Erik

The second I shut the door behind me, I found myself drowning under the weight of a hundred burning glares. I couldn't escape their hateful stares, even as I tried to avert my eyes - as they were each my own golden pairs of eyes blazing back at me.

Who was I to pretend to be normal? I hung my head in shame, shutting my eyes tight. This face I wore was nothing but a mask, concealing my true hideous visage from the world. I had been so proud of it, touting it in front of the very managers I had extorted, manipulated, and threatened… so proud that I filled my office with hundreds of tiny mirrors so I could always be looking at my handsome new face...

And it wasn't even handsome! It was gaunt, and thin, and old! I had strived for realism with this mask, the image of what my face should have been if I hadn't been so horribly cursed. Countless hours I had spent, bent over the daguerreotype of my father's portrait, trying to impress upon the gelatin mold the features he should have passed on to me. He was not a handsome man either, but certainly he had his body fat in the places where it should have been. I did not, and it was too difficult to build up the mask in the spots where my cheeks should have been full, rather than sallow, so I had settled with this ugly thing. At least the worst of my deformity was covered; the torturous vessels running under my skin were hidden, the sharp bones of my cheeks were smoothed, and a passable nose was… provided. I did not end up resembling him in the slightest, and furthermore I did not give myself any features of my mother; I figured she would have loathed the idea as much as I did.

I had not expected an afternoon with Doctor Barye to wear so excruciatingly on my nerves. By the time we bid adieu, my body was convulsing like a live wire. How did he not realize who I was? I was a showman of many sorts – magician, singer, assassin - but acting was not a talent I had ever excelled in. Even lying to Christine and duping her into thinking I was the Angel of Music had been trying; I had only succeeded because her young, grief-stricken mind had wanted to believe me.

Perhaps Doctor Barye was similarly focused. He had expressed a desire to meet with me, but disclosed some troubling preconceived notions of the character of man he believed me to be. Perhaps I was not who he imagined? I should weep a sorry tear for that! The man thought so low of me that he could not recognize me standing right beside him. How horrible of a monster did he imagine me to be?

But still…

Doctor Etienne Barye wanted to see me after all these years. I supposed I should feel honored, in a way. And I was. Nobody had ever sought out poor Erik! Nobody except the Persian shah… and we saw how that ended up. But this was a well-meaning Parisian doctor who simply had my best interests at heart.

Ha! I could make myself laugh with such a lie. That arrogant ass would have had me locked up in an asylum if my mother had let him. Instead of my fine evening suit, I'd be wearing a cotton straitjacket by now. No, that man was certainly not well-meaning.

Although, I considered, moving to my desk in deep, reflective ponderance, he does have forty more years of experience now than he did back then.

That was it, wasn't it? Neither of us were the young, naïve characters from four decades prior. I was no longer an unsuspecting child still under the delusion of the inherent goodness of society, and Barye was no longer a starry-eyed dreamer eager to impress a superstitious village who wanted nothing to do with his progressive practices. Now I knew too well of the horrors this world held… perhaps Barye, too, had learned his lesson after all these years.

Therapy with Barye would be a good way to see if I was right. Could Barye treat me now that he was at the end of his career and had nothing more to prove? Ever since Nadir had put the thought in my head, I had dug into Barye's career and found him to have quite the stellar reputation. If any man was going to be able to help me, begrudgingly I would have to admit it would be him.

Ah! But I was not a fool. It was for the best if he did not know who I was immediately; after all, what if he proved entirely untrustworthy? Or worse, what if he couldn't separate me from his false preconceptions? No, I couldn't have that.

It was decided: Doctor Barye would be treating Charles L'Esprit the Opera Manager, and not Erik the Opera Ghost.

I had no doubt, though, that Erik would continue to interest him. All the better, then, I decided, that I would be visiting him for treatment, as during our sessions I would hopefully be able to ply him for updates on my case. With any luck he would be as forthcoming as he was this afternoon, and would even see me as a confidant in this case as we had both ventured through my underground domain together.

A timid knock stirred me from my thoughts. It was Andre, I knew, even before I heard his voice – Andre was still very much afraid of me, hell if I knew why, and was always hesitant in his approaches with me. Firmin, on the other hand, was a little more standoffish, and did not like me very much either; though, when he knocked it was usually more urgent and sharp, as if he had to get it over with before he lost his nerve.

