Paris, France, 1870
What a glorious sight! Firmin dared the world to show him a better spectacle than the one before him. People milled about in front of the theatre, his theatre, all eager to buy their tickets for the first opera available. The amount of money that Miss Daaé's singing had inspired people to spend was unfathomable.
The thought of Miss Daaé put a cloud of irritation over his otherwise euphoric mood. Blast it! Where was that infuriating girl? How dare she dash his hopes of becoming the richest man in Paris. She had disappeared last night, and no one seemed to know where she went—or why.
Firmin pushed through the crowds, waved off the bowing doormen, and thrust himself into the foyer of the Opera Populaire. He jerked off his overcoat and hat, handing them and his cane to the waiting footmen. The manager glared at the newspaper in his hand, and then handed it to the footman as well.
"'Mystery after gala night,' it says, 'Mystery of soprano's flight!'" Firmin's song was perturbed and not a little chagrinned. "'Mystified,' all the papers say, 'We are mystified, we suspect foul play!'"
He snorted as he climbed the sprawling staircase, stepping around maids on their hands and knees, scrubbing the ornate marble. "Bad news on soprano scene—first Carlotta, now Christine. Still, at least the seats get sold—gossip's worth its weight in gold…"
Firmin's song tapered off as he passed a gaudy statue on the landing. The golden sculpture of the naked woman seemed to mock him from behind her solid, still lips. You're without a lead soprano, she seemed to say. How will your greed be sated now? With a frown, he shrugged off the notion that somehow the effigy was his conscious and continued up the stairs.
"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!"
Firmin reached the top of the stairs and started down the long hallway when Andre appeared at his elbow. The man's color was high, and he carried an envelope, lined in black.
"Damnable! Will they all walk out? This is damnable!"
"Andre, please don't shout!" Firmin put a hand on his partner's shoulder and sang in a persuading tone. "It's publicity! And the take is vast—free publicity!"
"But we have no cast!" Andre squeaked a bit on the last note.
Firmin shook his head and drew a deep, calm breath. "Andre, have you seen the queue?" His eyes trailed down to the paper in Andre's hand. "Ah…it seems you've got one, too."
Andre drew the note from its envelope and held it aloft. "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?"
Firmin recognized the sardonic tone of the note and drew his own black-bordered envelope from his breast pocket. "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:—" he paused to flip the note over and read its reverse. "No one likes a debtor so it's better if my orders are obeyed!"
The two men looked at each other, incredulity masking their features. "Who would have the gall to send this?" they sang at the same time. "Someone with a puerile brain."
"These are both signed O.G.!" Firmin exclaimed, examining the notes.
Andre's brow wrinkled. "Who the hell is he?"
They spun on their heels to meet each other's eyes when the mutual realization came. "Opera Ghost!"
Firmin stepped over to the balustrade, watching the comings and goings below in the entryway. He gestured with a hand still clutching the note. "It's nothing short of shocking!"
Andre joined him and rested a hip on the railing. "He is mocking our position…"
"In addition he wants money." A note of wariness entered Firmin's tone at the mention of the Opera Ghost's salary.
"What a funny apparition—"
Firmin took the verse up with Andre. "—to expect a large retainer. Nothing plainer—he is clearly quite insane!"
Firmin and Andre weren't allowed to further establish the lunacy of the Opera Ghost, though. Their exchange was interrupted when the door opened to admit the Vicomte de Chagny.
"Where is she?" Raoul demanded.
Andre tipped his head to the side in puzzlement. "You mean Carlotta?"
Raoul looked up at them from beneath his brows. "I mean Miss Daaé—where is she?"
"Well how should we know?" Firmin spread his hands apart in an innocent gesture.
Shaking his head, Raoul started up the stairs. "I want an answer. I take it that you sent me this note?"
"What's all this nonsense?" Firmin prodded Andre and they headed to meet the Vicomte on the staircase.
Andre shot an indignant look at Raoul, clearly insulted by the idea of sending a note resembling anything like what they had received. "Of course not!"
"Don't look at us!" Firmin added, for good measure.
This gave Raoul some pause. "She's not with you then?"
"Of course not!" Firmin found himself echoing Andre's earlier declaration.
"We're in the dark…" Andre confessed.
With the grace borne of one well practiced in soothing those of less noble blood, Raoul raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Monsieur, don't argue—isn't this the letter you wrote?"
"And what is it that we're meant to have wrote?" Firmin realized his grammatical gaffe and corrected himself. "Written!"
Raoul heaved a weary sigh and offered the note to Andre. "Do not fear for Miss Daaé. The Angel of Music has her under his wing," the manager read. "Make no attempt to see her again."
Firmin exchanged looks with his partner and the Vicomte. The note was aloof, commanding, and in much too familiar of a tone to be comforting.
"Well, if you didn't write it, who did?" Raoul prompted.
Firmin drew a breath to answer, but before he could, he was cut off by a screeching voice.
"Where is he?" Carlotta, dressed in a full, sweeping fuchsia skirt and a low-cut bodice of purple, was trailed by Piangi and her various maids and servants as she stormed across the vestibule and up the staircase.
Andre made a little noise of shocked delight at Firmin's elbow. "Ah, welcome back!"
Carlotta was in no mood to be welcomed, though. She wanted answers, and she looked ready to murder in order to get them. "Your precious patron—where is he?"
"What is it now?" Raoul said, the irritation in his song clear.
