September 18th 1892: Meg
I felt as if I were sitting in the audience of a play. I could see and hear everything, but was unable to act myself. My whole body seemed paralysed with shock. I could only watch, watch the door being opened all of a sudden, watch Erik emerge from the room, brandishing the Punjab Lasso… and watch my husband's neck being caught in the noose. And I could listen, listen to Erik's triumphant cry, listen to Jean's panting and gasping… and listen to someone screaming. It took me a moment to realise that the someone was me.
It was only when I was pushed aside and nearly fell that I woke up from my stupor. Still I couldn't help noticing that if it had indeed been a play, the scene I witnessed now would have made the audience gasp. Pressed against the wall of the corridor, I saw that my mother had thrown herself against Erik, or rather, the Opera Ghost, with all her weight. Since she had stood behind him, her attack had taken him completely by surprise, and she had knocked him over.
It truly was a scene worth remembering: My mother was lying on top of the Opera Ghost, who was desperately trying to turn around and face her. While they both struggled, Jean was lying under them, making feeble attempts to get out. Under different circumstances it would have been very amusing to watch them, yet at the moment I could only think about whom to help first.
I realised quickly how difficult it would be to get Jen out from under the two other persons. Yet if I helped my mother first, the Opera Ghost would stand up as well and threaten us again. And what would he threaten us with? As I saw his hands in the air, everything fell into place. They were empty. He wasn't holding the rope anymore.
Quickly and quietly I got down on my knees and crept to the untidy pile of people. It turned out that I didn't have to be quiet at all, for the others made more than enough noise to cover my own sounds.
"Let him go!" my mother commanded.
"Get off me!" the Opera Ghost yelled.
My poor husband could only pant, since there were two people pressing down onto his ribcage.
Jean was the only one who saw me coming. He breathed something that could have been my name. His face was scarlet. The noose was still around his neck, but it hung loosely. My mother's attack had made the Opera Ghost lose the rope. It had to be somewhere between them, and it was my task to find it. If someone changed their position, looked for something to hold onto and gripped the rope, it could be my husband's death. More than once I had seen how quickly it worked.
I had to remove the noose first. But how was I supposed to do so without the Opera Ghost noticing me? I decided that I just had to take the risk. Taking a deep breath, I seized the part of the rope between the noose and the spot where it vanished between the bodies and tugged at it to create a little more freedom for moving. Then I could finally pull the noose over Jean's head. He threw me a grateful glance.
Yet apparently the Opera Ghost had noticed the motion of the rope under him after all, for he gave up his attempt to turn around to my mother and faced me instead, his eyes narrowed. I gasped, for he looked truly menacing, even though he was lying on the floor. Yet I didn't let go of the noose, telling myself that as long as I held it, he couldn't use it on someone else.
Fortunately my mother realised what was going on just a moment later, probably because the men lying under her had stopped struggling. She scrambled to her feet, smoothing out her skirt, and miraculously she looked as immaculate as ever. No one who hadn't seen it would have believed that she had been fighting the most dangerous man at the opera a minute before.
"Keep the noose, Meg," she instructed me. She did sound a little breathless. I nodded.
Now that my mother's weight had vanished, the Opera Ghost stood up as well. At last I could help Jean to his feet. He was swaying slightly, as if he still felt dizzy, but apart from that, he seemed to be all right.
"You know that I could have my lasso back in seconds if I wanted to," the Opera Ghost stated. "But I don't attack little girls. It wouldn't be… dignified," he added delicately, looking at my mother pointedly, but she merely shrugged. She seemed rather pleased with herself.
"But you think it dignified to attack innocent men, just because they're at the wrong place at the wrong time?" I asked, my voice a little shrill. It was only now, with the immediate danger gone, that I realised what could have happened. I could have lost Jean. I glanced up at him in worry, but saw that the lasso had only left a faint red line at his neck. The Opera Ghost had not had time to pull the rope tight before my mother had pounced on him from behind.
"Innocent men don't crouch behind doors, eavesdropping on other people's conversations," the Opera Ghost replied firmly. "Who is he, anyway?"
"He's one of the patrons," my mother answered, before I could do it. She threw me a warning glance, and I understood her at once: It was best not to confuse him with long explanations. The more we talked about such things, the longer it would take us to reach the core of the problem.
"One of the patrons?" he repeated, looking at Jean with a frown on his face. "I've never seen him here before… Well, he must be new. If it was for the managers, we'd have a new patron every day. Who cares whether they're interested in the arts, as long as they have enough money?"
I couldn't help thinking that he was talking to himself rather than to us. But then, the Opera Ghost had probably done this a lot, given the fact that he hadn't had many people to talk to.
While we waited for him to stop speaking, Janes reached up to his neck and traced the red line with his finger, wincing softly. It seemed to be more painful than it looked. The sound apparently reminded the Opera Ghost that he was not alone.
"So…" he said, making a step towards my husband and me. "What did M.Patron do outside the room then? And why did he have you with him?"
"I can speak for myself, Monsieur," Jean gave back indignantly, straightening up to his full height. He wasn't used to being overlooked. "And to your information, I was waiting for Mme.Giry, and so was her daughter. We wanted to talk to her. We were not at all interested in her conversation with you."
I held my breath as I watched the Opera Ghost. Had the story Jean had told him been good enough? Apparently that was not the case.
"Liar," he said matter-of-factly. "I saw the way Mme.Giry acted in the room. She knew you were there. If she hadn't know it, she'd have closed the door behind her for a start. What did you hope to find out?"
"Nothing," my husband replied, his voice shaking ever so slightly. "Honestly… nothing…"
The Opera Ghost made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if to indicate that talking to us wasn't worth the effort. I dared rejoice inwardly. Maybe he wouldn't pursue the subject any further, even though he didn't believe us. Yet the moment I let my guard down, he snatched the lasso out of my hand.
"Thank you very much, Mademoiselle," he muttered with an unpleasant smirk. "And now I'll find out the truth."
With these words he turned around and approached my mother. Yet I was faster than him. By the time he reached her, I was already standing in front of her.
"You won't touch her!" I called, my voice breaking. "You'll have to kill me first!" I could only hope I sounded braver than I felt, with my body trembling from head to toe. My heart was racing, and I was sick with fear, but there was only one thought in my head: I had to protect my mother, come what may.
"How very… heroic of you," he remarked. "And of you," he added, as my husband rushed to my side. "But I have to tell you that I'm not planning to kill Mme.Giry. She's one of the few sensible people at the opera. And you, girl, are a good dancer. I'd hate to rob the corps de ballet of your talent. And you…" He gestured at Jean. "… I don't care enough about you to kill you. It could have happened today, but it didn't, so I suggest you count your blessings, while Mme.Giry tells me what has been going on."
Throwing a glance over my shoulder, I saw the determined expression on my mother's face and knew she thought that the time for the truth had come.
"Well, Erik," she began, pointedly using his first name. Then she told him what we believed had happened this morning and why we believed it had happened. Jean and I nodded every now and then.
The Opera Ghost's eyes grew wide. For a moment I thought he at least considered believing us. Then he burst into laughter.
"Oh Mme.Giry," he said, giggling. "Have you invented this as a bed-time story for the chorus girls? Why don't you tell it to them instead of bothering me with it? I'm sure they'll love it. The Opera Ghost secretly married to Christine Daaé and having lost his memory!" He turned around and walked away. We were too shocked to hold him back.
For minutes, his laughter was the only sound that echoed through the corridors. Then Jean asked the crucial question.
"And what will we do now?"