Andre's voice filtered through the door as expected. "L'Esprit?"

"What is it?" I asked, flinging my words back to him like spears of ice. I truly hated being disturbed.

"It is time," he called vaguely. Time for what, I hadn't a clue. I sat wondering for an irritating minute before Andre called again, "Aren't you coming?"

"Andre, I promise I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about right now," I said, loud enough to be heard through the door. I stood and strode to the door, tearing it open with just enough restraint to not scare the man witless. Regardless, he cowered before me, terrified and wide-eyed.

Firmin was a little ways down the hall, clutching his hat in his hands and already wearing his cloak. Seeing me looming over Andre, he piped up, "Monsieur L'Esprit, could it be you have forgotten?"

"Forgotten what?" I snapped, turning my attention to him.

"The dinner," Andre squeaked. "With the patrons. At Le Grand Véfour."

Blast it all! I had agreed to that, hadn't I! Days ago it had seemed a trivial nuisance – yet now that the moment was here, I felt a pit drop out in my stomach. "I – I have far too much paperwork to catch up on. The end of the month will be coming soon and we have far too many bills to pay." I waved a vague hand at them. "You two go on without me."

"Go on -?" Andre threw a questioning glance back at his partner. "We can't -"

"Don't be ridiculous, L'Esprit," Firmin called. "This dinner is vital to the success of our company. We need to show the patrons the faces of our management team – all of our faces - so they can better trust us and can consequently feel better about increasing their monthly patronage. You can't just not come!"

"I can," I gritted out defiantly. "You two will just have to figure it out." I moved to close the door and put an end to this damn conversation.

Andre held a firm hand against the door and slotted his foot in the doorway. "Pardon us, L'Esprit, but that's really not an option."

My hand gripped the handle of the door tightly. Andre was trying my patience. Why now had he chosen to defy me, after all his nervous whimperings for the past week? I had the strength to break his foot off in my door and shut it that way, if I really wanted. But that would be an undoubtedly terrible look for me in front of my work associates. And worse still, knowing the way word spread around this place it would probably get back to Nadir and I'd be stuck enduring one of his confounded lectures.

One last option remained, and though I knew it was futile I had to try anyway. "I haven't even had a chance yet to read through the inspector's report on the structural integrity of the auditorium." I gave them each a scolding glare. "If that ceiling falls in while we're sitting around on our thumbs, that'll be the end of all of us. I daresay we should be more concerned with that than with whoring ourselves out to the highest bidder!"

"We shall not be able to pay for the reconstruction if we do not get the support of the patrons," Firmin shot back, looking far less scandalized than Andre by my less-than-professional verbiage. "You need to reassess your priorities then, if you -"

"My priorities are and have always been this opera house," I declared, raising my voice. "But the matter remains that the inspector's report -"

"- will still be there when we return to work on Monday morning," Firmin finished for me impatiently. "If that ceiling chooses to give in while we're gone, it'll hardly have been able to be prevented if you had read the report tonight or Monday." He tapped his foot. "Now, shall we?"

I grimaced. Firmin was right, as much as I loathed to admit it, and I had no other recourse. I snatched my cloak from the hook and donned my fedora, impulsively hooking the brim over my face before remembering I had nothing to hide.

Firmin led us out to where a hansom stood waiting, the horse pounding its hooves impatiently on the snowy cobbled street. We filed up into the cab, them taking seats across from me, and the driver set us off on our way.

The evening was dark already, as the winter light was prone to fading early this time of year, and so only the occasional yellow glow from the gas streetlamps illuminated our little cab as we rode along. I noted Andre and Firmin as they nervously fidgeted before me, trying to look everywhere except straight forward in my direction. What humor it was, that even when I wasn't a repulsive monster, people still didn't want to look at me.

I knew I was only humoring myself with this tired charade of normalcy I was attempting to put on. Charles L'Esprit was the most exquisite mask I'd ever crafted – and in turn the most exhausting one to date. I knew nothing of the delicate workings of societal gatherings. Perhaps the closest I ever got was the Grand Vizier's banquet in Persia, which of course ended unceremoniously with an alarmingly skillful attempt on my life. I made a mental note to avoid any drinks I could not see through tonight…

And so there it stood, even as I pondered the flecks of snow that decorated the glass window. I was not like Firmin or Andre; I was not like any other man who would be at the dinner tonight. I had been burnt too many times to count, and in return had burned the world from spite. My hands were well and bloodied – I suddenly broke past my thoughts to stare at my gloved hands, sitting clasped in my lap. These were the hands which had caused so much suffering, resting plainly before me. What would Andre and Firmin do if they knew how nimble these fingers were when laced with a weighted length of rope? What would I do?