"I have your letter—a letter which I rather resent." Carlotta waved a note in a gloved hand, making the feathers in her ostentatious hat flutter in sad imitations of the birds they once belonged to.
This was turning into a fine kettle of fish. What would he do if his scandal-causing—and thus money-making—soprano began a blood feud with his wealthy patron? Everyone clashed on the landing, and Firmin turned to the Vicomte. "And did you send it?"
"Of course not!" Raoul retorted, and Firmin's fears of warfare doubled.
"As if he would." Andre sounded much more confident than Firmin thought he should.
Carlotta glared, but her tone was softened by a drop of doubt. "You didn't send it?"
"Of course not!" Raoul repeated, frustration raising his pure tenor to a near shout.
Firmin balled his hands into fists, wishing that the situation would stop spiraling out of control—out of his control, that is. "What's going on?"
"You dare to tell me that this is not the letter you sent?" Carlotta brandished the note under Raoul's nose.
He plucked it from Carlotta's grasp and snapped it open, giving Carlotta a cold gaze. "And what is it that I'm meant to have sent?" He exhaled heavily through his noise and glanced at the note. "Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Christine Daaé will be singing on your behalf tonight."
"Christine Daaé!" Carlotta hissed, but Raoul read over her.
"Be prepared for a great misfortune, should you attempt to take her place." Raoul folded the note, replaced it in its envelope, and looked up.
Firmin glanced from the Vicomte to Carlotta. The woman was positively iseething./i Her jaw was clenched in acrimony, and she curled the fingers of each gloved hand into tight, infuriated fists.
Shooting an urgent look at his partner, Firmin threaded his arm through Carlotta's while Andre did the same on the other side. They escorted her down the staircase and away from the Vicomte, lest the diva stain her furs with innocent blood.
Both the managers attempted to soothe Carlotta. "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—"
"Miss Daaé has returned." The composed and dispassionate announcement, a contrast from the previous heated exchanges, came from Madame Giry. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, with her daughter, Meg, behind her.
Firmin shot a glance at Raoul, gauging him. "I hope no worse for wear as far as we're concerned."
Andre cut in. "Where precisely is she now?"
Madame Giry shook her head. "I thought it best she was alone—"
"—she needed rest." Meg added, her voice sweet and quiet, but every bit as persistent as her mother's.
"May I see her?" Raoul took a step, but Madame Giry held up a forbidding hand.
"No, Monsieur, she will see no one." It was completely apparent that the ballet mistress would not back down on this point.
Carlotta and Piangi glanced at each other, then at Madame Giry. "Will she sing, will she sing?"
With a quick flick of her eyes upward, she proffered a piece of paper. "Here. I have a note."
He found his own groan echoed by everyone else. Firmin, along with Andre, Carlotta, and Piangi, advanced toward her. "Let me see it!" They all cried.
There was a reason Firmin was manager, and it wasn't just for his good looks. Thinking quickly, or at least more quickly than the others, he added a hasty "Please!" and snatched the note up.
"Gentleman, I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run," he read, sarcasm thick on his voice. "You have not followed my instructions. I shall give you one last chance."
As he read, a cold shiver ran down Firmin's spine. He could easily imagine exactly what the Opera Ghost—or whoever claimed to be their legendary haunter—had looked and sounded like when he penned this note. The Phantom would have had a smug smile planted firmly on his ghoulish face as he dipped his quill in an inkwell, perhaps by the light of a candle. He might have even spoken as he wrote, thinking aloud. His voice would be mocking, of course, mocking of Firmin and Andre and every other person the Phantom thought he had control of.
"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 Daae 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 iwill/i 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."
Carlotta broke in as soon as Firmin finished reading the note. "Christine!"
Andre rubbed a wrinkled forehead. "Whatever next?"
"It's all a ploy to help Christine!" Carlotta started down the stairs, holding her heavy skirts out of the way.
A headache pounded in Firmin's temples. "This is insane!"
"I know who sent this," Carlotta snapped, and pointed a finger at Raoul. "The Vicomte—her lover."
"Indeed." Raoul raised an eyebrow at her, and then glanced at Firmin. "Can you believe this?"
The manager ignored him, his attention on more important matters than a Vicomte intent on defending his honor. "Signora!"
Carlotta led everyone on a winding path through the theatre, singing to herself in Italian. "O traditori!"
"This changes nothing!" said Andre, attempting to soothe her.
"O mentitori!" Carlotta sang, not hearing him.
Firmin felt like clapping his hands over his ears, but instead hastened to keep up with the prima donna. "Signora!"
Carlotta stomped into her dressing room and began tossing things at her servants to pack into her trunks.
"You are our star!" Andre insisted, panic rising in his tone.
"And always will be," Firmin confirmed, narrowly avoiding being hit in the head with a thrown shoe.
Andre began again. "Signora!"
Time was running out—Carlotta was almost finished packing. "The man is mad!" Firmin declared.
Andre nodded firmly. "We don't take orders."
It was time for Firmin to grasp the reins of this run-away horse. Who knew if Christine would be able to sing tonight? He knew Carlotta could—and would, if he could only convince her to stay. The risk of having to refund a full house outweighed whatever alleged disaster the Opera Ghost might conjure up. "Miss Daaé will be playing the pageboy—the silent role."
Andre looked over at Firmin, and helped him complete the rest of the announcement. "Carlotta will be playing the lead!"
Firmin braced himself for another round of groveling.