Disclaimer: All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.
De petite souris a monsieur chat: Chapter 2
February 1882: Beneath the Opera House
"What do you want, Daroga?" he asked clutching the music box to his chest. His voice lacked the fire and strength it once had to burn intruders with fear. Erik could hear it for himself and he knew the Daroga could as well. His partner in crime, so to speak, had known him back in Persia when he worked for the Sultan. To find each other once more in Paris, France, was both auspicious and ominous. Thankfully their encounter and slow friendship had proven the former and not the latter.
"The Daily made reference to the flight of a young singer during the turmoil that befell the Palais Garnier following the first performance of Don Juan Triumphant. Like other curious onlookers, I came to see if such rumors were true," the Daroga replied conversationally as he squatted beside the devastated man. The Persian set something down between them. The faint scent of tangy cheese and warm yeast tickled his noise. Erik's stomach clenched painfully. Did he plan on picnicking with my corpse? he thought grimly.
"Whispers of an 'Opera Ghost' terrorizing the young woman and her betrothed were heard," continued the Daroga as he pulled the cloth away to expose the bread and cheese in the basket. "Whispers of a man and not a phantom lying dead in his lair by the lake beneath the opera house. Why, I thought to myself, had the mighty Azarel been laid low by his own folly?"
"Stop calling me that," the Phantom growled glancing up at the dark eyes and tanned skin of the Daroga. The Persian's thin eyebrows rose then fell as a smile emerged from behind the trimmed beard.
"But you are Azrael, Erik," the Daroga said calmly spreading open his hands. "For you are not dead. You simply reap the fields so we may sow the seeds of life."
"What do you want Nadir?!" Erik shouted finally. He always hated the man's odd little proverbs and his insistence at times at calling him the Angel of Death. "Did you come to gloat over me? Come to finish the Sultan's order? Will you drag me back there so I can be buried alive?"
"No, no. You jump to conclusions, my friend," Nadir ignored Erik's prodding anger. "Like I said, I came to see if you were dead. Remember? You made me promise to see you buried beside the lake." He feared the monster, but in his current condition, Erik was lucky to still be sane and alive. Nadir waited patiently for Erik to speak, but the silenced dragged out painfully. Finally he sighed. "You gave her a choice, yes?"
"Yes," he whispered. "She… she chose me. To be my bride… but…"
"You let her go," the Persian finished for him. Erik made a noise in his throat between a groan and a sob.
"She kissed me, Nadir. Willingly. Without hesitation. With love," Erik spoke in a rush. His red-rimmed eyes gazed up at the Persian. "I realized my folly…" Erik's gaze fell to the music box in his hand. "How could this monster keep her as a prisoner? In this dark cave with Death as her husband? A beautiful songbird in an iron cage… Shackled and never able to fly…"
The Persian was silent at Erik's heartfelt admission of guilt, remorse, and despair. He knew Erik would never apologize to Christine for his madness. However, Nadir did marvel at how the Angel of Darkness saw the parallels between his life and the one he nearly forced Christine to have. His gaze examined the Phantom. He was more gaunt than usual; his dark hair was plastered to his scalp. Dirt and blood to varying degrees covered his normally beautiful yet skeletal hands. In looking at the man's hands, the Daroga's eyes widened upon seeing the silver and enamel music box.
"You kept it?" Nadir breathed. Erik didn't reply but gave a single nod of his head. "You are a sentimental and egotistical creature, Erik."
Erik didn't reply. There was nothing to say. It was true; the music box had been a gift given to him by the Sultan's daughter for constructing a mechanical silver peacock. He didn't care that he had made the music box in the first place, or that it was returned as payment for a more challenging and difficult construct. He simply cared that he made the beautiful contraption and that the small music box inside played La Marseillaise. The little sultana had failed to recognize the song or understand its meaning. Without realizing it, the corner of Erik's mouth exposed to the world turned up slightly.
When he had fled Persia, it was the only item he owned small enough to travel with him undetected. He had dared much to return to his workshop to retrieve, but Erik had built the palace. He knew every door and secret passageway by heart. The music box, for some reason, mattered to him, and its music had promised hope during his travels back to Europe. It had given him strength along his journey, and it was proof of his abilities, how far he had come in his short life.
Lost in thought, Erik didn't notice Nadir reach out and grab the wine bottle. The loud pop of the cork coming out of the bottle made Erik jump. The starving Ghost stared at the Persian holding the open bottle of wine. His gaze drifted down to the loaf of fresh bread peeking out from underneath the calico fabric.
"You can fix it later, Erik," Nadir said quietly. He took a swig from the bottle and held it out to the Phantom. Erik blinked, reached out, and took it. After a swallow, he handed it back and set about attacking the loaf of bread. The Persian watched in silence. The normally immaculate Parisian had been reduced to a state similar to his Persian one. The smell of decay and sickness clung to him like a specter. The good side of Erik's face reminded Nadir of the mummified skulls he had seen at the Universelle Exposition. Nadir noted that the Phantom had gently laid the music box in his lap as he ate.