I shut my eyes and welcomed the darkness that encapsulated my vision. Some things of the real world were better not looking at. My hands – my sinning hands – were two of those things. I considered the idea that perhaps it would have been best if the Persian Khanum had gotten her way after all and freed me of my dastardly hands.

But no… no, it would've been a shame, wouldn't it? These hands – shriveled, veiny, bony, and terrible that they might be – had worked as many wonders as they had disasters. I'd orchestrated as many fugues and sonatas as I had assassinations and murders. My hands had carved blocks of stone to create glorious monuments to behold. I played the catgut upon the violin just the same as around a man's neck.

It was a lifelong question, I knew. It was the question I breathed each morning and night: was I truly wicked? It was a loaded question, full of roundabout answers and cul-de-sac thoughts. If I hadn't answered it in fifty years, there was little chance I'd answer it in the five minute carriage ride tonight.

Wordlessly, soundlessly, I cast my eyes back to the streets and forced my mind to other things.

Any semblance of a good mood that I might have entertained vanished within minutes of stepping within the establishment of Le Grand Véfour.

It was an ornate and gaudy place – I suppose if I had been in better humor I might have found it within me to appreciate the décor. Swirling brocades stitched into the velvet lining of the curtains mirrored the golden curls that coursed upon the carpet. Vases of solid bronze sat upon delicately carved pedestals, etched by an undoubtedly expert hand… possibly as expert as my own! No other establishment of this era could hope to rival this one in its finery. Yet I remained sour and unimpressed, because of my two aggravating and bothersome companions.

Firmin and Andre, wishing to make ninnies of themselves I suppose, had arranged themselves in a receiving line and all but forced me to the end of it. With exasperation, I extended a hand to each of the pasty bastards who crossed my path. I did not bother with attempting a polite smile; no doubt my disdain was clear.

Introductions poured forth from Firmin's lips in advance of each man who approached me: "Always a pleasure to see you, Monsieur Michel Marceau du Guise… and you as well, Baron Jean-Martin de Joyeuse! How is your cousin the duchess faring these days? My apologies – wife, is it now, you say? And look who it is – the Vice-Amiral Pierre Noirot, himself! Have the tides finally swept you back to France for good?"

Then, at long last -

"Comte Philippe de Chagny, and his brother, Vicomte Raoul de Chagny."

I was shaking the older man's hand without realizing it! And his brother, Christine's boy, was behind him. He barely paid a mite of attention to me, and I realized I might not be the only one out of my comfort zone at this dinner. The boy was perhaps no older than twenty. Fresh out of the naval academy but not yet deployed, this might have been one of his first acts of duty in his noble role. In a room of men, all at least double his age, he was like a schoolchild clutching onto the coattails of his much more seasoned – and more capable - older brother.

"How do you do, sir," the Comte's deep voice said, interrupting my thoughts. And suddenly I had the most horrible realization that I was to respond! In the presence of the boy, who would certainly know me by my voice, as he had heard me say all those wretched things to my Christine on that night all those weeks ago. He had fallen into the torture chamber, and nearly died… and now my mind circled back to the conversation I had with Nadir on the day he discovered me in my office – "You must have very vivid memories of that night…" – and I became very afraid of that statement in that moment, as I stared at the Vicomte de Chagny and wondered what in the world I would say.

A simple nod of my head was all I could muster in the end, and thankfully that was deemed acceptable as they simply moved on to allow the next patron to file on by. But I couldn't tell if it was my imagination… or if the boy's eyes lingered on my form for just a moment too long…

The dinner swept in, carried forth on silver platters presented by satin-gloved waiters. To my dismay, a glass of Right Bank Bordeaux was placed at my setting before I could find the words to refuse it, and a cut of duck foie gras terrine was similarly slipped before me. I balked at the food – for one, I doubted very seriously my mask could hold up to a serious encounter with a meal, and secondly I was absolutely curious how in the world Firmin and Andre thought we could afford to feed our patrons like this when we could barely afford to keep the opera roof over our heads.

