Estella is exhausted by the time the concert ends, but Théodore was as wound up as usual, showing no signs of losing the spring in his step any time soon, while he fulfills his custom of sharing a word of thanks with each member of the backstage crew. And not just anyone that happened to walk by him either, no; he made a case to track down every single one of the makeup artists, the light technicians, the curtain handlers...
"I don't understand you, Théodore." She finally says, after watching him buzz past her several times. "Four days of back-to-back performances and yet you're bouncing off the walls like a schoolchild."
"I assure you, mon chéri , I am just as glad as you are that the week is finally over." He removes his hat with one hand and wipes the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief he pulls from his coat pocket.
Margaux approaches with teetering steps, grinning widely, the half empty bottle of wine she swings back and forth in her right hand a likely indicator of as to why.
"Excellent! Superbe! That was even better than the first night, you four!" She stumbles, and would have fallen to the ground if Théodore had not caught her.
"Madame, you have had far too much to drink!" He says, and tries to snatch the bottle away, but she easily staves off his efforts.
"Back to her old habits." Estella remarks with disgust.
"Have you no compassion for your one and only mother?" Margaux whines, poking the bottle at Estella's legs pathetically. "After all I have done for you? After helping you start your career as an actress, and giving you your first partner, bred from my own precious Alexis?"
"I won't listen to this again." She storms away, leaving Théodore in an awkward position with the incoherrent wreck hanging over his shoulder.
To get to the dressing rooms at the Palais Thornier, one has to traverse a labyrinthe series of underground stone tunnels and long corridors that also lead back to the foyer and the outside. On top of that there were some routes that had been sealed off long ago, and rumor has it there existed some areas that were yet to be discovered.
Luckily for her, Estella had "stormed" off the stage regularly over the past five days, so she had already learned the directions to her dressing room by heart.
Once inside, (had she not been in such a hurry, she might have noticed, and thought it strange that the door was already unlocked) she begins plucking off the ribbons on her costume, yelling furiously in French:
La folle!
Échoués vieille sorcière!
Elle ne peut pas survivre à une journée sans sa boisson!
And so on.
She starts to pull off one of her tightly fitting shoes, bounding on one foot as she scrambles to find the switch for the kerosene lamp on the counter, but stops suddenly.
There is a peculiar odor in the still air, not unlike charred onions. Quite unlike the usual prevailing, musty smell she had grown accustomed to.
Estella switches on the light - a pale pink glow - and for the first time comes face-to-face with the spectre that had been stalking her since she first set foot into the Thornier. "Aaugh, démon! Fantôme!"
The gruesome creature that had patiently awaited her in the dark stirs and stares at her, unblinking, through a single blood red pupil. It points a sharp-tipped leathery appendage at her threateningly, as it draws nearer.
"Get back! Stay away from me!" Estella's legs crumble beneath her and she finds herself cornered; her back literally set against the wall. "Help, somebody! Aider moi! Aider moi!" She screams.
But by this time the last few audience members, the musicians, the stagehands are all leaving, and Théodore is shepherding the inebriated Margaux out a back exit. Nobody was around to come to her aide, and her assailant knew this.
It swings its arm, knocking the lamp off the table which clatters when it hits the ground.
"Get back!"
Her head is spinning. Was she blacking out? No, it was the work of the Fantôme, sprinkling a sleep-inducing powder over her, its effects superseding the intense fear and revulsion, lulling her into a comatose slumber from which he could with the ease of killing an insect, ensure that she would never awake from, and the raging storm in his heart did inspire.
The light in the dressing room flickers off.