After a few minutes, the Persian began to dig into the upper pocket of his suit jacket. The movement caught Erik's attention. Nadir pulled out two wax-sealed letters as he spoke, "When I came yesterday, I found one of these letters upon your organ bench. Or what remains of the organ bench."
Erik snorted disdainfully. To say there was an organ bench left was absurd. The foot pedals seemed to be the only intact part of the instrument left. Nadir ignored Erik's noise of disagreement.
"By chance," Nadir continued. "I happened to inspect Box Five when I followed the crowds to gawk at the destruction. Luckily I found this second one hidden in the curtain folds before anyone else did."
"Read them to me," Erik commanded after swallowing the lump of cheese in his mouth.
Nadir tried to hide a smirk and opened the one with the green wax seal. "Monsieur, I believe I have something of yours. If you live, reply. I will keep your secret. Signed, M."
"Something of mine?" Erik asked stupidly. The bread was both sweet and tangy in his mouth. "How cryptic. Read the second."
Erik, I highly doubt you are well and truly dead. If you are alive and can find it in your heart, please forgive me. I did not wish for you to die at the hands of the mob. Thank you for letting me choose my future and who I can share my love with. I will treasure your gift forever. I hope you find the love you seek and that someday you can forgive me. Your Angel, Christine.
Erik felt his chest tighten painfully. He gripped the bread so hard that he sent crumbs everywhere. The damned woman felt guilt AND pity for him. His voice rose quickly into a thundering crescendo, "She wants forgiveness? After she stabbed me in the heart and left it bleeding on the floor?!"
Nadir give him a look. "There is a post script."
"Find the love I seek? I found it in her! I loved her! And what does she do? She runs to that... that... boy! And... I gave her away. She showed me love but... she did it out of fear. To save the life of another... Not out of love for me. If she can't love me, who can?! Such a foolish, naïve woman! No one can love this monster… No one." Erik's voice fell into a diminuendo and he spoke the last two words in a breath. Nadir had tried to ignore his tirade by thumbing through the burnt pile of debris in front of Erik.
"Are you done, Azrael?"
Erik attempted to glare at Nadir, but the Persian shook the letter in his face. It smelled faintly of jasmine, Christine's preferred perfume. Nadir smiled at his obviously annoyed friend. The annoyed expression was better than the broken one from earlier. The worn mask and rumpled clothes gave Erik the appearance of a bad Harlequin down on his luck. The Ghost made a lame attempt to grab the letter, but Nadir easily kept it away from him. Erik's frustration grew. "Well?"
"The post script says," Nadir began as he felt Erik snatch the letter out of his hand. The Persian recited from memory, "I will attempt to return for the opening night of the next performance."
The Opera Ghost blinked in astonishment as the words sunk in. He stared at the letter in his trembling hand. The graceful script in black ink flowed easily from one letter into the next. It was Christine's handwriting. "She... She dares to return?"
"Or may not," Nadir pointed out. "With the Opera House in disarray thanks to your actions, the odds of a performance happening soon are slim." The Daroga lifted a hand and ticked off the problems one by one. "The managers are scared out of their wits and plan on selling the opera rather than repair it. The auditorium especially the pit orchestra and stage are in shambles. The corps de ballet and singers have run home to their mothers or have found work in the gardens of Tullieres. Or worse. The Heavens above only know where the musicians went. A number of the stagehands refuse to step back into the building. A few stalwart souls remain either because they have nowhere to flee to or refuse to give up on their home. "
"Nonsense. They can afford to repair it," Erik muttered more to himself than the Persian. A plan blossomed in his mind. If I can find the means to keep the managers from selling the opera... Or find out which of the managers wanted to back out, he could find an adequate replacement... It would be easy enough. He simply had to return to his hiding place beneath their offices to listen to their conversations. The fools had yet to determine how the Ghost knew everything; Erik highly doubted they would ever discover the trap door behind the desk.
With his substantial savings and Nadir's growing business, the Daroga could pose as a patron willing to see the Opera returned to its former glory. He could be Erik's second set of eyes and ears as he busied himself with repairing his home. Nadir would let the world believe the Opera Ghost was dead while the Phantom continued to pull their strings. Closing the known trapdoors and passageways would be his first task followed by repairing older, unused ones and creating new passages. The task would mean familiarizing himself with the building again and adapt with the changes. Erik eyed his battered organ and realized repairing his silenced friend would have to wait in order to revive the Opera itself. With the Palais Garnier repaired, a performance could take place and Christine would return to him.
Nadir set the folded letters into the basket and watched as Erik's demeanor changed from a defeated husk of a man to one with renewed hope. The Persian shook his head remembering a time long ago where the Angel of Darkness had provided a broken man with hope and a second life. Our roles have switched… but have they really? the Daroga thought to himself. Erik, more of a ghost than ever, looked up at the Persian with the old gleam of Azrael in his good eye. What machinations had the sultana's Angel of Death conjured up this time? Who will fall prey to his plans?
"Daroga, I have a plan," he stated with a finality that made Nadir wish he hadn't ventured into the lair that day.