I was never a religious man, but even I had to admit to being touched by a miraculous stroke of good luck by the way the seating arrangements shook out, as neither of the de Chagny brothers ended up at my end of the long dining table. In all, there were sixteen of us: the three of us managers, and thirteen patrons beside. Firmin claimed the middle spot, Andre the far right, and I the remaining far left. By splitting up, Firmin and Andre explained, we could engage the patrons near us more personally. I was to handle the four immediately sitting before me… a task, I might admit, I was thoroughly ignoring in favor of picking childishly at my food. The men around me seemed to be getting along just fine in their discourse without my help, until the conversation inevitably turned to me.

"So," a stocky man with an entire paintbrush lodged upon his upper lip said, "Charles L'Esprit, was it?"

I nodded jerkily.

"I never imagined Messieurs Firmin and Andre would take on another partner," a ramrod-type man on my left chuckled. I risked a glance – it was Monsieur Marceau. He went on, "From what I've heard, they've had eyes for no one but each other since their days at the pig iron trap in Middlesbrough. And that's been – nearly twenty-five years, I'd say!"

"Yes, that is quite curious," the first man I now recalled to be the Baron de Joyeuse mused, stroking his paintbrush thoughtfully. "So how did you end up factoring into all of this, Monsieur L'Esprit?"

My eyes flitted to the boy at the other end of the table. His attention was elsewhere, so surely it would be safe to speak… but perhaps a low volume would be wise…? "I'm a temporary associate at best."

"Temporary!" the Baron roared with mirth. "Nobody is temporary in the dramatic business of an opera house! Come now, L'Esprit, and tell me the music doesn't sway you?"

Perish the thought! "It does…"

"Then I daresay we'll make a permanent associate out of you after all!" he cried. "Once you play witness to the delightful entrancements of the dancers -"

"- the lovely crooning of the bassoons -" another added.

"- the show-stopping, heart-skipping thrall of Europe's loveliest voice of the century: La Carlotta!" the Baron beamed, even as I rolled my eyes at the mention of that sour diva's name. "We are rich men, L'Esprit, but our fortunes do not make us the foolish old codgers those sniveling young college revolutionaries think us to be. We appreciate art for what it is and deign to support the franchise of the arts in whatever way we can!"

That was a pleasant revelation. Perhaps these wealthy men would be more willing to turn out their pockets for us than I had anticipated. "Truly?"

"Oh, truly!" the Baron said. "Though," he leaned in, "a group of us are a touch concerned with that small matter of – well, you know the one…"

"The chandelier," Monsieur Marceau supplied unnecessarily.

"Right," I said blankly.

"We just have some reservations about the institution at the moment. You understand?" the Baron said, mulling over his wine. "We're not dullards, L'Esprit; we know your colleagues' aim for plumping us with this fine feast. You're seeking financing, no?"

I said nothing, but gave a small, barely perceptible nod. It was all my pride would allow.

"Nothing would please us more than to provide the capital for the restoration. But how are we to know further disaster won't strike again?" The Baron spread his arms helplessly. "And with all that superstitious talk of that ridiculous Phantom – I must say, L'Esprit, even though such a ghost can't possibly exist, how do we know this chandelier disaster was truly an accident, and not the result of some sort of criminal act?"

I nearly bolted at the accusation. How true to life his questions were! I was the culprit behind the chandelier crash and I had no idea what sort of hell I was prone to do in the future. I could only hope I would have better control of my actions, but still I knew myself well enough to promise nothing. I steadied my shaking hands by placing them flat against the table. "The investigation has already been concluded. No foul play was revealed."

"Ah, but you know the sûreté," Marceau said. "They have no stock in this business. They don't bother investigating things too closely if a convenient explanation already exists."

How true again that was! I had been ecstatic when they left the opera house for good after a mere week of traipsing around the place. All their policework in regards to the disaster was mere show; for nothing more than posterity's sake had they even bothered with the case for as long as they did. In the end they held up a broken chain and a frayed rope, and called it an unhappy accident.

"Well, what could we do to ease your minds on the matter, gentlemen?" I asked, in a tone befit for the Shah.

