taking another drink of his wine. Another long, considering moment went by, and then he nodded. "You're right about the masks, too. I think it may work, if only we can do such a bizarre thing with confidence, as you said."

Philippe chuckled. "Don't worry about that on my end, Gerard. I'm fairly well known in my circle for doing bizarre things with confidence!"


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