The Baron flitted his eyes to the other three in our discussion. "I've had it in my mind for a little while now to hire a private investigator. What say you all?"

No! That was exactly what I didn't need – another nosy idiot snooping around my precious kingdom!

But the other men began loudly conversing about how splendid of an idea that was, chortling at their ignorant, stupid intellect at having thought of such a thing, until inevitably the conversation wandered down to the other end of the table. I watched the boy's brother, the Comte, turn our way.

"A private investigator?" the Comte asked, having heard only those words. "Whatever for?"

"To dispel the rumors," the Vice-Amiral Noirot explained from beside him, "about the ghost."

The boy's head spun towards us so fast I thought it would fly off his neck. And worst of all – he locked his gaze on me.

"The ghost!" I heard him squeak in fright, even from the other end of the table.

His brother groaned and rolled his eyes, and I watched as he murmured a discreet warning in the boy's ear.

But the Baron caught the movement. He called from his seat, across the table, rather cheekily for a man his age: "Little Raoul, dear boy – don't tell us you actually believe the rumors?"

The Comte gritted his teeth. "Please ignore my brother, he's still a bit wet behind the ears when it comes to these things…"

"I heard," Monsieur du Guise piped up suddenly, "that little Raoul had a run in with the ghost." He cocked his head with a small smirk. "Is that true, little Raoul?"

The boy's eyes flamed, and I believed quite severely that he was about to make a ninny out of the both of us by pointing a finger in my direction and screaming bloody murder. There was no question in my mind that he knew it was me. But how? Had he heard me speak and recognized me by my voice? Or was it my eyes – I always had the most terrible color of eyes. Maybe he remembered them?

Regardless of how he figured me out, the boy ultimately surprised me by apparently repressing the urge to alert the others of my true identity. Instead he said tersely, "I do not know what encounter you speak of. There is no ghost."

But still the boy's eyes remained on me.

"Not even a small sprite?" the other man teased. "Come now, little Raoul, I heard you were obsessed with the matter!"

"There is no ghost," the boy repeated sternly, like a child wanting very much to be taken seriously. "It is true that I was interested in the subject, but I have since asked my questions and found my answers. I encourage the rest of you to do the same."

The other men were taken aback by the boy's intensity, but none as much as me.

"But - if there must be an investigation," he said suddenly, fire blazing a storm in his eyes, "I know just the man for the job."

In the washroom I found myself a slice of solitude.

I could take no more of that insufferable dinner. Every moment was more excruciating than the last. Was this how it was in Persia? It couldn't have been this bad! Persia had been bearable to a point. This – this was simply torture. So it was settled. Firmin and Andre were just going to have to figure it out on their own. I needed to leave. I could not be here any longer.

Who was I trying to fool? With any of this? The boy had already figured me out. One glance and he knew. How could he not? And yet he hadn't – why hadn't he…?

The door opened and - by all the luck in hell - in walked the boy himself.

He had to have known I was in here. He knew, and he came. He stopped and stared at me for a long moment, as my heart raced with tension.

I didn't want to have to…

"Monsieur L'Esprit," he began timidly. "May I spare a moment of your time?"

Where was that pluck he'd shown five cellars below Paris while trying to rescue Christine from me? This nervous schoolboy act was not a good fit for him. But he sounded strangely sincere, which was odd, because he must know it was me… didn't he?

"My time?" I clarified. He was talking to me, right?

"Yes," he said. "If you don't mind me saying, Monsieur L'Esprit – I have heard some things about you."

Understatement of the century! Did this boy not recall nearly meeting his maker in my torture chamber?

"They say you don't believe in the ghost."

Of course I didn't! And he should know why… so why…? "Do you find that strange?"

"No!" he said quickly. "There is no ghost, anyway."

I frowned deeply. "What are you getting at?"

He looked around nervously before leaning in. "Between you and me, Monsieur L'Esprit – there is something in that opera house. Not a ghost, per se, but something intractably worse." He held up his hands. "I can't say anything else on the matter, but just know that it would be in the best interest for everyone involved if you… well… played along for the time being."

I gaped at the boy. Was he truly this dense? What in the world did Christine see in him?!

He must have mistaken my stunned silence as disbelief. "Please, Monsieur L'Esprit, believe what I'm telling you. This is for your own safety."

"Monsieur le Vicomte…" I said quietly. This was getting to be too painful. My head was rightly throbbing. How could he really not know it was me? "Are you playing a game with me?"

"No game, Monsieur," he declined. "I would never joke about something so horrible."

Now this was too much. It was apparent that removing myself from the dinner alone was not enough; I needed to vacate the premises entirely! My eyes wildly flew around the room as I started feeling sweat bead up on my forehead beneath the suffocating mask, searching desperately and wastefully for an exit path.

In my flustered moment of perturbation, the boy chanced to stare at me closer. He gawked openly at my face, and I flinched as he stepped closer. "You appear pale, Monsieur L'Esprit. Are you well?"

"No – no, I rather think I am not." The words spilled out of my mouth as I could hardly think straight. I bothered not with pondering the stupidity of his comment on my pallor; if he could truly see past my makeup and mask to the true tone of my face, I hardly believed my color would be the most troubling part of my appearance to him. Instead I moved to ignore him, blindly wading through the suddenly stifling air to the window. It was a tiny, high thing, more of a vent than anything else; but it was cracked open just enough to give me a gulp of fresh air to renew my senses. I raised my hands to the sill and breathed in the cool breeze.

The boy, I had forgotten, was still behind me and still watching me. "Should I fetch Messieurs Andre and Firmin?"

"Do what you wish," I grumbled. My face was flushed and every nerve in my body was raised to red-hot alarm. And yet the breeze blowing on me produced the most unhelpful sensation, since my true face was covered with a sheet of rubber and gelatin, and so only a ring of unexposed skin around the mask felt the coolness of the wind.

"Actually…"

I jumped – the boy's voice was right behind me! When did he get there?

"…I don't think I should leave you right now, Monsieur L'Esprit. You look quite ill. Here, let me help you."

With a soft hand that has never known a day's work, he peeled my iron grip from the sill. Baffled by his touch, I somehow allowed him to lead me by the hand to the couch across from the door, and with little prodding he had me actually sit upon its crushed velvet cushion.

"Just breathe, Monsieur," he said.

I was too distraught to argue. I followed his command immediately, pumping my chest hard and fast before slowing and deepening the rate. Only on the tenth breath did I begin to feel the panic subside and rational thought return… and only then, as well, did I realize he was still holding my hand.

He took notice of my more relaxed state, and thankfully broke his hand away without my intercession.

I studied him, as he awkwardly stood before me and tried to give me privacy by diverting his attention elsewhere. He was red in the face – embarrassed, most likely, by the humiliatingly intimate nature of this dealing – although not as much as me, I was certain.

"Do you know who I am?" I demanded, rather directly.

"Of course," he responded with confusion. "You're the new manager. Monsieur Andre was singing your praises all evening."

"Andre is an absolute idiot," I said absently. How was he still not getting it? I was torn over whether to blunder on with the façade or to get it over with and come clean now.

"He is," the doltish boy agreed.

Wait.

He agreed?

I peered back at him through narrowed eyes. "What do you think of Firmin?"

"Honestly, I think he's -" and then he gaped at me for a long moment, as if realizing what he had said. He waved his hands before him. "Monsieur L'Esprit, please pardon my indiscretion, I truly meant no offense to your colleague!"

I let slip a slight smile upon my lips. "No apology is necessary. The two of them truly are a couple of coprophagous fops."

"But – Monsieur L'Esprit! – how can you say that about your own -?"

"Because it's the truth. I've never been one to mince words." And again I narrowed my eyes at him. "So what do you think of Firmin?"

"Well…"

"Go on," I goaded.

His polite reluctance finally ran out. "Honestly? He's an unimaginative, passionless lackey. He doesn't care for the opera business one bit, even if Andre does; but unlike Firmin, Andre doesn't have a shred of brains in his head. The two of them were going to run the opera into the ground. And I know I shouldn't speak ill of the dead – but the owner, Monsieur Maturin, was a confused old man who could barely tie his own cravat before he died! He never should have been allowed to retain the business. But Madame Maturin is the worst of all. She's as dead as her husband in all ways except physical! A passionate business like the opera is no place for a heartless woman like her. Pardon me, but it's true and I just think that it should be said."

I raised my eyebrows in awe. There was that pluck! "Does your brother feel the same?"

"Philippe thinks I need to keep my opinions to myself."

"It would be better if you didn't, actually," I said with a small good-natured laugh. "More people should be telling those two what great boobies they are."

"Great boobies…" the boy repeated, sounding distant.

"Now," I was feeling much more enlivened after this conversation! "We should return to the dinner. I fear stalling much longer may only underscore our absence further."

"Are you well, now?"

"I am," I said. "Thank you, truly, Monsieur le – Raoul."

And why shouldn't I call him that? Between the torture chamber and this panic attack, it seemed to me that we were intimate enough by now to refer to each other by our Christian names, if nothing else! Or perhaps only him… somehow I did not think he would like to know me by the name Erik at this point, ha! Anyway, he seemed a tad addled by my familiarity, but honestly the boy had been confused for the entire conversation – as I was as well – and so did not demur it.

I stood and shook his soft hand, firmly but not painfully so, as I did not want to hurt him anymore.

"And my best wishes to you on your recent engagement," I said quite jovially, before brushing past him to leave.

No, I didn't want to hurt him anymore. Christine truly deserved a good boy like him.

Andre

L'Esprit returned to the table quietly, looking rather less ill at ease than when he had left. He remained minimally conversational – to Firmin's and my dismay – but a certain tension had lifted from his shoulders and he seemed to be actually listening to the men talk around him, if nothing else.

I suppose it was what we should have expected. L'Esprit had made it cleaer from the outset that he wanted nothing to do with us. He'd locked himself in that grand office of his, barely showing his face to us in the hall. Half the days we hardly saw a trace of him at all; other times we would watch him enter the office half a dozen times but never see him leave. I caught myself wondering if perhaps there was a second exit from the room, but I had seen the room myself and knew that not to be true. We must have just missed him leave… half a dozen times. Yes, that was it. For the other explanation was plainly inconceivable! A man cannot walk through walls. The only one who could, after all, would have been the opera ghost –

"Andre?" Firmin's voice stirred me from my thoughts. What irony that I had drifted my attention away from the conversation, just as I had been upset with L'Esprit for mere moments ago! "The remarks?"

The remarks? Oh! But I thought he was planning to give them! I had nothing prepared. We exchanged a telepathic dialogue for a couple beats whereupon we argued over who would have the glorious honor of speaking. In the end I lost the argument, and was forced now to drown under the weights of all the patrons' stares.

Nervously I straightened my posture and cleared my throat, and thus began: "Thank you all for coming out for this dinner. My colleagues - Messieurs Firmin and L'Esprit – as well as I, recognize the sacrifice this is of your time, as you are all very important men with important things to do. So we thank you for that, and also would like to extend our humblest and deepest gratitudes for all that you do for the opera."

Blank faces still stared at me, and silence echoed around.

"It is no secret that our operation has just undergone a tremendous hit that has put us in a tenuous position. Most of you have already been to see the damage of the auditorium, under the guidance of Monsieur Firmin or myself. So you all know the extent of it, and that a fair amount of reconstruction must be undertaken to restore the opera house to its full glory."

Some men murmured unhappily at that.

"We will not insult your intelligence by dancing around the topic. To reconstruct the opera house, we will be in need of further financing. If you each could consider increasing your monthly patronage by five percent -"

"Unheard of!" The Baron de Joyeuse slammed down his hand. "Five percent! You hellions have some nerve! If that's your approach - you aren't fit to run a cabaret theater, let alone an opera house!"

And several others followed suit in the same manner of his outburst.

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please!" Firmin and I tried desperately to get ahold of the revolting table of patrons. "Please, hear us out!"

But it was to no avail. The Baron grew red in the face as he yelled nonsensically about the injustice of requesting from them such an ungodly increase in patronage when we had no hall to provide services in return. I swept my eyes helplessly to Firmin, who looked equally helpless, and then we both decided to glare daggers at L'Esprit like it was his fault we were in this mess, just because it gave us someone to blame.

And then -

"What in the Good Lord's gracious name is going on in here?!"

The entire room fell into silence, and we craned our necks to stare at the newcomer in the doorway: a stern woman in a dress of laced and beaded black, with a hat of the most gaudy, morose feathers and ornaments I had ever seen.

Firmin and I leapt out of our chairs. "Madame Maturin!" We cried together, bowing and kissing her hand one after another. "So lovely of you to have joined us!"

"Stand up straight, you simpering fools!" she seethed just low enough in our ears for us and us alone to hear. "Have you no self respect?!"

It didn't matter if we did; we obliged regardless!

"Gentlemen," Madame Maturin addressed the patrons. "I hear your concerns. But rest assured that your patronage, should you choose to increase it, will not go to waste. I have brought in a new manager, whom I have known for years and trust deeply in. This man is Charles L'Esprit, and he is sitting right there."

She gestured with a silky flick of her hand to L'Esprit, who sat as still as a ramrod as the entire attention in the room moved to him.

The Baron stroked his mustache thoughtfully as he regarded L'Esprit, like a farmer might regard a fat calf on the bidding block. "Yes, Madame, but how can you say for sure that bringing a new manager into the mix will help anything at all? Messieurs Andre and Firmin have hardly been here a year, and look at the mess they've made with the place!"

"Unlike Messieurs Andre and Firmin, Monsieur L'Esprit is not entirely new to the opera house. He has been there since its inception, as a consultant for its construction."

Truly? This was news to me! But it explained… a lot. I recalled with embarrassment our tour around the opera house on his first day, and the boredom with which he had endured it, and found myself wishing to hit myself for not making the realization sooner.

"You will see, Monsieur le Baron, that my friend Monsieur L'Esprit will prove himself to be utterly invaluable to our operation. I have no doubts for the future of the opera house as long as we retain him on staff." Madame Maturin moved to stand behind L'Esprit's chair, and placed her hands on his stiff shoulders. "You, too, should share a similar faith in him."

"What is the plan, Monsieur L'Esprit?" The Baron asked. "Before I can agree to such a steep increase in my monthly contribution, I want to know if you have a reasonable plan. The last I heard from Messieurs Andre and Firmin, they were talking of tearing down the entire place and rebuilding from the ground up. If that's the plan I want no part in it!"

"We will be doing no such thing," L'Esprit replied, in that deep, dark way of his. "We will hire a team to repair the structure, replace the seating, and restring a new chandelier. The auditorium took substantial damage, but I wouldn't exactly call it devastating."

I saw Madame Maturin's fingers twitch at those words, and L'Esprit was quick to amend his statement: "In terms of structural damage, I mean. The lives lost, including that of our very own Monsieur Maturin," he placed a hand upon the Madame's, still on his shoulder, "was a tragic thing that must not be taken lightly. Let it be known that we will be taking measures during the restoration to ensure the future safety of all."

Whatever those measures were, L'Esprit had yet to clue us in on. But it was no matter, because the patrons seemed appeased with his words, and a few of them began to warm up to the idea by commenting blithely to one another that "five percent really wasn't all that much anyway."

The evening resolved itself smoothly thereafter, and at last with full bellies we left the establishment of Le Grand Véfour and bid adieu to the patrons one by one. Firmin approached me, ready to accompany me home so we could chat further as we tended to do on weekend nights, but stopped and indicated for me to look over my shoulder.

Madame Maturin stood with L'Esprit in deep conversation on the pavement several yards away. The snow was coming down in light flurries, speckling L'Esprit's dark cloak with bits of white that showed briefly upon the fabric before vanishing completely. Madame Maturin, too, found herself being plagued by the snow, but the crystals that fell on her feathered hat were slower to dissolve and she gave very much the impression of a crow in winter.

The pair of them, looking rather desolate and bleak in their black attires, made for an odd couple. I was not close enough to hear their words but I could see the relaxation in L'Esprit's poise and the smile on the Madame's gaunt, pointed face. It was a side to both of them that I had never witnessed before; both characters had been so serious and grave in their conducts up until this point. I had never known the Madame to pitch her angular features in anything but a frown, and in the short time I had known L'Esprit I had thought him nothing more than a miserable, irritable man. It seems these two had found in each other a like-minded friend.

Which was… nice, I suppose the word would be. It was nice these two were friends – L'Esprit and the Madame. And yet I couldn't help but wonder, as L'Esprit looped an arm around the Madame's arm, showing off the clear lack of a wedding ring on her finger where there had been one just mere weeks prior, and they took off down the way…

Exactly what was the nature of the relationship between L'Esprit and Madame Maturin?